It was faint at first.
A whisper in the wind.A tremor in the soil beneath the Jade Peaks.A ripple in the stillness of the pond behind the Sage's hut.
But to those who knew… it was the beginning of the unraveling.
Fate had begun to fray.
Not all at once.Not with chaos or thunder.But slowly, like the edge of a divine tapestry being undone—thread by golden thread.
On the surface, the world continued.
The birds still sang.Merchants still haggled.Sects still plotted.Immortals still meditated in palaces carved into floating clouds.
But underneath, everything began to slip.
The stars flickered out of rhythm.Ancient prophecies began to contradict themselves.Dreams twisted.And in the sacred temple where the Weavers of Fate guarded the scrolls of destiny…
One of the scrolls burned.
No flame.No smoke.It simply turned to ash, from the center outward.
And the name on that scroll?
Lian.
Back in the mountain courtyard, Lian stood with her eyes closed, listening.
The leaves rustled above her.Her breath moved slowly.Her heart… was steady.
The Sage had taught her nothing in the traditional sense. No sword forms. No divine techniques. No cultivation methods.
But somehow, she was already changing.
Not just stronger.But more awake.
And that, she was beginning to realize, was the true path of strength.
"Master," she said softly.
He turned his head toward her from under the wisteria tree.
"Something's wrong," she whispered.
He didn't ask how she knew.
Because he already knew… that she knew.
"The heavens are reaching," he said.
"For me?"
"For both of us."
Far above, in a divine realm untouched by mortal sight, the High Firmament quaked.
An audience of deities sat in silence as the Weaver Queen stood before the Loom of All. Her silver hair spilled like moonlight across the marble floor. Her eyes, hollow and gleaming, locked onto a tear in the tapestry of destiny.
"This is not supposed to happen," she said coldly.
The other gods looked away.
The Sage's name was never spoken aloud.
But every god, every immortal, every celestial warrior in that sacred court felt his footsteps.
Each one could remember a time when he tore their temples down with silence.
And now?
He was moving again.
Not with fury.
But with intention.
And the heavens feared nothing more than a man with no leash… and no loss left to mourn.
In the city of Verridan, meanwhile, people spoke his name in hushed reverence.
The beggars had started calling him The Kind Storm.The merchants referred to him as The Mountain That Watches.Children, who had never seen him, drew pictures of a white-robed man sitting beneath a giant golden tree, holding tea in one hand and a world in the other.
But those who feared him?
Those in power?
They called him only one thing:
The Silence.
Because when he appeared…All noise died.
Back in the mansion garden, Lian's training was interrupted when a breeze brushed past her cheek—carrying something strange.
A voice.
Not from this world.
A whisper soaked in divine silk.
"You are not meant to exist. Step back from the path."
She gasped, looking around.
Nothing.
But the Sage had already opened his eyes.
He stood slowly, calmly, and turned his gaze toward the sky.
"I warned them," he murmured.
Lian ran to him. "What was that?"
"They're trying to rewrite you," he said, voice steady. "They've seen the future… and they're afraid."
"Of me?"
"No," he said, stepping forward. "Of what you'll awaken in me."
Far in the Divine Palace of Threads, the Weaver Queen whispered to her attendants.
"Send the Threadslicer."
They flinched.
"But… my lady, he's forbidden—"
"He's necessary."
The Threadslicer was a divine assassin—one who did not kill bodies, but names.
He erased destinies.Unwrote souls.Unmade people by severing their thread from the loom.
His blade never touched flesh.
Only fate.
That night, as moonlight kissed the Sage's courtyard, Lian woke in cold sweat.
A man stood at the edge of the garden.
Cloaked in shadows that moved like ink.Eyes made of thread and silence.A silver blade in hand—not sharp, not cruel—but empty.
It didn't glow.
It didn't gleam.
But it undid.
The Threadslicer.
He said nothing.
He only walked.
Toward her.
But then—
A hand touched his shoulder.
And suddenly, he stopped.
The world paused.
Wind stopped moving.
Clouds hung still.
Even the koi in the pond froze.
The Sage stood behind the assassin, not as a man—
—but as Presence itself.
"You walk in my garden," he said, voice soft as snowfall.
"You point your blade at a name I've chosen to protect."
The Threadslicer turned his head slowly.
"This name is not sanctioned by heaven."
The Sage smiled, and the wind shivered.
"Then perhaps," he whispered, "it's time to stop asking heaven for permission."
And then—
For the first time in known history—
The Threadslicer… stepped back.
He didn't run.He didn't fight.
He bowed.
And vanished.
Like a note that knew it didn't belong in the song.
Lian stood frozen.
"I… what just happened?"
The Sage turned, his expression unreadable.
"They will try again. With tricks. With laws. With temptation. But remember, Lian…"
He knelt in front of her.
"…you are no longer a thread. You are a needle."
She blinked, confused. "A needle?"
He smiled.
"You won't be woven into their story… you'll pierce it."
Far above, in the Loom of Fate, three more threads unraveled.The tapestry that once seemed so eternal… now had holes.
The Seer of Threads whispered to the stars:
"The Undoing has begun."