The world was not silent—it had simply forgotten how to sing.
In the dust-filled atmosphere, under a slate-gray sky, the wind sounded like a wounded beast asking for help, sweeping over the castles and palaces of old empires. Shattered towers pierced the clouds like ribcages of a fallen god.
A boy sat on the edge of a cliff, his legs swung above a bottomless pit. He had a small device, a glass rod, its handle was wrapped in black cloth, it had a gently shining tip with changing intensity, He kept his injured finger steady and hovering above the trigger nodes on the device but he didn't activate it yet.
Not until the world asked him to.
His name was Koshiro.
His clothes were tattered but his eyes shimmered not with light, but with motion, as if they were always searching, always ahead of the moment. He wore a half-smile like armor, the kind that could steal your lunch and leave you thinking it was your idea.
Behind him, there were crumbled remains of a stone temple with carvings of long-forgotten gods who once ruled both sky and soul, well known as Luminars. Only one carving remained intact: a genius god with outstretched arms and a laughing mouth. Its name was unknown, its face familiar.
Koshiro looked back and winked at the statue. "Still watching me, huh?"
He tapped the tuning rod once against the rock. A deep hum followed, spreading through the dust like breath on cold glass.
A shadow appeared behind him.
"You're making noise again," a gruff voice said.
Koshiro grinned without turning. "You're welcome, Zen. The silence was starting to feel smug."
Zen stepped from the broken archway, barefoot as always. He had a heavy blade resting against his shoulder, it was chipped and rusted. His eyes were hard and unreadable, but his presence felt like stone—solid, ancient, and unshakably real.
Koshiro leaned back onto his elbows. "Did you find it?"
Zen nodded. "A Thread site, Half-mile east, Fresh glow."
That got Kale moving. He leapt to his feet in one smooth motion, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the glass rod into the sky. It didn't fall, it just vanished.
"Then we move before someone else does."
Zen didn't move.
Koshiro turned to him, "Problem?"
Zen's gaze went to the horizon. "I saw a mark in the ash, fresh boot prints. Syndicate scouts."
Koshiro's eyes narrowed.
The Syndicates, false priests from the Sky Realms who claimed to preserve balance, but who really just drained the world's remaining Threads to fuel their floating palaces. Their machines gleamed like miracles, their words dripped with virtue but their path was paved in blood.
"Then we really have to move," Koshiro said, his voice low now. "If they get that Thread site first"
"They won't."
The pair moved quickly over the fractured ground. Overhead, vultures wheeled in silence. The path wound through charred trees and scorched glass-rocks, leading into a crater that still shimmered with a faint blue glow.
The Thread was there.
A shimmering strand of energy hovered like mist above the ground, pulsing softly. It resonated with something unspoken, an unclaimed emotion. Raw. Waiting. Alive.
Koshiro approached it slowly. His hand hovered over the glow.
"What do you feel?" Zen asked.
"Sadness," Koshiro murmured. "But not mourning. Regret. Like someone left something important behind."
He reached into the glow.
Suddenly, the ground shook.
A metal disc slammed into the dirt beside Koshiro's head.
Zen moved first, blade drawn.
From the ridge above, a voice rang out: "Step away from the Thread, relic rats."
Three Syndicate scouts emerged—faces hidden behind white masks, shock-rods gripped in hand, and long, heavy gun-like devices slung across their backs. The one leading them wore robes traced with glowing circuit-thread.
"This site is now property of the Sky Realm of Asereth."
Koshiro looked at Zen. Zen nodded.
Koshiro let out a tired breath. "Seriously? You always make an entrance like you're auditioning for something."
The lead scout's shock-rod sparked to life. "You have three seconds."
Koshiro raised his hands slowly. "Cool. One... two..."
Koshiro flicked his fingers, and the glass rod appeared—just there, in his hand, as if it had always been.
He struck it lightly against his palm.
The sound was soft, gentle, almost mournful.
And the Thread in the crater answered. It pulsed once, then again, then expanded outward like a heartbeat rippling through stone. And suddenly—
The scouts dropped their weapons.
One began to cry.
Zen moved like thunder.
In seconds, it was over. The scouts lay unconscious, the Thread untouched. Zen cleaned his blade without a word.
Koshiro exhaled and knelt by the Thread. His eyes closed.
He whispered, "I hear you."
The energy pulsed and flowed into him.
His fingers trembled. The glass rod in his hand glowed. New symbols etched along its surface.
He had just claimed a Thread.
Later, as twilight deepened, the two sat by a small fire. Zen hunched over his blade, sharpening it in steady strokes. Koshiro, silent, watched the stars with eyes full of distance.
"They'll send more," Zen said.
"They always do."
"You ready?"
Koshiro didn't answer right away. He looked at his glass rod.
"Today... the Thread showed me a face," he said quietly. "A woman, crying—holding a child she couldn't save. It wasn't just emotion. It was a memory."
Zen said nothing.
Koshiro looked at him. "Did you ever thought what would happen if someone collected enough Threads? I mean, all the way back to the source?"
Zen didn't move. But his sharpening stopped.
"Don't chase the sky, Koshiro," he said. "It always falls."
Koshiro smiled faintly.
"Maybe I'm not chasing it," he said. "Maybe I'm just listening to its song."
And high above them, far beyond the clouds, a sliver of light cracked through the night sky.
The Veilworld shimmered.
And someone else, someone very far from there felt it too.
A man with silver hair and eyes like glass sat alone in a tower of mirrors. He opened a locket around his neck and looked at the lock of hair inside.
"It begins again," Kain whispered. "I'm sorry, Lyra."