The explosion still rang in Arcose's skull.
The explosion still echoed in Arcose's skull.His hands trembled. His arms, scorched and blistered, stung with distant pain—muted, like the world had drowned in water. His breath came ragged, chest tight, heart thundering like war drums.
Ash threaded across his skin like veins of grey lightning.
Then came a whisper—close. Too close.
Cold and ancient.
Like stone dragging across a crypt floor.
"You are the Chosen.The flame that devours the old world.The harbinger of ash and ruin.You shall lead them into darkness—so they may find the light through fire.
You will break what must be broken.Burn what must be cleansed.Lose more than any before you.And from that loss...forge the path for all."
"Chaos shall walk with you. Death shall kneel to you. And when the time comes...""The stars will name you King."
He jerked around. Smoke and screams clouded the air—but a flicker of motion remained. A black edge, a shadow of a cloak, slipping into nothing.
"Who—?" His voice cracked. Barely a whisper.
Then his knees gave out.
Darkness took him.
And just before it swallowed him whole, he thought he heard someone calling his name.
"Arco—"
****
Status Display Initiating…1... 2... 3...
[Status Interface Online]
— Character Profile —
Username: Arcose ███████
Age: 10
Race: Human
Core: Core of the Eternal Weave
— Attributes —
Strength: 5
Endurance: 6
Vitality: 3
Charm: 2
Mana: 0
— Core Rank — Unbound (Initial Phase)
— Weave Compatibility —
Potential: Mythical
Resonance: 5
Control: 2
Abilities: N/A
****
He awoke to pain. Dull, pressing, alive in every limb.
The ceiling swam above him. Light bled through wooden slats. Dust drifted through it like falling stars.
The scent of scorched cloth and boiled herbs filled his lungs.
'Ugh… my head feels like a drunk ox danced on it.
"Don't move too much," came a voice—low, aged, worn. "Your body's taken a toll. Frankly, if you weren't… whatever it is you are, you'd be dead."
Arcose turned his head with a wince. Vivian's grandfather sat at the foot of the bed, a thick book half-open in one hand, finger marking the page.
They hadn't spoken much before. The old man was always more ghost than guardian—silent, cold, orbiting only around Vivian.
Arcose sat up, ribs screaming.
"How... how did I get back here?" he muttered. "What happened at the market?"
His chest tightened. "Where's Vivian?"
The old man didn't look up. "She's safe."
Two words. Flat. Emotionless. But enough.
Arcose slumped, breath easing.
Wait... what? Since when do I care?
Then he saw them.
Golden and silver threads. Floating like silk through the air. Tangled strands of light, drifting, weaving through the rafters. Alive.
They shimmered through the windowlight.
Dimmed near the old man.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes.
Still there.
Hallucination?
He tried to ignore them. But they didn't leave.
The old man stood, filled a cup from the jug, and offered it. Wordless.
Arcose drank, grateful.
Then—
"Why didn't you tell me you were a Channeler?"
Arcose choked. Coughing. "What?"
The old man dragged the chair closer. His gaze sharpened—steel in tired eyes.
"A Channeler," he repeated. "One who sees the Weave. Who can touch it. You've been living here with my granddaughter. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"I don't even know what that means!" Arcose snapped. His voice raw.
"You saw the threads." The old man's voice dropped. "Just now. All around this room."
Arcose stilled.
"I... yeah. But I thought I hit my head or something—"
"The Weave doesn't show itself to the blind. And it doesn't protect the broken."
He leaned forward.
"Vivian told me what happened. The fire. How it curved around you. How the threads moved when she screamed."
"Don't lie to me, boy."
His voice had iron in it now.
"What are you?"
"I don't know," Arcose whispered. "I swear—I didn't choose anything. There was fire. And then something snapped inside me. Like... like threads pulling tight. My arms moved on their own."
He hesitated.
"And now I see them. The threads. But that's it."
He didn't mention the voice. Or the prophecy. Or the system. Some part of him whispered keep it hidden.
The old man studied him. Searched him like a blade searching for weakness.
Arcose met it. Uneasy. But firm.
Then the old man sighed, leaned back.
"If you're lying, I'll know. But... for now, I believe you."
Arcose nodded slowly.
Silence thickened like fog.
Then the chair scraped.
The old man stood. "Get dressed."
"What? Why?"
Do I really have to? My body is hurting like shit...
But the old man was already halfway to the door.
He paused in the frame. Not looking back.
"Let's see what the Weave wants from you."
And then he was gone.
Arcose sat there, blood rushing in his ears.
Not fear.
Something else.
Anticipation.