Arcose stood across from the old man in the sparse dirt yard behind the house. A breeze stirred between them, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows. The old man studied him silently, his stern eyes narrowed, as if searching for something beneath Arcose's skin.
'Weirdo' thought Arcose,
Then the oldman spoke.
"How much do you know about the energies of this world?"
Arcose blinked. "Not much."
He hesitated. The truth tasted bitter. Growing up in the slums didn't offer much in the way of education — he couldn't even read. But he'd heard stories. Half-drunk whispers from passing wanderers. Talks of magic. Power. Things that were never meant for people like him.
"I've heard of something called... Mana?" His voice wavered as he said it, the word sounding more like a question than an answer.
The old man nodded slowly, folding his hands behind his back. "Yes. Mana. Almost anyone can manipulate it, with enough guidance. It's what fuels most spells, rituals, enchantments—common energy. But..."
He paused. His gaze sharpened.
"There is something else. Rarer. Wilder. Older than any known sorcery. We call it The Eternal Weave."
Arcose's brows furrowed, such a posh-ass name
"The Weave is different. It isn't taught. It's awakened. You don't control it — you learn to survive it." The old man's voice dropped, softer, reverent. "Only a few in all the world are born with the gift to channel it. And even fewer live long enough to learn how. Those who do are called Channelers."
He let the word hang in the air like thunder.
"...Like you. And me."
Arcose stared at him.
The words didn't land. They struck.
He opened his mouth, the disbelief spilling out unfiltered. "Me? A Channeler? That makes no sense. I lived in filth. I stole just to eat. I'm no one."
He pointed toward the small house behind them. "You live in the slums too. If you're a Channeler... then how—?"
The old man's lips curled into a tired smile, but he didn't answer.
Instead, he said, "I'm still not certain if you can channel at all."
Those words, quiet as they were, scraped at something inside Arcose.
He didn't even know what he was hoping for—but now that hope wilted in his chest. Something about the Weave, about being different, special... it stirred a longing he hadn't realized was there.
"Let's find out," said the old man.
****
Future Arcose Alert : Cool Shit 'bout to happen
****
He motioned for Arcose to sit.
"Close your eyes. Imagine a seed."
Arcose obeyed.
"Plant it deep within yourself. Beneath the noise. Beneath the doubt. Now find the well inside you — the source. When you find it, draw from it slowly, like water from a spring. Let the energy seep into the soil around the seed. Feed it. Nurture it. Until the seed sprouts and grows... into a tree."
Arcose sat motionless, his breathing steady. The yard was quiet, save for the distant rustle of leaves. The old man watched. Waiting.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Still nothing.
Arcose remained seated, eyes closed, brow furrowed in relentless concentration. The air around him felt ordinary. No shift. No ripple. No surge of power.
The old man sighed and lowered himself into a creaking wooden chair. He rubbed his temples. The weight of doubt crept into his bones.
Maybe I was wrong, he thought. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see.
Vivian had told him what happened at the market. The fire. The explosion. The moment Arcose shielded her from the blast.
But maybe she imagined it. Or maybe another Channelar had passed through Haloa that day, interfering without ever being seen. The possibilities churned through his mind like fog refusing to lift.
As his thoughts spiraled, he stopped watching.
That's when it began.
At first, the wind picked up — a gentle swirl around Arcose's seated form.
Dust shifted. Then lifted.
Still, the old man didn't look up.
But the wind kept rising. The circle around Arcose tightened, pulling leaves into a vortex. Tiny pebbles vibrated, then rolled inward, orbiting him.
The clouds above them darkened unnaturally fast, rolling in as if summoned.
Then — crack. A streak of lightning tore across the sky.
The old man's head jerked up.
"What in the—"
Another bolt. Closer this time. The wind howled now, a twisting cyclone anchored around Arcose. His body trembled, but his eyes remained shut, lips parted in a silent breath, utterly still — unaware of the storm birthing around him.
The earth beneath them shuddered. Stones wrenched free from the ground, spinning in mid-air. The air grew heavy, pressing down with weightless force. The sky opened and rain poured in sheets, hammering the soil, soaking them instantly.
Arcose didn't move.
The old man leapt to his feet, panic flashing across his face. He tried to step forward — the force threw him back. A raw pressure radiated from Arcose now, like a beast clawing to escape its cage.
The Weave had awakened.
But it wasn't calm. It wasn't graceful.
It was wild. Unhinged. Screaming.
Flashes of silver tore through the air like cracks in reality. The wind no longer howled — it roared. Trees bent backward. Rocks the size of fists levitated, shaking violently as if about to explode.
Arcose's body began to seize.
Blood dripped from his nose.
Then his ears.
Then his eyes.
The old man shouted something — lost in the roar.
Arcose's face contorted in pain, but he didn't wake. He was caught in it now, submerged in something far too vast to understand. The seed had grown — but it hadn't sprouted.
It erupted.