There was no road. Only the impression of one.
Beneath Li Zhen's feet, the ground felt uncertain—like it was waiting for him to decide what it was. Gravel became grass, then stone, then mud, changing subtly with each step. He walked without a map, guided only by the pull in his bones and the subtle urging of the sword slung across his back, which now hummed low like a creature sensing prey.
Since leaving the Loom, nothing had been the same. The world around him no longer held its prior stillness. Every tree, every gust of wind, every whisper of water in the streams seemed to be watching, listening. It was as if the act of accepting the thread—of rejoining the weave—had tethered him to everything else. He could feel lives being lived around him, invisible but near. He felt threads crossing his own: some soft, others sharp.
And one, above all, was calling to him.
It was neither a voice nor a vision. It was something deeper—a magnetic pull in the blood, drawing him eastward toward the broken edges of the Outer Provinces.
The land there had always been strange. Twisted mountains, ancient ruins, villages that no longer appeared on maps. It was said that things forgotten by the world went there to fester or be reborn. If something—or someone—had tampered with fate, had forced his resurrection, that place was the likeliest wound to start from.
But he wasn't the only one moving.
Two days into his journey, he encountered a man whose eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
The encounter happened in a burned-out temple. The shrine had collapsed long ago—its gods abandoned, its incense long since choked by ash. Yet the stranger sat there calmly, legs crossed, as if meditating among the rubble. His skin was pale as smoke. His clothing, old imperial silks, were faded with time and travel. And when he looked up, Li Zhen recognized something he couldn't explain.
Not the man.
But the thing inside him.
"You feel it too," the man said. His voice was gentle, almost kind, though his presence was anything but. "The pull of the thread."
Li Zhen didn't draw his sword, but he didn't sit either.
"I feel a great many things," he said. "Most of them I don't trust."
The man smiled. "Wise. But late."
"What are you?"
"A shadow," the man replied. "Like you. A leftover echo. Once a swordsman. Now… something else."
Li Zhen stepped forward slowly. "Are you saying you were also brought back?"
"I was never fully taken," the man said, and his smile changed—no longer warm, now edged with cruelty. "Some of us linger. Some of us are used. You… you were different. Your thread was snapped. Severed clean. That should've been the end. But something pulled you back."
"You know what did it?"
"I know who wants it."
The air thickened. The sword on Li Zhen's back began to hum louder.
"Speak clearly."
"They're hunting for the threadbreakers. That's what they call us—those who die and return. Those who walk outside the Pattern. They believe we're keys. Or weapons."
"Who's 'they'?"
"Have you heard of the Twelve Mirrors?"
Li Zhen shook his head.
"You will," the man said, and his eyes flickered with silver fire. "One for each virtue turned to vice. They wear faces of monks, warriors, prophets. But underneath, they are devourers of fate. They bend the Loom to their will. They hate free threads like you. They'll come for you. Some will try to convince you. Some will offer salvation. But most will come with blades."
"Let them."
"No," the man said. "Don't fight them."
"Why not?"
"Because they want you to fight."
And then the man vanished.
No sound. No wind. One blink and he was gone, as if he'd never been there.
Only a burned-out shrine remained, and a single white feather where the man had sat.
Li Zhen stared at it for a long time. His sword vibrated.
"What do you think?" he asked.
The blade replied: "Truth wears many voices. But death always sounds the same."
He left the temple before nightfall. That night, he dreamed of broken mirrors and saw his own face in all of them—different each time. One smiled. One screamed. One bled.
The next morning, the hunt truly began.
Rumors guided him: whispers in the wind, frightened merchants, old hermits who refused to look him in the eye. They spoke of others like him—people who should have died but hadn't. A girl who drowned and walked back to her village three days later, only to set the river on fire with a single breath. A warrior who was decapitated in battle, yet rose again and now served as a silent judge in a lawless city. A child with silver eyes who never spoke, only stared into people's souls and wept.
All signs pointed east.
As he moved from town to town, Li Zhen began to notice something else: he was being followed.
Not by one person, but several. Different figures. Never close. Never aggressive. But they lingered at the edge of his vision, always disappearing when confronted. Some wore masks. Others looked like ordinary travelers. But all shared one feature: their eyes never blinked.
He drew no conclusions—yet.
On the fifth day, he arrived at the town of Hengkou, nestled against a cliffside like a wound that never healed. The people there were quiet. Too quiet. Children did not laugh. Dogs did not bark. Even the birds seemed to avoid the air above it.
He didn't need to ask where to go.
Every step led him toward the old well in the center of the square.
A woman stood there, dressed in mourning robes. Her face was covered by a black veil. In her hands, she held a wooden flute, though she did not play it. When Li Zhen approached, she turned to face him without surprise.
"You're late," she said.
"Do I know you?"
"No. But the thread told me you were coming."
"And who are you?"
"A witness," she said, her voice hollow. "One who remembers. One who sees."
He frowned. "You're one of them. The ones brought back."
"I never died," she said. "But I live beside death. I keep its rhythm."
She lifted her flute and played a single note.
The town changed.
The shadows grew long and thick. The buildings warped. People froze in place like dolls, unmoving. And the well behind her opened—not physically, but in his vision. A hole in the world.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Proof," she said.
He stared into the hole.
Inside, he saw a prison of threads—people tangled in their own destinies, choking, fighting, screaming to be free. One thread glowed bright.
His.
"This is what they fear," the woman said. "This is what they want to control."
"Who?"
"The architects of fate. The ones who build the illusion of freedom. You tore a hole in their tapestry."
She looked at him.
"And now, they hunt you."
He looked away from the well. The town returned to normal. The people moved again. The birds sang.
She was gone.
Only her flute remained, resting on the stones of the square.
He picked it up.
It was warm.
That night, he set camp by the cliffs. The stars above pulsed with faint red light. The sword remained silent. But Li Zhen didn't sleep.
He didn't need to.
Not anymore.
Something was changing inside him. He could feel the threads around him moving. Listening. Waiting.
He was no longer just walking toward answers.
He was becoming one.
He looked toward the east.
The real hunt had begun.