The ash hadn't reached the Inner Wards yet.
Here, the city of Rhaylen gleamed — pristine towers of polished greenstone, floating lanterns shaped like birds, and bridges carved from crystalized dreamglass. Elegant, yes. But no less cursed.
Behind the illusion of order, something twisted brewed.
The boy — cloaked, quiet, unwelcomed — walked through the Gate of Whispers. No guards stopped him. Not because he belonged.
But because they didn't see him.
[System Notice: Veil-Step (Passive) — Active]
You are currently unmarked in the mortal perception field. Duration: 01:42.
Even the most sacred of eyes cannot see a thread they've already forgotten.
He walked past dreammerchants, prayer-callers, relic hawkers, and blind monks whispering protection over cracked bones. They felt the chill. None knew why.
Then he stopped.
A glass screen pulsed to life beside a spiraling stairway. A broadcast shimmered to the surface: the crimson sigil of the Order of Severance, followed by a soft, calm voice.
"Attention, residents of Inner Ward Sector 9. The Culling Rite is now active."
"Any citizen with dormant curse potential is required to report to the Scythe Hall within the hour."
"Resistance will result in memory fracture or controlled erasure."
The boy tilted his head, just slightly.
A test.
A purge.
And a harvest.
He kept walking.
Far below, in the slums that wrapped around the Boneway Docks, a girl pressed her back to a cracked pillar — heart racing.
She was no one.
Fifteen, maybe. Dirt under her nails, scars on her arms, too sharp to be invisible, too loud to be safe.
But she felt it.
The shift.
The pull.
Something was coming. Not just the Rite.
Something older than the Orders.
Her name was Iri. No last name. She had no curse, no sigil. She was born outside the system.
And yet… her dreams were screaming.
Above her, three men in Severance cloaks marched door to door — dragging children, elderly, even the mute. Testing with crystals that bled when held near a "gifted" soul.
When they reached her home, she was already gone.
Not out of fear.
But instinct.
And somewhere, without knowing why, she whispered a name she had never learned:
"…Hollow-Wombed Wail."
The threads had begun to cross.
The boy stood at the center of a ruined plaza.
He didn't know the girl.
He didn't need to.
But his system flared.
[Fate Thread Detected.]
An anomaly soul-thread has entered proximity. Entanglement probability: 87%.
Interaction Recommended.
He narrowed his eyes.
Entanglement?
No.
Not yet.
Instead, he focused on the plaza's center — a monolithic altar made of dark iron and cursebone. A crowd was gathering, quiet, obedient. On the steps above them stood a smiling figure in pristine white robes trimmed with gold.
His voice was velvet:
"Brothers. Sisters. Fragments of the Divine. Today, we are given the honor… to be cleansed."
Whispers. Bows. No resistance.
The Severance Scythe known as Varl raised a curved knife made of null-silver.
Behind him, eight children were shackled — their eyes wide, mouths sewn shut with glowing threads. Curse-born. Or so the Order claimed.
"Their contamination is our burden. Their sacrifice… our salvation."
One child was no older than five.
The boy stepped forward.
[System Trigger: Moral Dissonance]
Would you like to Intervene?
– [Y/N]
He said nothing. But inside…
There was a tremor.
Not of fear.
Of memory.
Of a cold valley. Of a choice made.
Of names burned from history.
His fingers clenched.
And then:
Y
The sky cracked.
Not thunder. Not magic.
A rift.
A tear in perception.
Every head turned — too slow.
Because he was already moving.
The first guard didn't see the blow that broke his jaw. The second screamed only once before the rune-cloak on the boy's arm activated, turning her spell into smoke.
Gasps. Screams. Panic.
Varl's smile faltered.
"You— who dares interrupt a sacred rite—"
"You've confused ritual with rot," the boy said.
His voice was quiet.
But in it was authority.
Not of man.
Not of king.
But of system.
He raised his left hand.
A curse-sigil spiraled to life across his palm — six-limbed, bone-lined, and pulsing red.
[Curse Activation: Hollow-Wombed Wail: Phase I — Echo Shatter]
Effect: Disrupts auditory equilibrium and memory consistency in a 20-meter radius. Duration: 6 seconds.
The crowd fell to their knees. Some clawed their ears. Others simply forgot why they were afraid.
Varl tried to summon a ward.
Too late.
The boy's hand closed over his throat.
"You bind children," he whispered, "and call it faith."
"No— you don't understand— we're preventing— it—"
"What you prevent is a future not controlled by fear."
A single flick of the wrist — and the sigil flared.
Varl vanished.
Not killed.
Erased.
[System Notice: Authority Breach Approved by Binding Clause]
Judgment Executed. Memory Fold Initiated.
The shackled children blinked.
Their threads unraveled.
Their fear dissolved.
But the damage was done.
Every order sigil in the city flared red.
Alarms sang. Spires glowed. Priests began to chant.
And in the alley not far away, Iri watched with wide eyes.
Not with horror.
With recognition.
Not of him.
But of the sigil on his hand.
Because she had seen it.
Once.
In a dream she had tried to forget.
And in that dream…
The world burned.