The city of the Spirit Pagoda gleamed in silver light under the full moon. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, their glow mingling with starlight above. Bai Chen lay on the roof of an abandoned shack at the city's edge, staring upward, letting the cold air wash over his skin. His body was weary from menial labor, yet his spirit thrummed with an unfamiliar urgency.
For weeks he had woven small tales—flowers that glowed, rabbits that leapt, whispers that kindled hope. Tiny myths that vanished with dawn yet left ripples behind. Ripples were safe. Ripples were subtle. But tonight, the loom stirred with a deeper hunger. It was not content with rabbits and blossoms anymore. It called for something greater, something heavier, a story that could bind itself into the bones of the world.
He hesitated. To weave larger myths was to tempt exposure. If he seeded something too grand, too alien, the Pagoda's scholars might investigate. And he could never allow anyone to trace the threads back to him. He was a shadow, not a star.
Yet even shadows needed to test their reach.
Bai Chen closed his eyes and sank into the hum of the loom. It was vast, endless, each thread connecting to lives, dreams, and forgotten histories. Among them, he tugged gently on strands from his own memories—myths carried from Earth. The sagas of gods who wielded hammers that shook heavens, of serpents that coiled around oceans, of chariots that rode the sun. These tales had shaped his old world's civilizations for millennia. What would happen if they touched this one?
He whispered softly, each word resonating with the loom.
"There was once a tree… vast as worlds, its branches touching the sky, its roots drinking from wells of time. Beneath it lived gods and men, beasts and spirits, all bound by its endless shade. Its name was Yggdrasil—the World Tree."
The threads vibrated, taut and sharp, resisting. This story was not native here. But Bai Chen pressed on, shaping the vision with care. He did not weave the full legend of Asgard or Odin. That would be too loud, too disruptive. Instead, he only planted the seed of the World Tree, a symbol, a fragment.
The night air thickened. Before him, the barren soil cracked. A faint sprout pushed upward, glowing faintly silver-green. Its leaves shimmered as though woven of starlight, fragile yet eternal. For a moment, Bai Chen's heart stilled. It was real.
But then the loom wavered, trembling violently. A whisper echoed in his mind, deep and alien, not his own.
"…who…plants…roots…in stolen soil?"
The voice vanished before he could respond. The sprout dissolved into dust. Silence returned.
Bai Chen sat motionless, sweat dripping down his brow. That had not been his imagination. Something had answered. Something beyond Soul Land, beyond his own weaving, watching through the threads. He realized then that myths were not mere inventions—they carried echoes of belief, faith, perhaps even fragments of the beings once worshipped. And by pulling them into this world, he risked brushing against their slumbering presence.
He should have stopped. A wiser man would have stopped.
But he was not wise. He was curious.
The following nights, Bai Chen tested again, slower, gentler. He whispered of Garuda, the great bird who carried gods upon his back. He spoke of Nagas, serpents who dwelt beneath rivers and guarded treasures. He described not gods or worlds, but creatures, fragments, ideas small enough to hide among Soul Land's chaos.
And again, faint ripples appeared. Hunters near the rivers claimed to glimpse serpents with jeweled scales. A traveling caravan reported a giant bird's shadow sweeping across the clouds, though no beast was ever found. Just whispers. Just echoes. Perfect.
The myths were seeding themselves into the world.
Bai Chen never sought recognition. He worked silently, unseen, keeping his head bowed in crowds, his hands dirty with labor. But every night, when stars burned brightest, he added another thread. A shard of Egyptian lore, perhaps—the jackal-headed guardian who weighed souls. Or a fragment of Greek myth, a hero whose courage outshone his mortality. Tiny offerings, hidden seeds.
He understood something new: the loom did not simply change the present. It rewrote the past, ever so slightly. The shepherd who saw a silver rabbit swore his grandfather had spoken of them too. The girl with the rabbit spirit began to dream of ancient tales where moonlit rabbits guided lost travelers. Reality adjusted itself, retroactively weaving his myths into history.
This was power beyond brute strength. Not to crush mountains, but to make mountains believe they had always been there.
One night, Bai Chen leaned against the wall of an alley, exhausted after carrying crates the entire day. His limbs ached, but his spirit remained restless. He wondered if this was how gods felt, long ago—not in battle, but in creation, shaping worlds with words. Yet unlike gods, he would never reveal himself. The greatest myth was the one no one knew existed.
As he closed his eyes, he heard children nearby chanting a rhyme, their voices cheerful.
"Run, little rabbit, run so fast,
Over moonlight, never last.
Silver paws and shining eyes,
Leap across the starlit skies."
Bai Chen froze, listening. That rhyme had not existed before. The children had invented it, inspired by the whispers of the silver rabbit he had woven. A myth born of play, carrying itself forward without his hand.
He exhaled slowly. This was it. The path he sought. Not to dominate. Not to declare himself. But to plant seeds that others nurtured unknowingly. To let the world raise myths as if they had always belonged.
And so, the boy no one noticed walked home silently, a shadow among thousands. Yet behind him, in the city's laughter, in the fields, in the rivers, myths stirred awake. Forgotten gods turned in their sleep. And Soul Land, unknowingly, began its first step toward a grander, stranger destiny.
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✅ Chapter 4 complete.