The stairwell shook with violence. Threads of dark and light clashed in the air, sparking like steel on steel.
Rayon's Hollow Strings writhed around his fists, sharp as blades, flexible as whips. Every swing cracked marble, every strike tore grooves into the walls.
But the faceless figure didn't fight like a man. It didn't move—it commanded.
Its luminous threads lashed outward, wrapping stone, snapping columns, bending the very space around it. Every pull carried the weight of inevitability, like gravity itself had been replaced with its will.
Through the burning in his skull, Rayon felt it. The thing wasn't alive, not in the way men were. It was a relic.
A Forsaken Construct.
Built in an age long buried, left behind in the bloodied cradle of the world. Its strings weren't illusions—they were authority. Threads written into the bones of creation, meant to bind not just flesh, but thought, memory, will.
Rayon's chest screamed as those same threads tugged his heartbeat, his breath, even his fingers. He fought back, sweat rolling down his temple. His Hollow Strings weren't just weapons—they were rebellion, pulling back against the "laws" the Construct was trying to write into him.
That's why it affects me… because I'm cut from the same cloth.
The realization almost made him laugh through bloodied teeth. The gutter rat shares his veins with forgotten gods.
Alrik, the Whisperblade, lunged again, teeth clenched, blade flashing for Rayon's throat.
The Construct's head snapped toward him. Threads of light lashed out—shhk!—sinking into his chest.
Alrik's scream froze halfway. His eyes rolled back white. His limbs jerked once, then went slack.
And then, with sickening precision, his body stood tall again.
His blade rose, steadier than before. His lips curled into a smile that wasn't his.
Rayon's grin vanished.
"…you're fucking kidding me."
The Construct didn't move. It didn't need to. Alrik moved for it.
Shadow and light worked together now. Alrik's body, trained for decades, darted faster than the eye could follow, blades striking at Rayon's ribs, throat, spine.
Rayon's Hollow Strings lashed, catching one strike, missing the next. He ducked under a slash, his knuckles wrapped in threads as he countered—crack!—a blow to Alrik's jaw that should have broken bone.
But the body didn't falter. It didn't bleed. It didn't belong to him anymore.
Rayon snarled, threads whipping around his fists, his legs, his shoulders. His hand-to-hand strikes blended with impossible precision—strings pulling his body into sharper angles, faster snaps, perfect timing. Every punch was amplified by the web of force behind it.
BAM! Alrik flew back into a wall. Dust and stone rained down.
But he rose again, blank-eyed, unbroken, blade humming.
The Construct raised its hand, and the threads on Rayon's chest yanked again. His vision blurred. His knees buckled for half a second. His Hollow Strings shuddered like they wanted to obey the foreign command.
Whispers crawled through his skull—
Forsaken. You are not yours. You belong to the Web Eternal.
Rayon spat blood and laughed, raw and guttural.
"You think you own me? I don't even belong to this fucking world."
His Hollow Strings surged outward, black threads wrapping his arms like armor, his fists like spiked mauls. He struck forward, not just at Alrik's stolen body but at the Construct itself.
For the first time, the faceless thing staggered. Its head snapped, threads flickering unstable.
And Rayon's grin returned, wide and hollow.
"If you pull strings—then I'll cut them all."