The wind was no longer just wind.
As they crossed into the high ridgelands near the Vale of Mo, the air began to shimmer. Clouds moved in slow, deliberate spirals. Birds flew in reverse. Even Shenhai's shadow changed length with every step.
"This is the Edge," Meiyan said. "The place where the world's skin is thinnest."
She had bound her maps into a circle and placed them on the ground. At the center, she inserted a needle tipped with her blood and a sliver of starlight. The moment the ink bled outward, a door opened in silence—a vertical slit in the air, glowing like molten thread.
Baimu stood at the edge, silent.
"You sure about this, boy?" he asked Shenhai.
Shenhai looked down at the scroll strapped to his waist, then to his sword.
"I need to know what this all means."
Baimu nodded. "Then step carefully. The Sky Loom burns those who try to steal its truth."
⬖⬖⬖
The Celestial Threading Grounds were not a place, but a plane—where threads of fate shimmered in every direction like veins of fire in crystal.
Floating bridges of spiritwood connected massive obsidian spools, each one rotating slowly, winding and unwinding strands of glowing silk. Names fluttered through the air like leaves: destinies in transit, rewritten histories, forgotten futures.
Meiyan's cloth-covered eye glowed faintly. She guided them along the narrow paths, her hand trailing golden lines that twisted like serpents.
"Don't touch the broken ones," she whispered. "They scream."
As they walked, Shenhai felt the scroll pulse harder against his side. It grew warmer. Hungrier.
They reached a platform suspended above a sea of mist. In its center stood a loom the size of a mountain, operated by faceless weavers, their arms made of threads, their movements rhythm itself.
Here, Baimu stopped.
"Look," he said.
High above, threaded across a dark sky, Shenhai saw something impossible:
A tapestry made of light and memory.
It was not woven yet—but in progress. Shenhai's name burned faintly at the bottom, below dozens of titles he didn't recognize:
Breaker of the Chain.
The Sword Between Empires.
He Who Drowns the Heavens.
…or He Who Fails in Flame.
He staggered back.
Meiyan caught his arm. "That's why we came," she said quietly. "To show you. You're not just in the story—you're warping it."
Baimu added, "Your scroll contains not a technique or treasure—but a severed thread. A memory so dangerous, it was cut out of the world and sealed. The fact that it's awakening means someone is trying to stitch it back in."
Suddenly, the loom shuddered.
A black thread had begun to creep across the sky, thick and smoky—unbound, and corrupting everything it touched.
Shenhai stared at it.
"I've seen that in my dreams."
Meiyan cursed under her breath. "We need to go."
But they were too late.
The mist below twisted—and rose, forming a shape. A figure cloaked in shredded fate, its mouth stitched closed with soul-thread, its eyes hollow.
One of the Threadless.
"RUN," Baimu shouted, drawing a bell-blade from his back.
Shenhai didn't run.
Instead, he unsheathed his sword.
The moment it cleared the scabbard, his name flared across the tapestry above—just once, like a heartbeat—and the Threadless recoiled as if slapped.
It lunged again.
And Shenhai moved.
He didn't remember each strike—only the rhythm, the sense that something ancient inside him had taken control. His sword shimmered with burning script. It cut not flesh, but intent.
And when the dust settled, the Threadless was gone.
Shenhai dropped to his knees, gasping.
Above, the black thread paused… then twisted away.
They left the Sky Loom at dusk, shadows long behind them.
Meiyan was pale, shaken. "No one fights a Threadless and lives."
"You didn't fight it," Baimu said. "Your father did."
They all looked at Shenhai.
And for the first time, he didn't feel like a boy holding a rusted sword.
He felt like a knot in the world's design—and something was tugging.