The world split.
Not in sound, not in sight, but in meaning — as if reality inhaled sharply and forgot how to exhale.
Aster staggered, clutching his chest as an invisible force pulled him backward and forward at the same time. His vision fractured into shards, each shard showing a different version of the hall he stood in:
One where the torches were unlit.
One where the walls were cracked and ancient.
One where bodies lay scattered across the floor.
And one where he stood at the end of the corridor, watching him.
"Not again…" Aster rasped, his voice trembling.
The distortion wasn't as overwhelming as the Thread-Reaper's presence from Chapter 13, but it was more personal — intimate, like a hand pressing directly against the inside of his skull.
He could feel the shadow behind him stirring.
He notices it too.
Aster's shadow rippled like oil disturbed by an unseen wind.
Then—
Everything snapped back.
The corridor returned to normal. Students walked past. Voices murmured. The world acted as if nothing had happened.
Yet Aster knew something was wrong.
No one noticed that reality had just adjusted itself.
Except him.
And one other.
"Aster."
A soft voice. Too soft. Too quiet. So quiet it shouldn't have been audible in a corridor full of students.
He turned.
A girl stood in the middle of the hallway — white hair, white dress, white eyes. Pale like moonlight. Delicate like glass.
The moment he looked at her, the noise of the hallway disappeared.
Not faded.
Vanished.
Everyone else became blurry outlines, like painted figures in the background of a dream.
Aster's breath caught.
"You…" he whispered. "You're the girl from the distortions."
She tilted her head gently. "Finally, you can see me."
Her voice had no echo. No warmth. No delay. As if her words existed only inside his mind.
Aster forced his feet to stay still. "Who are you?"
"An echo," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of something that should not exist. Like you."
His blood turned cold.
"Explain."
But instead of answering, she stepped closer. One step. Then another. Every time her foot touched the floor, the world around them flickered, as though reality struggled to decide if she truly stood there.
When she reached arm's length, she extended a hand.
"Aster Vale," she whispered. "Your thread is no longer connected to this timeline."
Aster felt a pressure behind his eyes — something trying to expand outward, like a memory pushing to surface but held back by an unseen seal.
"I don't understand."
"You will," she said softly. "Because the fragment inside you is waking."
Aster's shadow twitched violently, stretching along the ground toward her.
But the girl in white simply lowered her gaze.
"…You are dangerous," she murmured. "Just like the future version of you. Just like the erased one."
Aster stepped back. "Stop speaking in riddles."
"Then listen carefully." Her pale eyes rose to meet his. "Your existence has deviated from its rightful path. Because of that, the weave must correct itself."
Aster gulped. "Meaning?"
Her expression did not change.
"You are going to die."
Silence.
Heavy. Absolute.
Aster's heart hammered in his chest — not from fear of death, but because the girl said it with such certainty. Such inevitability. Like she wasn't predicting it…
…but remembering it.
Aster clenched his fist. "I decide my fate. No one else."
Her eyes softened — with pity.
"That's what the other versions said too."
Aster froze.
Versions.
Plural.
"What… happened to them?" he asked.
Her reply was quiet, almost mournful.
"They died. All of them."
A chill swept through Aster's spine.
"How?"
"In countless ways," she whispered. "But always for the same reason."
She leaned in closer. "The fragment inside you tears the timeline apart."
Aster's mark — the Crown's mark — pulsed faintly on his chest.
The girl saw it.
And stepped back as if burned.
"…It has begun," she whispered.
Aster reached out.
"Wait—!"
But she was already fading, her form dissolving like snow in sunlight.
"Find me," she said, her voice echoing from a place beyond hearing.
"In the place where nothing exists."
Then she vanished.
The hallway snapped back to life — noises, footsteps, conversations, all returning at once.
Aster stood alone.
No one had noticed.
Except one.
Aster felt it before he sensed him: a gaze sharp as a blade.
Raven Arclight leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"How long have you been standing there?" Aster demanded.
Raven's dark eyes narrowed.
"Long enough to know you just spoke with something that isn't supposed to be alive."
Aster stiffened.
"You saw her?"
"No," Raven muttered. "But I saw the shadows bend around you. And for a moment…"
He hesitated.
"…you disappeared."
Aster's heart pounded.
Raven pushed off the wall. "Tell me everything."
Aster shook his head. "Not here."
"Fine," Raven said. "Then after class. Bring your shadow with you."
Aster blinked. "Bring my—?"
Raven glanced at the floor, where Aster's shadow writhed slightly, as if acknowledging the command.
"Both of you," Raven murmured, "and whatever is trying to crawl out of you."
Aster swallowed.
The fragment was waking.