Morning found Spirit‑Root Village buzzing like a disturbed beehive.
Someone had heard Farmer Hu yelling.
Someone else had smelled burnt talisman.
By dawn, three different stories already circled:
Old Hu had seen a ghost at the storage shed.Lightning had struck without clouds.A beast had tried to break through the sect ward and been driven off by the "village's hidden guardian."
Ifabola—Lin Xiao‑lan—lay on her pallet pretending to sleep, listening to the rumors drift in through the thin wall. Lin Mei sat beside her, scrubbing herbs in a bowl with more force than strictly necessary.
"You are not going outside alone again," her mother muttered. "Ever."
"It was one time," Ifabola protested weakly.
"One time since you came back," Lin Mei snapped. "Before that you snuck anywhere your feet could waddle. Nearly followed the goat trail into the spirit forest once; you remember?"
"Vaguely?" Ifabola lied.
"I almost died chasing you," Lin Mei went on. "If you must meet death again, at least let me know first so I can slap him properly."
The System was quieter than usual, as if also choosing to lie low.
Her right hand throbbed.
The new [Anchor‑Knot] sat there like a coiled snake, its tiny captured fragment of hunger sulking against the river‑spiral's liquorice‑cool grip.
Fragment Status:
– Activity: Low (Irritated)
– Containment: 93%
– Bleedthrough: 0.7% (monitoring)
"Irritated," she thought. "Good."
Lin Mei mistook the curve of her mouth for something else and sighed.
"At least you can still smile," she murmured, softer now. "When you screamed last night… I thought…" She broke off, biting her lip.
Guilt stabbed.
Ifabola reached for her.
"I'm not going anywhere," she lied as gently as she could. "Not without making a lot more noise first."
Her mother gave a wet laugh. "That I believe."
A knock rapped at the door.
"Lin Mei! Lin Mei!" A familiar voice—Master Yun's grandson. "Grandfather says bring Xiao‑lan. The village headman wants everyone who felt last night's…thing to report."
Lin Mei groaned.
"Of course," she muttered. "Fate will not give us one quiet week."
She helped Ifabola into her better tunic and wrapped a thick cloth around her shoulders. Xiao‑lan's legs still shook when she stood, but less than they had a week ago.
At the headman's house—a slightly larger version of every other wooden hut—the whole village seemed crammed into the yard and onto the veranda.
Elder Zhao, the headman, sat on a low stool, beard fanned over his chest like a dry waterfall. Master Yun stood to his right, staff planted. At least three different talismans had been slapped hastily onto the house's pillars overnight.
Old Farmer Hu was in the middle of recounting his tale for the third time.
"…and then, just as I raised my lamp, boom," he gestured, nearly hitting his own head. "The shed door rattled, my beard stood on end, and there was our Little Orchid on the ground, staring at the sky like she'd just fallen from it."
Murmurs.
Several gazes swung to Xiao‑lan as Lin Mei steered her forward.
"If it were any other child," someone whispered, "I'd say she ran out to play. But that one hardly stands these days."
Elder Zhao cleared his throat.
"Xiao‑lan," he said. "Come closer."
Ifabola did, suppressing the urge to hide behind her mother's skirt.
Yun's sharp eyes raked over her.
"Any pain?" he asked briskly. "Headache? Dizziness? Voices whispering about eternal glory?"
Ifabola blinked. "Should there be?"
"Not if you value your soul," he muttered. "Good."
Elder Zhao fixed her with a shrewd look.
"You remember anything from last night, child?" he asked. "Besides falling."
Every adult eye pressed on her.
She swallowed.
She could lie.
Blame it all on weak health and stray qi.
But hiding entirely might be dangerous. If the sect's formations registered something too strange with no explanation, they might react poorly later.
So she sliced the truth.
"I woke in the night," she said slowly, choosing words. "My chest…felt full. Like too much breath. I thought some…spirit…was sitting on me."
A ripple of "of course" went through the crowd. Night‑sitting spirits were a common villager explanation for sleep paralysis, the System helpfully supplied.
"I tried to…go outside, to get air," she continued. "When I reached the shed, everything felt…thick. Like walking in water. Then something pulled." She hesitated. "I don't remember much after. Just…hot. Then falling."
Technically not false.
Master Yun nodded slowly.
"Spirit pressure," he said. "Could be backlash from a formation twitch or a beast snout pushing against the ward. The girl's meridians are sensitive; she'd feel it before others."
"Did anyone else feel strange?" Elder Zhao asked the crowd.
A few hands rose.
"Dreamed of the river rising," one woman said.
"Heard a buzzing in my head," said another.
"Felt nothing," snorted Hu. "My head is too thick."
They laughed nervously.
Yun rapped his staff.
"Enough," he said. "Whatever it was, it's gone. Our ward stone hasn't cracked, and the overseer's charm at the boundary still glows. If it were serious, we'd all be fish food."
"Sect Overseer hardly looked twice at us last visit," an old man grumbled. "Would he rush down if the sky fell? He'd probably say, 'That's twenty spirit stones for repairs.'"
Soft agreement.
Zhao shot them a warning glare.
"We are not strong enough to badmouth the sect," he said. "Even in our own yard." He forced a smile. "Still, we should inform them there was a disturbance, in case something stirs in the mountain. Master Yun, can you draft a message talisman?"
The healer snorted. "Who else?"
As the gathering dissolved into smaller knots of gossip, Yun caught Lin Mei's arm.
"Keep a closer eye on her," he murmured. "Her spirit reacts to things most of us only feel as dreams. That is gift and danger both."
He looked at Xiao‑lan.
"And you," he added grimly, "if you feel that thick air again, run away next time, not toward."
Ifabola mustered a small, innocent expression.
"Yes, Master," she lied.
The System flickered a tiny, amused note only she could hear.
LIE REGISTERED.
Practicality: High. Moral Weight: Context‑Dependent. No Action.
She bit back a smile.
The days that followed tasted different.
The village's qi felt…cleaner, as if a layer of grime had been scrubbed from the air. Even the stream by the terraced fields bubbled brighter, its waterline less sluggish.
Her System logs confirmed it.
Local Corruption Level:
Before Patch: 3.7%
After Patch: 1.2%
Yet halfway across worlds, the situation darkened.
Ajani's new path—Devouring Gospel of Broken Names—began to work.
It was subtle at first.
His wounds healed faster than they should have, skin knitting shut overnight. His eyes took on a faint gleam, like someone permanently on the edge of fever. When he spat on the ground, the flies that touched it twitched, then grew sluggish.
He smiled more.
Not from joy.
From the sense that finally, he held something sharper than a stone.
The hunger guided his meditations, threading its whisper through techniques once designed for healthy qi, now twisted to drink small shreds of names from grudges, from curses, from the way people shouted at one another in the market.
You see? it cooed. You can take back. A little here, a little there. Does it not feel right to chew those who walked over you?
Ajani's better sense—or what remained of it—flickered uneasily.
But the rush of empowerment drowned most doubts.
In Spirit‑Root, Ifabola felt the difference not as a specific tug, but as a general uptick in distant pressure. The captured fragment in her Anchor‑Knot squirmed more often, like a caged insect sensing its colony stir.
Hunger Activity: 19% increase (remote).
Recommendation: Accelerate personal development.
"Believe me, I'm trying," she muttered, trudging through another round of System‑guided qi circulation.
Her cultivation path had taken on a distinct flavor:
While village children ran basic body‑strengthening exercises (squats, push‑ups, rough stances), copying older siblings, she sat under the eaves, eyes half‑closed, tracing invisible patterns in her lap.
"Lazy," one boy snorted as he did clumsy kicks in the yard.
"She almost died," his sister hissed. "Master Yun said she mustn't strain."
"Then she's useless," the boy muttered.
Ifabola smiled serenely.
Call me useless now, she thought. We'll see who still has their name in a few years.
"Devouring impulse detected," the System chimed, bored.
"Shut up," she whispered affectionately.
One evening, as the sun slid behind the pines and painted the clouds a bruised purple, she went to the stream alone.
Technically not allowed.
Practically necessary.
She crouched at the edge, dangling her toes in the cold water. The surface reflected a stranger's face—a child with unfamiliar eyes and jawline, but Ifabola's stubborn set to the mouth.
"Are you watching?" she asked, voice soft.
Ripples answered her.
Not with a full apparition.
But a faint glimmer of awareness brushed her ankles.
Always, the river‑lady's cousin murmured. This water was not the same goddess she knew, but kin recognized kin. You carry my sister's mark. And something else. The frogs gossip.
"Frogs always gossip," Ifabola said. "Did she tell you about my…System?"
A sense like amused surprise shimmered.
Oh, she did steal a piece of that old sky's toy, the local current said. Bold. I thought only scholars there had the patience for such threads.
"She forced it on me," Ifabola replied. "Said I was flexible enough not to snap."
Flexibility is one word, the current said. Stupidity, another. Courage the third. They often travel together. Why do you call me, little knot?
She hesitated.
"I need…guidance," she said. "Your cousin told me the root of our problem lies here. In your sky. I've…tugged at it once." She flexed her hand. "Plugged a leak. But I'm still a child who gets tired climbing hills."
And yet you stand in two worlds' rivers, the current said. Our sects would write odes for half as much bragging right.
Ifabola snorted.
"I don't need odes," she said. "I need tools. Techniques. Something that fits this body and that enemy. The locals train to pierce mountains with swords. I need something to tie names."
A pause.
The water hushed around her ankles.
There was a path once, the current said slowly. In this world. A minor one. The cultivators called them "Name‑Binders" or "Oath‑Smiths." Tiny, fussy people who sat at the edges of grand battles and wrote contracts no one read until it was too late. The hunger hated them. They were good at telling it, 'No, you agreed to this, not that.'
Ifabola's eyes widened.
"And…they died?" she asked softly.
"Most," the current said. Their art fell out of fashion when swords glittered prettier. Besides, how do you brag about binding someone to a promise when your rival can slice a mountain? He will simply call you a coward whose words hide weak arms.
"That's exactly what a sword idiot would say," Ifabola muttered.
The current chuckled.
You have the temperament for it, it admitted. The System's shard your river‑lady stole has recorded some of their scripts. It can show you better than I can; my memory is water, not ink. But I can do this much…
Cold surged up her legs.
For a heartbeat, she panicked—old half‑memories of almost drowning in Ayetoro's river flashing—but the System chimed, steady.
External Assistance Detected.
– Source: Local River Spirit Subdomain.
– Content: Path Seed – "Oath‑Tide Sutra (Fragment)".
Accept?
She did not even hesitate.
"Yes."
Light bloomed in her mind.
Not the harsh, angular Script of Ten Thousand Names, but a gentler current of characters, curving and looping like river reeds. They formed little knots of meaning: promise, exchange, limit, escape clause.
PATH BRANCH UNLOCKED: "Oath‑Tide Sutra (Fragment)"
Synergy with Name‑Weaving: HIGH.
Current Comprehension: 3%
It came not as full techniques, but as principles.
The first line rang clear:
"A name is a promise; to bind a name is to bind a promise. Where promise and act diverge, there the knot can be tied."
She exhaled slowly.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The current brushed her ankles like a cat's tail.
Do not thank me yet, it said. Oath‑paths bite their makers too. Break your own promises and the knots may strangle you first.
"Good," she said unexpectedly.
The current stilled.
Good? it asked.
"I should be held to something," she replied. "If everyone had knots on their tongues, maybe we wouldn't be here."
The current laughed, a bubbling sound.
You are either very wise or very doomed, it said. Perhaps both.
Water receded gently.
The System settled the new path quietly into her status.
Name‑Weaving Lv.1 – Affiliated Art: Oath‑Tide Sutra (3%).
Potential Techniques (Locked):
– [Knot of Speaking Twice]
– [Shared Breath Pact]
– [Borrowed Blade Clause]
"Borrowed Blade," she murmured. "I like that."
Not yet, the System said. First, learn not to tie your own fingers together.
News of the "night disturbance" eventually reached higher ears.
Two weeks after the shed incident, a message talisman flared atop the boundary stele.
Lian Feng returned, this time with a second, older cultivator at his side.
The man's robe was the same azure, but his sash bore an extra stripe of silver. His hair was pure white though his face had few wrinkles. He carried no visible weapon.
[SCAN: ELDER SHEN – AZURE SKY SWORD SECT]
Realm: Core‑Formation (Early)
Qi Affinity: Metal / Law
Occupation: Outer Region Overseer / Contract Enforcer
Attitude Toward Village: Disinterested / Curious (re: anomaly).
Law, the System underlined in her vision.
That pricked Ifabola's interest.
Elder Shen listened impassively to Elder Zhao and Master Yun's recounting.
"Likely a minor beast testing the ward," he said at last, tone calm. "Still, you were right to call. The mountain has been restless. Some of the old formations strain."
His eyes swept the gathered villagers.
For a brief instant, they flicked over Xiao‑lan.
They stopped.
She felt it like a cold finger tracing the back of her neck.
Attention Detected: Local Law‑Aligned Entity.
Caution: Do not reveal System functions.
She dropped her gaze immediately, heart pounding.
Elder Shen's qi brushed the crowd—a light touch, like mist.
Most people didn't feel it.
Xiao‑lan had spent weeks learning to sense even the faintest threads.
She felt this one.
It slid over her name.
Paused.
Probed.
Her Anchor‑Knot tightened.
The river‑spiral shimmered.
The System hummed, deflecting.
For a heartbeat, she felt Elder Shen's surprise.
Foreign thread, something in him noted. Not sect‑taught. Not demonic. Not entirely of this sky.
His Law‑aligned qi fetched up against…an exemption.
Somewhere in the deeper Script that governed this world, a tiny line had been added when she crossed:
EXTERNAL OBSERVER – TEMPORARY; LIMITED EXEMPTION FROM STANDARD REMOVAL PROTOCOLS.
He couldn't see the words.
But he felt the effect.
His gaze lingered a fraction longer.
Then he moved on, speaking of spirit‑root ceremonies and the sect's expectations, as if nothing had happened.
Only when he and Lian Feng had turned back toward the mountain did he send a quiet thought‑thread to his junior.
Watch that one, he said. The sickly Lin girl. Do not interfere yet. But strange fates attract storms.
Lian Feng hid a sigh.
More paperwork, he groused back. Can we not have one boring decade?
Boring decades are how worlds survive, Shen replied dryly.
At night, under two different skies, three very different beings studied their ledgers.
In the Heavenly Nine‑Fold Realm, the Heavenly Dao—the vast, impersonal law that governed rise and fall of cultivators—glitched, just a little, where Ifabola's System‑tether sat.
Its own Script tried to categorize her:
Entry: UNKNOWN.
Origin: UNKNOWN.
Path: Name‑Weaving / Oath‑Tide (Obsolete).
Risk: UNCERTAIN.
It considered erasing the anomaly.
The tiny exemption written by the river‑lady's meddling and old balance subroutines whispered: Observe instead.
In Ayetoro, the hunger poured over its old scars in Òkìtì, snarling softly where Baba's lightning‑ring and spiral bled.
Through Ajani, it tasted new options.
If I cannot easily swallow that little knot, it mused, perhaps I can feed her world enough poison that she spends all her strength there.
In the drifting currents between worlds, the river‑lady and her cousins hummed old songs, feeling out new knots.
And in a small hut in Spirit‑Root, under a patched roof and the watchful eyes of a tired mortal mother, a five‑year‑old girl sat cross‑legged, palms up, and practiced weaving invisible lines between the letters of two skies.
[TRAINING MODE ENABLED]
Exercise: Basic Name Loop – "Knot of Speaking Twice (Draft)."
Purpose: Bind spoken promise to minor feedback.
Warning: Do not test on self without supervision. Likely results: Headache, mild nosebleed, existential embarrassment.
Ifabola grinned.
"System," she whispered, "I like you."
Your taste is questionable, it replied, but appreciated.
She exhaled.
Drew in qi.
Let her mind trace letters in the air.
If Ayetoro had been batshit, this place was beyond it.
Good.
She would need all the madness she could muster.
The Spirit‑Root Awakening loomed.
So did Ajani's slow rise.
Between them stood a child, a System, and a stubborn refusal to let any more names be written in blood without argument.
Cultivation world or not, that much was going to change.