Months passed.
The bitter, suffocating sting of the Celestial Weave didn't entirely vanish; it just faded into a dull, manageable ache. It became like a jagged scar beneath your sleeve—something you finally stop hiding with frantic movements and simply learn to live with. Life, with all its indifferent gravity, slowly slipped back into its old, familiar rhythm, leaving me exactly as I had been before. Just Maxence. Perhaps a little quieter now. A little more guarded.
At the academy, the social hierarchy had permanently shifted, but some things remained stubbornly pathetic. Ruvane still tried to mess with me whenever he found me isolated in the corridors, though his timing was getting progressively worse.
Just the other day, he had been marching straight toward my locker—chest puffed out, crimson hair flaring, practically radiating an intention to start a fight—until Yinoh casually rounded the corner behind me. The absolute panic on Ruvane's face was priceless. He changed his physical direction so fast it was almost graceful, practically stumbling over his own heavy shoes just to be anywhere else in the building.
I had spent half the afternoon laughing about the sheer absurdity of it. But when I later recounted the story to Yinoh, he had just blinked at me, completely unaware of the sheer gravity and intimidation his new Arkan status carried. He didn't see himself as a walking deterrent; to himself, he was still just Yinoh, the guy who accidentally blew his own charcoal away.
By the time the residual laughter finally wore off, the day had ended, and I found myself standing in front of our front gate. Another long, exhausting day at the academy, ending in the same quiet return to an empty house. The autumn sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting long, stark orange shadows over the wooden porch that seemed to pull heavily at my feet, dragging me inward.
I pushed the front door open, greeted instantly by the familiar, comforting clatter of heavy ceramic.
Down the hall, Dad was already setting the dining table. The thick, savory steam rising from the plates filled the room with the rich, grounded scent of roasted salt, crushed garlic, and fresh herbs.
"Perfect timing," he said, not even looking up from the spread as he neatly aligned the chopsticks. "Sit down. Food's hot."
I didn't need to be told twice. I dropped my heavy school bag by the door and slid into my usual seat.
For a while, the only sounds occupying the kitchen were the rhythmic clinking of metal spoons against ceramic bowls and the low, mechanical hum of the old overhead fan. It was a comfortable, domestic silence. Then, Dad abruptly stopped mid-bite, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth.
"Are you free tomorrow after your final period?" he asked, his tone casual, yet deliberate.
I blinked, swallowing a mouthful of rice. "Yeah, I think so. No extra study sessions. Why?"
A slight, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "I want to bring you to my lab."
I stopped mid-chew, my eyes widening slightly. "Huh? Why the sudden invite?"
"I've finally finished a personal project," Dad said, leaning back slightly as a rare, brilliant spark of excitement danced in his eyes. "I've got something cool to show you."
Cool stuff. Coming from an inventor who literally created baseline components for the military, "cool stuff" was the ultimate magic phrase. It meant high-level machinery, prototype energy cores, or something completely experimental.
"No further questions, your honor," I said, a genuine grin finally breaking through my guarded expression. "I'm in."
Dad smiled, clearly satisfied with the enthusiasm, and nodded before continuing his meal. But as I picked up my chopsticks to finish dinner, my chest felt lighter than it had in months. For the first time since the night of the Celestial Weave, I wasn't just looking forward to the next day—I was eager for it.
----------
The next afternoon, the heavy metal doors of the academy's locker room slammed shut, echoing through the emptying hallway. A scuffed leather soccer ball suddenly sailed through the air, aimed directly at my chest.
"Hashy! You playing or what? We need a midfielder!" Yinoh shouted, jogging backward down the corridor.
"Can't today," I said, catching the ball cleanly against my ribs. "Dad's bringing me to his lab after hours."
Yinoh's eyes instantly lit up, his posture shifting. "Oooh, new top-secret inventions? Did Sir Thiago finally let you into the high-security vaults?"
"Maybe," I joked, tossing the ball from hand to hand. "He's probably building a fully autonomous robot version of me to handle my chores."
Yinoh snorted, a wide grin crossing his face. "Make sure to tell me if it tries to replace you permanently—mostly so I can figure out if I can keep bullying it without damaging the hardware."
I threw the ball back at him, aiming right for his laughing face. "Psh. As if. You can't even beat me in a footrace without using your fancy new wind magic to cheat."
"Talking big now, huh?" Yinoh smirked, catching the ball on his knee with effortless grace.
I smirked right back, gave him a brief wave, and headed out the main entrance. For the first time in months, an odd, electric current of genuine excitement put a noticeable bounce in my stride as I walked home through the cooling afternoon air.
As soon as I arrived at the house, I practically flew up the stairs. I took a rushed shower and meticulously picked out my clothes, coming back downstairs dressed far more neatly than usual—a crisp, dark collared shirt, clean pressed pants, and even a subtle dash of cologne.
Dad looked up from the living room couch, his eyes scanning my outfit before he let out a loud, amused snort. "Why so dressed up, kid? We're going to a research facility, not a gala."
"We're going to see cool stuff," I said proudly, adjusting my collar in the hallway mirror. "High-level engineering deserves a little respect, Dad."
He rolled his eyes, a soft, fond smile breaking through his tired features. "Sure, sure. Let's go."
We drove deep into the shining heart of Upper Iris, where towering chrome obelisks pierced the low-hanging clouds and sleek, automated security drones drifted overhead like silent, neon-lit sentries. In this hyper-advanced world of steel, light, and mathematical divinity, my dad wasn't just a simple technician—he was the scientist.
The public media called him the Champion of Advancement, though you'd never guess it from his faded polo shirts, his calloused hands, or the aggressive way he dodged the media spotlight. His research focused on the seemingly impossible: pioneering magitech to cure incurable cellular degradation and augmenting the human frame beyond its biological limits. But he lived by a single, ironclad rule: absolute anonymity. No press stages, no vanity awards, no public broadcasts. To the citizens of Upper Iris, he was simply "The Artificer," a faceless, mythic legend of industry.
Even the Ardent Sigil—the city's highest civic honor—couldn't tempt him out of the shadows. "Fame warps the integrity of the work," he'd always tell me whenever I asked. "The moment you let them see your face, they own your mind."
Aside from his immediate research colleagues, only two people in the entire world knew the true identity of the Artificer: me and Yinoh. Dad had made us swear a blood oath of secrecy years ago. It was the exact reason why, during family presentation days at school, I had to awkwardly tell my classmates that my dad was just a factory hand—a necessary lie that felt heavier and more suffocating with every passing year.
To the upper class, he was a god of modern innovation. To me, he was just Thiago—the man who consistently burned the breakfast toast, obsessively tinkered with prototype circuit boards at 3 AM, and carried an internal silence so heavy that no one in the house dared disturb it.
We finally reached his laboratory, a veritable fortress of reinforced glass and brushed titanium tucked away beneath one of the research institute's massive, soaring spires.
With the fluid flick of a master console switch, the dark room instantly surged to life. Blinding, clinical white light flooded a vast space that was simultaneously meticulous and humming with quiet, automated motion. Rows of pristine, high-end tools were arranged with mathematical precision on polished steel tables. Above us, in a loft-like viewing gallery, glowing prototypes of his past inventions stood on display behind reinforced glass like the silent trophies of a restless, hyperactive mind.
But what struck me most wasn't the towering machinery itself—it was the staff. There were no human colleagues in sight. Instead, sleek, faceless AI automatons glided across the polished floors with practiced, eerie efficiency, tidying workbenches, sorting components, and assisting the main computers in delicate, micro-scale tasks.
"Whoa…" I whispered, my voice echoing slightly in the vast room, unable to hide my sheer awe.
I had been here once before, nearly a decade ago, when I was still a young child. Back then, this place could hardly be called a laboratory—it had been little more than a chaotic, cluttered workshop with exposed wires spilling across the floor and half-built projects abandoned in dusty corners. Now, standing here, it felt like stepping directly into the pulsing heart of modern innovation itself.
"Take a seat over there," Dad said, gesturing toward a complex, heavily padded reclining medical chair surrounded by analytical monitors.
I walked over and flopped down onto the leather, my eyes wide as they scanned every flashing gadget in sight. "Are you hiring any un-Threaded interns anytime soon, Dad?"
He chuckled softly, setting his briefcase down. "Not yet, kid. Maybe when my knees start clicking, and I can't reach the upper calibrations."
After rummaging through a heavily secured biometric drawer, he finally pulled out a small, metallic object. It was a microchip—sleek, incredibly thin, no larger than a fingernail, and pulsing with a faint, rhythmic blue luminescence.
He walked over to the chair, holding the tiny component carefully between two fingers.
"So… where's the cool stuff?" I asked, looking around the room for a giant robot or a weapon prototype.
"Right here." Dad lifted his hand, revealing the microchip under the bright lights as though it were a priceless, flawless gem.
I squinted at his fingers. "That? That tiny sliver of metal is the cool stuff?"
"You'll understand the metrics later. For now, flip over and lie on your stomach."
I blinked, a sudden prickle of anxiety hitting my chest. "Why?"
"Just trust the process, son. Do it."
I hesitated, pushing myself up on my elbows and staring at him. "Do I have a legitimate reason to be scared right now?"
His stern expression instantly softened, his eyes reflecting a deep, paternal warmth. "Hasphien. Do you trust me?"
"…Right. I forgot you're a great scientist." Groaning dramatically, I flipped over and flopped flat onto my stomach, burying my face into the padded headrest. "This is completely undignified."
He let out a low chuckle, his footsteps moving around to the back of the chair. "You'll be perfectly fine."
As I rested my cheek against the medical padding, I heard the crisp, mechanical click of him adjusting a set of automated surgical tools above my head. A soft, high-frequency hum buzzed in the sterile air, vibrating subtly against the skin of my back.
Then, a sharp, sudden click echoed right against my skull as the microchip latched seamlessly into place at the exact base of my nape.
"Alright… just breathe normally, Hasphien. This won't take long at all."
I wanted to open my mouth and ask him exactly what the chip was doing to my body. But for some strange, inexplicable reason… a profound wave of exhaustion washed over me, and I chose to remain silent. The steady, rhythmic hum of the machinery began to actively lull my consciousness into a heavy, unbroken stillness.
A sudden, powerful pulse ran down the entire length of my spine. It was cold, intensely electric—not entirely painful, but incredibly sharp, like a needle piercing my nervous system.
And then—
The clinical white lights of the laboratory abruptly dissolved.
My vision faded entirely into a deep, infinite black.
Darkness.
Weightless.
But it wasn't empty.
I found myself floating in a vast, primordial space devoid of shape, time, or sound. It felt like the moments before creation.
Then… a gentle, melodic voice cut through the void.
"Hasphien… my son…"
The sound made my breath instantly hitch, a sudden, agonizing lump forming in my throat. That voice. The one from my recent nightmares.
Mom.
She materialized out of the dark directly before me—flickering violently at her edges like a broken, low-resolution hologram dipped in liquid light. Her eyes were kind, beautiful, and hauntingly distant, shimmering as if I were viewing her through a pane of moving water. She wasn't actually looking at me; instead, she was staring down at a patch of spectral flowers blooming in an invisible garden, her pale fingers softly brushing against petals that weren't really there.
I desperately tried to take a step forward toward her, but the shifting dark beneath me refused to meet my feet.
"You've always possessed it…" she whispered, her voice echoing from a place far deeper and more ancient than the surrounding void.
"Possessed what?" I cried out into the dark, my voice cracking with desperation. "I—I don't have anything, Mom! The heavens skipped me. I wasn't chosen. I'm empty!"
Her tragic, beautiful smile didn't falter for a second. "Threads… are merely one single path, son. You were never meant to follow theirs."
"I don't understand what you mean!"
She gently raised her hand, her shimmering finger pointing directly into the dark space behind my shoulder.
I spun around.
There—floating silently in the absolute blackness—was a faint, glowing image. It was a swirling, massive cluster of silver threads, intricately knotted into a complex, geometric spiral. Each line of light blinked and pulsed like a living, breathing circuit board. It called out to something deep within my biology, a magnetic pull that made my skin tingle, but I couldn't reach it. It was out of focus.
"It's blurry… why can't I see it clearly?" I yelled, turning back to her.
My mother's voice suddenly grew softer, heavily distorted—like a cracked audio speaker skipping violently over critically important words.
"Because the thread… your father… to protect your life… too early if —"
"What?" I took a frantic step forward, reaching out into the mist. "What thread?! Mom, what do you mean?!"
"… you must remember, son… not all gifts are given. Some… some are buried within…"
Her face suddenly glitched—her holographic form stuttering, tearing, and flickering wildly between separate moments in time.
I lunged forward, trying to grab the fabric of her dress. "Mom, wait! Please! What am I supposed to do?!"
Her form began to violently break apart, shattering into thousands of brilliant streaks of white particles that drifted up into the void.
"-MA… will show you… but whatever you do… don't trust…"
"Don't trust what?!" I screamed into the collapsing space. "DON'T TRUST WHAT?!"
The entire world abruptly collapsed inward into a single, localized point of gravity.
I shot upright in the medical chair with a violent, gasping breath.
Cold sweat slicked my skin, my chest heaving erratically as my pulse stumbled over itself in a frantic panic. The clinical laboratory slowly swam back into view, the harsh fluorescent lights above humming—too white, too clean, too real.
"You're awake."
Dad's voice drifted in from my right side, perfectly calm and measured in a way that felt entirely rehearsed. He was standing right beside the reclining chair, an electronic tablet in his hand, casually tapping the screen as if this were just any other routine afternoon.
"W-What… what happened to me?" I managed to choke out, my voice raspy and cracking as I struggled to find my bearings in the physical world.
"First off, wipe the drool from your chin. You were only out for a few minutes," he said with a soft, easy laugh. He kept his facial expression light, bright, and completely unbothered—a carefully practiced mask designed to keep my rising panic at bay. "See? I told you it wouldn't hurt."
I tried sitting up fully, swinging my legs off the side of the chair. My body obeyed my commands, mostly—but there was a new, inexplicable heaviness anchoring itself deep within my chest. It felt like a physical weight, as if something fundamental inside my biological code had just been gently nudged, rearranged, and rewritten without my conscious consent.
"How long was I actually out, Dad?"
"An hour at most," he said smoothly, his fingers rapidly tapping a few final keys on a nearby diagnostics console without looking up at me. "Vitals are perfectly steady. System response is entirely stable."
"An hour?" I repeated, my tone instantly dripping with a defensive sarcasm. "A 'few minutes,' you said. And what exactly do you mean by 'System response'?"
Dad's fingers froze over the console for a mere fraction of a second.
It was a tiny, microscopic pause—there, then gone in the blink of an eye. But I caught it.
Then, his easy, practiced smile returned, perfectly placed back onto his face. "Right. That. Poor phrasing on my part."
He angled the glowing screen of the tablet toward me so I could read the diagnostic breakdown.
[ S-1 Modular Health Monitor: ONLINE ]
[ Biological Sync: 100% COMPLETE ]
[ Status: Passive Subcutaneous Monitoring ]
"This," Dad said, tapping the glass screen with his thumb, "...is a highly advanced prototype I've been personally developing for the institute. It tracks your internal biological patterns. Helps us detect cellular irregularities early."
"A health monitor?" I echoed, staring at the blue text.
He nodded firmly. "People living in the high-density sectors of Upper Iris develop latent conditions all the time due to the ambient mana degradation. This specific one has been… specially tailored. To pick up anything unusual that might surface in your system."
"…So, it's just for tracking my health?"
"Exactly," he answered—the word leaving his lips just a fraction too fast to be completely natural.
His smile stayed firmly put, but his eyes flickered nervously. Just once. Like he was bracing himself for a deeper, more dangerous question that I ultimately didn't have the strength to ask.
I leaned back against the stiff, sterile pillow of the medical chair, staring up at the white ceiling tiles as my mother's glitched voice pulled itself from the vivid remnants of the dream, looping over and over in my head.
"You've always possessed it… Not all gifts are given… some are buried within…"
That haunting vision—her tragic silhouette framed by a swirling mass of circuit-like silver threads—still clung to the back of my eyelids.
And the strangest part? I could actually feel them now. Deep within the center of my ribcage, right beneath my sternum, there was a new sensation. A phantom thrum. A heartbeat within a heartbeat.
"Everything feeling okay, son?" Dad asked softly, his voice tinged with a hidden, heavy anxiety.
"…Yeah," I lied, forcing a tired smile as I stood up from the chair. "Just exhausted. That dream was intense."
A visible wave of relief instantly loosened the tight tension in his shoulders. "Alright. Let's get you home. I'll cook something light."
I didn't tell him that Mom had been consistently appearing in my dreams for weeks now. Or that each time she appeared, it felt less like a phantom memory born of grief, and more like a dire, desperate warning.
Not yet.
Later that night, back in the safety of my own room, I lay flat on my back in bed, staring blankly up at the dark ceiling. The entire house was dead silent, save for the rhythmic, mechanical ticking of the clock hanging on the wall.
Yinoh had texted me a few hours earlier while I was still under:
[ YINOH: Yo, you still alive over there? Or did Sir Thiago accidentally turn you into a toaster? ]
I had finally replied just twenty minutes ago:
[ HASPHIEN: Yeah, still breathing. Wanna chill at the park? ]
Almost instantly, the screen of my phone lit up the dark room with his reply:
[ YINOH: Fine, but you are obligated to buy me double-scoop vanilla ice cream as direct payment. ]
I smiled faintly into the dark and tossed the phone down onto the mattress beside me. My head was completely crowded, a chaotic storm of unanswerable questions, but I wasn't ready to voice them to anyone yet. Not even to Yinoh. Maybe just sitting on a park bench with him, watching him mess around with his ridiculous wind magic, would help ease the paranoia clawing at my mind.
I pushed myself out of bed and reached for my jacket, sliding my arms into the fabric.
The exact moment the metal zipper caught at the bottom of the track, a distinct sound echoed through the quiet room.
Click.
It didn't come from the ticking wall clock. It didn't come from the street outside my window.
It resonated from the absolute base of my neck.
A sharp, internal sound. Like an ancient, long-dormant system finally booting up in the dark.