The Loom pulsed beneath his palm like a second heartbeat.
As Mingyao touched it, the world seemed to pull inward, collapsing into silence. Time unraveled. Memory surged.
And suddenly—
He was no longer standing in the sanctuary of the Weave.
He was five years old, standing at the edge of a snow-covered temple courtyard.
A woman in red robes knelt beside him, snowflakes catching in her long black hair.
Lianhua. His mother.
Alive.
Her voice was soft as silk thread. "You don't belong to Heaven, Mingyao. Not to the demons either. You're something in between. That's your curse… and your strength."
"I don't understand," he said, wide-eyed.
She smiled sadly. "You will. When it matters."
A scream echoed in the distance—then the memory fractured.
---
Another memory.
A vast hall of jade fire. A thousand gods seated around a broken throne. Tianzuo stood in the center, arms spread, robes torn.
He was younger, angrier.
"They fear the child," a voice said from the crowd. "The one who may rewrite the heavens."
"That child is my son," Tianzuo growled. "Born not of rebellion—but of hope."
"You broke divine law," the God of Chains replied. "You consorted with a fallen priestess. Mixed blood. Mixed fate. What else can the child do but ruin what remains of order?"
Tianzuo turned—and looked directly at Mingyao through the memory, eyes burning.
"You were born because I believed in a different ending."
The memory collapsed again—into fire, then void.
---
Mingyao gasped, dropping to his knees on the Loom's platform. His chest heaved.
"Why am I seeing this?" he whispered.
The Guardians' voices returned. "You are fate's heir. Now it shows you its roots."
More visions came—unrelenting.
A tower made of threads, impossibly tall, anchored between realms. At its summit: a woman cloaked in stars.
She sat before a spinning wheel, humming as she wove futures.
The original Fate-Weaver.
Her fingers danced across infinite possibilities. She paused—sensed something—then turned toward a shadow behind her.
Nüxi.
Younger, beautiful, terrible. The Seraph of Judgments.
"You're altering too much," she warned.
"It is not alteration," the Weaver replied. "It's mercy. Some destinies deserve to be broken."
"You court chaos."
"And you worship control."
There was a flash of silver. Threads snapped.
The Loom shattered.
The Weaver fell—her body vanishing into the void.
And with her fall… fate ceased to be a living thing.
---
Mingyao woke to find himself in a field of glowing ash.
Above him, the heavens were still—as if holding their breath.
Yanshi knelt beside him, eyes full of concern.
"You were gone for hours," she said. "You kept whispering your mother's name."
"I saw her," Mingyao said slowly. "And the first Weaver. She died… she was killed."
He sat up, rubbing his face. "This Loom… it isn't just power. It's a wound. A hole where fate used to live."
Liuxian approached, arms crossed. "You accessed the Thread-Tower's memory. Only the inheritor of the Weaver could do that."
Mingyao looked up sharply. "You knew?"
"I suspected. Tianzuo once told me… your mother wasn't just a priestess. She was chosen by the first Weaver before she vanished. That prophecy they destroyed—"
He paused.
"—you were the prophecy, Mingyao. 'The Child of Both Suns' wasn't just poetic. It meant two bloods, two fates. God and demon. Order and chaos."
Mingyao's hands trembled.
"So what am I supposed to do? Stitch it all back together?"
"No," Liuxian said softly. "You decide whether it's worth stitching at all."
---
They camped at the edge of a shattered leyline where sky and sea bled into each other. The ground pulsed with fractured fate. Spirits drifted nearby—lost, silent, waiting.
Mingyao stared into the fire that night.
Yanshi sat beside him, sharpening a blade. "You look like your brain's fighting itself."
He smirked faintly. "I just found out my mother was a fate-chosen rebel, my father was a god who defied Heaven, and the entire idea of destiny might be a lie."
She shrugged. "Sounds about right. Welcome to adulthood."
He laughed—then sobered. "But there's something worse."
"What?"
"I'm not sure I want to put fate back the way it was."
Yanshi paused.
"Then don't," she said. "Make a new one."
"It's not that simple."
"Nothing is. But if the world's already breaking… then maybe the best way forward is through the cracks."
---
The next morning, Mingyao returned to the Loom with a decision.
The Guardians stood silent.
He placed his hand upon the spindle once more.
"I saw it all. And I choose to sever some of it."
The threads vibrated.
"I will keep what matters—my mother's sacrifice, my father's love, the bonds I've forged. But I will not rebuild the cage the gods worshipped."
The Loom hummed.
"Then you are no longer its heir. You are its author."
A ripple spread from his palm.
Old fates snapped.
New ones coiled.
And far away—beyond realms and reason—Nüxi awoke in fury.
---