The sky above the fractured realm boiled with pale lightning.
Storms of raw fate swirled above Mount Qingshou, where the Loom's energy had echoed across all dimensions. From the heart of the sacred mountain, the call of a new Weaver had gone out.
And it was answered.
But not by a friend.
Mingyao stood at the edge of a new leyline, his hand still tingling from the threads he had chosen to sever. The Loom's voice had grown quiet, as if watching what came next.
Then came the tremor—then the footsteps.
A radiant figure strode across the broken air, the ground stitching itself beneath his steps.
He wore robes of white flame and silver iron, and his crown was not gold, but bone. His voice echoed before he even spoke:
"You wield what is not yours, child."
Mingyao's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
The figure extended a hand. "I am Vael'tan, the Loom-Tyrant of the Forgotten Dawn. Last of the Fate-Keepers. I once stood beside the first Weaver… until she fell. And now I claim what she left behind."
Liuxian moved forward, blade half-drawn. "You claim the throne? There is no throne."
Vael'tan's eyes shimmered with controlled fury. "There will be. And this time, it will be ruled with precision—not mercy."
---
They convened not in war, but in parley.
A floating dais of fused time and space appeared above the Temple Ruins. Yanshi paced the edges like a coiled fox, glaring at the god across from them.
Vael'tan sat upon a conjured throne of glass threads. Behind him hovered six spirits—Fate-Binders, ancient remnants of dead pantheons.
"I am not your enemy," Vael'tan said. "I come to correct what the heavens abandoned."
"By imposing your own fate?" Mingyao asked.
"Yes. One fate. One path. Unbroken."
"And if we refuse?"
Vael'tan's expression softened. "You misunderstand me, Mingyao. I do not hate you. I pity you."
He rose.
"You were born into a spiral of failure. Your mother's compassion. Your father's defiance. Your soul split between dusk and dawn. You think fate is a wound—something to stitch or tear. But it is not. It is law. It is meaning. Without it, realms decay."
He gestured to the burning skies.
"This chaos? This unraveling? It's because you chose sentiment over structure."
Mingyao stood, his voice low.
"Maybe fate should decay. Maybe people should have the right to fail… or rise… on their own."
Vael'tan's hand glowed. "And what of those crushed in the cracks? Would you let the innocent suffer because freedom is pretty?"
The words struck deep.
Even Yanshi flinched.
---
The duel was inevitable.
On the shattered plains of the Mirror Fields, beneath the floating shards of broken heavens, Weaver fought Tyrant.
Mingyao stood with Liuxian and Yanshi beside him, drawing the Loom's energy around him like a storm. Vael'tan faced them alone—his spirit blazing with divine conviction.
The first blow tore through the ground, a wave of golden thread. Mingyao weaved it aside, his new instincts guiding his hands.
Vael'tan summoned a sword made of regrets—the Threadblade of Inevitability.
"You are still unsure," he said, striking.
Mingyao blocked, barely. "I'm learning."
With each clash, memories flickered—Vael'tan's past bleeding into the air.
A child crying as fate took his brother.
A war where ten thousand died because a prophecy was undone.
A broken god kneeling before a dying Weaver, whispering, "Let me restore it."
---
The final blow came when Mingyao refused to kill him.
Vael'tan lay bleeding, threads unraveling around him.
"Why do you stop?" he hissed. "End me. Claim your Loom. Be what you were born to be."
Mingyao knelt.
"I wasn't born to control fate. I was born to let people choose it."
Vael'tan stared at him, for the first time… uncertain.
Then he wept.
---
Later, as the Mirror Fields healed, Mingyao stood at the edge of the Loom's core again.
Yanshi sat beside him, scowling as usual. "He'll be back."
"I know."
"You'll hesitate again?"
"No," Mingyao said. "Next time… I'll be ready to fight for people. Not power."
She grinned. "Good. Because Nüxi's not staying quiet."
Liuxian approached, nodding grimly. "More gods will come. Some worse than Vael'tan."
"I'm not afraid," Mingyao said.
He looked to the sky—fractured still, but no longer blind.
Threads floated around his hand, and for the first time, he did not fear touching them.
---