The sun was already high when Ethan found Sid crouched near a weathered slab of stone, the faint glimmer of mana-lit shards scattered before him like puzzle pieces. His coat was dusted with dew, and strands of silver thread trailed lazily from his fingertips—idle, but alive.
Ethan dropped into a squat beside him. "So… puppet time?"
Sid didn't look up. "Thinking about it."
"What're you going for?"
Sid paused, fingers stilling. "I'm agile. But I can't hit hard. My threads give me movement and precision—but no real punch."
He picked up a jagged shard and turned it in the light. "I need something that hits like a hammer but moves like a ghost. Fast. Sharp. Lethal."
Ethan tilted his head. "So… like a ninja buzzsaw."
Sid snorted. "Less noise. More kill."
With a smooth motion, he unlatched the strap slung across his shoulder and brought his satchel forward. The flap opened on its own with a faint hum, and Ethan leaned forward as a soft, unnatural glow pulsed from inside—deep and low, like the shimmer of water under moonlight.
"Wait—why does it look like your bag's eating itself?"
"Dimensional pocket," Sid replied casually. "Storage upgrade. Three-by-three-foot interior."
Ethan blinked. "That's cheating."
"Loadout perk," Sid shrugged. "Threadmancers get weird support tools. Spatial storage early on, but puppet growth is locked behind level milestones. Every ten levels, I can upgrade both my thread type and my construct. Slower growth, better payoff."
Ethan whistled. "You're just sitting on a pocket dimension like it's a snack bag."
Sid gave a faint smirk. "It's useful. That's all."
"So how do you actually build it?"
"I've got most of what I need," Sid said, gesturing to the shards, "a catalyst, modifier, stabilizer... but I'm missing one thing. A material for the main body."
"What?"
"A solid core material," he answered. "Strong. Dense. Preferably some kind of high-quality ore. Otherwise it'll just snap in combat."
Before Ethan could speak, a deep voice cut in.
"You two always this serious before breakfast?"
They both looked up as one of the Tarnak'hul warriors stepped into view—tall, broad, and draped in patchwork hide. A deep scar cut across his jaw like a canyon. Despite his intimidating build, his tone was light, almost amused.
"Come," the warrior grinned. "The meat's fresh. Don't let it stiffen."
Sid blinked, then straightened slightly. "Actually… do you guys have any strong ores? Something durable."
The Tarnak'hul scratched his chin, claws ticking softly against stubble. "Precious, you mean? Not much. We use common beast bones and forge-stones in Ulthak Varuun. I got to use soul-fire and a thousand years old ember jaws's tooth."
Ethan squinted. "Ulthak what-now?"
The warrior tilted his head. "Awakening. Spirit-forging. You've done it, no? Your class-bonded weapons carry the mark."
Sid and Ethan exchanged a glance.
"Oh, uh…" Ethan scratched the back of his neck. "Where we're from, we call it something else. Different term. Remote training."
"Far mountains," Sid added blankly.
The Tarnak'hul looked at them both, then let out a short laugh. "Strange place to raise firelings. But strong, I see that."
He gestured loosely toward the center of the camp. "If you want something worthy—ask the Warlord. He used an Ancient Rune-Stone for his second Awakening. Made his blade rage like a demon in battle."
Sid's eyes flicked up. "Would… that be allowed?"
The warrior grinned wide. "If you're brave enough to ask."
The heavy footfalls of the Warlord approached—slow, deliberate, but never uncertain.
Ethan and Sid looked up as the Tarnak'hul leader came to stand before them, flanked by two elites. His horned silhouette cast a long shadow across the stones.
"What troubles you, little crafters?" he rumbled.
Before either could answer, the warrior from earlier spoke. "The thread-weaver seeks to forge a puppet, but he lacks one vital component."
Sid rose halfway to his feet, brushing dust from his coat. "I have everything except a core. Something dense enough to anchor the structure, but reactive enough to channel offense."
The Warlord studied him in silence. His presence was immense, but not oppressive—like a mountain considering a gust of wind.
"I gave my final Ancient Rune-Stone to my son, Kael'thar," he said at last. "It will shape his next awakening."
Kael'thar. The name rang heavy with promise—Ethan could already feel it: this wouldn't be the last time they'd hear of him.
"But," the Warlord continued, turning slightly, "I possess something better."
He gestured to one of the elites, who nodded and moved off toward a covered stash near the central tent.
"First," the Warlord said, "you will eat."
Sid opened his mouth to protest, but Ethan had already perked up like a starving dog. "See? Finally someone's got priorities."
They followed the Warlord to the long flat stones that served as the camp's banquet table—if you could call a massive boulder surrounded by warriors gnawing on spit-roasted meat a 'banquet'.
The fire crackled as massive skewers turned above it, roasting thick slabs of meat from jungle beasts. But it wasn't just meat today. In large carved-stone basins, boiling soups simmered, fragrant with herbs and game—steam curling into the humid air.
Ethan dropped down beside Dianna and immediately reached for a sizzling haunch. "If this thing doesn't bring me to heaven, I don't know what will."
Dianna rolled her eyes. "Heaven doesn't fit you boar."
"Heaven is where good food is—this for example." Ethan proclaimed as he filled his mouth.
Laughter erupted from the nearby Tarnak'hul warriors.
One of them thumped his fist into the dirt. "He fights like a beast, but eats like a starving goblin!"
Ethan grinned, grease on his cheek. "That's because I fight on empty. Gotta leave room for the post-victory buffet."
Dianna snorted into her soup, nearly choking. "You wish— twice I saved you and your lazy-ass."
"That was a tactical shift in formation, thank you very much," Ethan said, raising a ladle of thick stew filled with meat chunks, bone-marrow, and glowing root vegetables. "This is broth from heaven, by the way. I'm putting it in my wedding vows."
Even Sid cracked a smile as he sipped from a bowl handed to him by a younger warrior. It was rich—almost too rich—but the flavor lingered like a spell. Around them, the Tarnak'hul seemed… lighter. Relaxed. Bonds were being built, not just through blades—but through laughter, meat, and warm broth shared under smoke and sky.
Then, after the meal had settled, the elite returned.
Cradled in both hands, wrapped in layers of black silk and bone-thread, was a single Soullock Sphere—an orb darker than pitch, encased in ancient runes that shimmered like veins under flesh.
The Warlord took it, held it for a moment… then offered it to Sid.
"This was taken from Gravehollow Vale," he said. "A cursed land where ghosts never sleep and ghouls rebuild their bones by moonlight. I severed this from a Veilbanshee Matriarch. Her scream split stone. Melted minds. It refused my blade—too chaotic. Too sentient."
He held the orb out. "But it may serve your craft."
Sid took it gently. The orb pulsed—soft and wrong, like a heartbeat that belonged to something long dead but not done.
Ethan leaned closer. "That's not a power source. That's a promise of pain."
The warrior beside them nodded. "You'd do better with this than with any ore. A banshee's essence slips through dimensions. If used properly… physical attacks won't even land on the puppet it powers."
Sid's eyes lit up. "A construct that doesn't just endure damage—but phases through it?"
"A spirit chassis," the warrior confirmed. "Takes finesse. But if anyone can do it…"
The Warlord raised a hand. "You'll need a parchment, too. Something capable of binding class-born magic. You have one?"
Without hesitation, Sid reached into his dimensional satchel.
He withdrew a sealed scroll—stitched in copper-thread, sealed in wax, and vibrating faintly with dormant power.
The second it emerged, the air froze.
Dozens of Tarnak'hul turned toward it. Their faces shifted—some in awe, others in quiet wariness. A few even reached for weapons instinctively.
The Warlord's eyes narrowed. "A real one. rare-tier creation parchment."
Sid held it steady but said nothing.
The Warlord's voice deepened. "Parchments are sacred. Kingdoms rise and fall trying to steal them. Never flash it like bait again."
Dianna's hand subtly moved toward her hilt. Ethan straightened.
But Sid remained calm. "You're not 'anyone'. You're our allies. Our friends."
Ethan threw an arm around him. "Besides, y'all would've stolen it already if that were the case."
Dianna grinned. "You'd have to kill us first."
The Warlord was still.
Then… he laughed.
A thunderous, soul-deep laugh.
The Tarnak'hul roared in unison. Weapons raised. Fists pounded. Some even stomped the ground, howling approval.
"Then forge it," the Warlord declared. "And let us witness what stirs in your threads."
Sid knelt at the center of the stone altar.
The parchment unfurled with a hum, ancient glyphs glowing silver across the triangle and circle inscribed within.
He laid out his materials, breath steady, fingers sharp:
Top: Catalyst – Crushed Thornsong Bloom, a toxic plant known to melt flesh and slow time perception.
Left: Modifier – Fine wingbone filament from a Cervari Shrike, predators known for their assassin-like strikes.
Right: Stabilizer – Reinforced carapace scales of a Gravemaw Crawler, a deep-dwelling tank beast that tunneled through bedrock.
Center: Medium – The Screamshard Core, still pulsing with vengeful energy inside the Soullock Sphere.
The triangle lit.
Then the circle.
The air turned dense, as if the ritual was dragging mana from every direction—twisting it around itself like thread around a spindle.
Sid's threads began to tremble—reacting not from his command, but from the sphere itself.
Ethan took a step back.
Dianna reached for her blade.
Even the Tarnak'huls grew quiet.
The runes ignited violently.
Then—
BOOM.
A wave of pressure burst outward.
The scroll ignited.
The Screamshard pulsed—once, twice—
And then everything turned blinding white.