Ares stood there in the gray hush, humidity clinging to his skin like a wet cloth. Around them the world was pale and weary: white sand drifting against low, weathered grey stone, and above it a sky the color of ash, close and airless. He had just asked Rodman to teach him how to create that strange green string — the same one that bound and reshaped matter itself — in exchange for showing him how to hide the seams of his invisibility cloak.
Rodman didn't answer. He stared at Ares for a long moment, unmoving, his eyes cloudy and deep like old glass. Then he turned and began walking away toward his shack.
Ares's stomach sank. That's it, he thought. I've ruined it. Should've just kept quiet.
But before he could turn back, the old man's voice rasped through the humid air:"Why are you just standing there? Come along!"
Ares blinked, startled, and hurried after him — but not before glancing down at the two empty bowls they had eaten from. He almost left them behind, then remembered Beth's sharp warnings: 'Don't lose the kitchenware again. Every time you do, they vanish for good.'
He scooped up the empty bowls and followed Rodman, clutching them tightly as though they were a passport back to safety. Once Rodman expelled him for the day, there was no returning until he was allowed again — and the bowls would be lost forever.
He stepped inside the shack for the first time. It wasn't what he expected.
From outside, it looked like an old wooden hut — warped planks, a sagging roof — but inside, everything was wrong. The walls were stone carved to look like wood, grain lines and knots sculpted into the rock itself. The furniture followed the same impossible logic: a chair shaped from compacted sand, a blanket that looked soft but was solid stone.
Even stranger, Ares spotted familiar things — a spoon, a kettle, a pan — each reshaped into something absurd. His missing utensils were hanging along a rope line, transformed into socks and sheets. When he brushed one, the metal yielded under his touch, flowing like silk, yet when he tapped it with his nail, it still rang like steel.
A faint green thread pulsed through everything — walls, chairs, the utensils — weaving them into life. It was the same string he had seen before, the same luminous strand he wanted to learn to control. He couldn't begin to guess how it worked, but the sight thrilled him.
Rodman sat down at the stone table, eyes downcast. The silence stretched until it felt alive, thick and uneasy.
Then he looked up at Ares.Then down again.Then up once more — longer this time. His gaze lingered, heavy and unreadable.
Ares shifted. Why is he looking at me like that?
Rodman exhaled slowly, almost a sigh. Then, finally, he spoke:"Two balls."
Ares frowned. "What?"
Rodman raised his voice. "Two balls."
Ares hesitated. The old man's gaze flicked toward him — or maybe lower.Ares's eyes widened. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Rodman frowned. "Two bowls, boy! Are you deaf?"
Ares took a step back, clutching himself instinctively. "No! I'm not giving you my balls, you creepy old—"
The table cracked as Rodman slammed his fist down. "BOWLS! Two bowls of golden soup, not your goddamn balls!" His voice thundered, shaking dust from the ceiling. "You think I'd teach you for free? If you can't even bring me two bowls of soup, then fuck off and stay gone!"
Ares blinked, then noticed the two empty bowls still clutched in his hands. His cheeks burned red. "Oh," he muttered. Then, sheepishly, "Ohhh… bowls."
Rodman grunted. "Well? What are you waiting for? Fetch them."
Ares nodded quickly and ran out, nearly tripping over the uneven step.He'd barely gotten halfway to the kitchen before realizing he was still carrying the bowls — empty ones. He stopped, turned back toward the shack, then kept running.
"Beth!" he shouted as he burst through the archway. "Beth! I need the golden soup — two bowls! Please!"
Beth emerged from the back, arms folded. "What did you do this time?"
"It's important," Ares pleaded. "He said he'll teach me. but only if I bring him two bowls of golden soup!"
Beth narrowed her eyes. "Really?." But she sighed, took the bowls from him, and started cooking.
The smell of simmering broth filled the air, warm and rich. Ares stood by the counter, bouncing on his heels, watching every ladleful like it was the birth of a miracle. Fifteen minutes passed like an eternity. His chest ached from anticipation.
When Beth finally handed the bowls back, steam curling off the surface, Ares grinned. "Thank you!"
He sprinted all the way back to Rodman's shack, the soup sloshing dangerously close to the edge.
Rodman's expression softened the moment he saw the golden glow. He took the first bowl and drank greedily, then the second. By the time he finished, a faint smile had returned to his cracked face.
"Good," he said, voice quieter now. "Now we can begin."
Ares's pulse quickened. "You mean—"
"Yes," Rodman interrupted. "Lie down. On the table."
"The table?"
Rodman looked up sharply. "You want to learn or not?"
Ares hesitated only a moment, then obeyed. The table was cold beneath him. The old man began muttering under his breath — words that didn't sounded more like whisper in an unknowen language
"You don't have enough will,," Rodman said softly. "So I'll have to raise it for you.."
He gave a small, crooked smile. "It won't be pretty."
Ares opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but before he could, fine green threads erupted from the air — luminous, writhing strands that coiled around his wrists, ankles, and throat.
"Wha—" he tried to speak, but his lips sealed shut, stitched by glowing lines.
His eyes widened — and then the threads reached them too. His upper lids were sewn to his brow, his lower lids to his cheeks, forcing them open. Every blink turned into pain.
Rodman's shadow loomed over him, framed by the pulsing green light.
"I can't let you change your mind midway," the old man whispered, almost tenderly. "It would ruin the weave. Besides…" — his smile deepened — "I do love watching the moment someone truly sees."
Ares tried to scream, but no sound came. The light intensified, spreading across his vision until it devoured everything. His body went rigid, the world tearing at the seams. His thoughts unraveled like fabric in fire — each one dissolving, burning, vanishing—