The city of Arven slept uneasily, blanketed by a thin mist that carried the scent of rain and old stone.Even in the dead of night, the streets were not entirely empty. Shadows moved with purpose, faint glimmers of light occasionally breaking through, only to vanish moments later.
Aiden Crossfield sat in the study of Crossfield Manor, staring at the amulet and threads that still pulsed faintly in the moonlight.The events of the night before lingered like smoke in his mind—the whisper of the Origin System, the faint pull of threads, and Lira's warnings about unseen eyes.
He felt a presence before he saw it.A quiet knock echoed through the manor, soft but deliberate.
Aiden rose and moved cautiously toward the door.Through the keyhole, he saw a figure cloaked in black, hood drawn low. The figure moved with a grace that spoke of skill, not carelessness.
"Baron Crossfield," the figure said, voice calm, smooth, but with an edge that sent a chill down his spine. "You are expected."
Aiden hesitated. "Expected… by whom?"
"By those who walk between the worlds of men and the secrets that bind them. By those who know of the Origin."
The words made Aiden pause.Not many could even utter the word 'Origin' with knowledge, much less intention.He opened the door slowly. The figure stepped inside, hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace.
"I am Riven," the stranger said, finally revealing their face under the hood.Sharp eyes, pale skin, a small scar tracing the edge of their jaw. Eyes that seemed to see everything. "And I have come to guide you… if you choose to follow."
Aiden's pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. "Guide me where?"
"To the Conclave of Threads, hidden in the heart of the city. A gathering of those who study Systems beyond the Empire's understanding."
Aiden frowned. "You mean scholars? Nobles? Or… spies?"
"All three," Riven said, a faint smile tugging at their lips. "And more. Some are friends. Some are enemies. But all seek what you carry… the Origin. They have waited centuries for its return."
Aiden felt the weight of the words. Centuries. He had been thrust into a world of threads and secrets far older than he imagined.
"Why me?" he asked softly.
Riven's gaze was unwavering. "Because you were chosen—not by birth, not by strength, but by fate. The threads themselves pulled you here. And now, the time has come to learn their rules."
Aiden's fingers brushed the amulet. Its faint pulse quickened as if responding to Riven's words.Threads stretched faintly from his chest, intertwining with the edges of the room, reaching toward the door.
"You must decide quickly," Riven warned. "Once the invitation is extended, there is no turning back."
Aiden swallowed, sensing the gravity of the moment.The choice before him was more than survival. It was entry into a hidden world where knowledge was power, and power was life itself.
He nodded. "I'll go."
Riven's lips curved in a shadow of approval. "Good. We leave at once. The Conclave waits for no one."
The streets were wet, and the fog thickened as they moved.Riven guided him through winding alleys, past market stalls, and around guards, never once appearing concerned about discovery.
"How do you know where to go?" Aiden asked.
"The city is alive," Riven replied. "Every noble, every merchant, every System user leaves threads behind. Follow them carefully, and the city will guide you as much as I do."
Aiden's eyes widened. He could see faint filaments stretching from their boots to the streetlamps, to the rooftops, to distant merchants.Threads, he thought. It's all connected.
Aiden felt a strange thrill. Each thread carried information—intent, emotion, even power levels. He could sense more than he had before. The Origin System was responding.
The Conclave was hidden beneath the city, accessible only by a series of narrow tunnels and secret doors.Riven moved through a trapdoor in an abandoned alley. The smell of damp stone and ancient incense filled the passage as they descended.
The room they entered was vast, circular, and lined with shelves of books, scrolls, and strange artifacts. Candles floated in midair, flickering without heat.Figures gathered in clusters, whispering. Some were young nobles. Others wore the robes of scholars or priests. A few were cloaked in anonymity.
Aiden felt every gaze settle on him, subtle yet unrelenting. Threads stretched from him, connecting, intertwining, probing, assessing.
"Welcome," Riven said, gesturing. "The Conclave of Threads acknowledges your arrival."
A figure stepped forward, taller than the rest, a staff glowing faintly in their hand."Baron Crossfield," the figure said, voice resonant and calm, "you carry the Origin. Few have returned after centuries with such a birthright. You will learn quickly that the threads do not forgive mistakes."
Aiden's chest tightened. This is far beyond anything I imagined…
The elders of the Conclave began explaining the rules.
"Every System has threads," one said. "Some visible, some hidden. Most operate within laws of the Empire, confined to what is known. But the Origin… the Origin bends rules. It can connect, consume, influence… even across worlds."
Aiden's pulse quickened. He remembered Earth, the studies of quantum entanglement and consciousness.This… this is exactly like that, but alive.
"You will train," the elder continued. "You will test, learn, and observe. But beware—others seek the Origin too. Empires, nobles, cults… even the forgotten godlike beings of old will take interest. Your life will never be the same."
Aiden's eyes scanned the room. Threads pulsed faintly around each person. Some were dense, strong, obvious. Others were delicate, nearly invisible. But all connected.And mine… His silver thread glowed faintly, pulsing in response to the room. The system inside him was waking.