"Silas, if you stare at that abandoned 'Dreamweaver' altar again, I'll gouge out your eyes and sell them to the deep-sea merchants!"
Old Dick roared. He was a burly dwarf, missing half an ear.
He was struggling to drag a broken mechanical successor machine out of the mud pit.
Silas squatted in the rubble beside the altar, twirling a rusty copper needle between his fingers—his only possession.
He looked up, revealing a set of white teeth and a slight smile, but his angular face betrayed a weariness far beyond his years.
"Old Dick, I was just thinking—if the gods are really as equal as the legends say,
why do their divine core fragments always end up in the manors of noble lords, instead of in the mud pits of slums like ours?"
"Because gods are snobs, kid." Old Dick spat.
"Come help me. There might still be a thread or two of divine power left in this body—enough for three months of white bread."
Silas stood up, brushing the dust off his trousers.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his spine.
It was the sensation of awakening.
The air thickened, as if an invisible spiderweb was churning wildly in the void.
A jagged purple crack appeared in the gray sky, and a suffocating pressure poured down from above.
"A tide of fallen gods..." Old Dick, pale, collapsed into the mud. "Damn it, did a god just fall?"
"No, not fallen," Silas's voice was unusually calm. Countless tiny, multicolored threads were reflected in his pupils. "They're fighting."
A gigantic figure woven from pure lightning flickered in the clouds, its counterpart countless shadowy tentacles.
This war of the gods was wordless—only primal, colliding laws.
An object burning with golden light descended from the sky, heading straight for the altar where Silas stood.
"Old Dick, get out of the way!" Silas lunged forward—not to escape, but to reach the falling object.
He knew it was suicide.
But in the world of the Shattered Dreamweaver, mediocrity was more terrifying than death.
The golden light struck the altar, and the shockwave leveled all the ruins within a hundred meters. Silas felt at least three ribs break, but he still crawled to the edge of the crater.
At the bottom of the crater, a broken crystal pulsated like a heartbeat.
[Detected: High-purity Dreamweaver Core Fragment...]
[Basic Protocol Initializing...]
Silas reached out tremblingly and grabbed the crystal.
Instantly, a flood of information exploded in his mind.
His vision blurred, and the world around him became chaotic.
[Awakening Successful:] Ordinary Weaver (Level 1)]
[Gained Core Imprint: Shattered Mirror]
[Positive Effect: You can weave and copy any non-divine skill within your field of vision.]
[Fatal Flaw: Memory Deprivation. Each use of this imprint ability permanently erases your memories from a specific period.]
"Silas! Are you still alive?" Old Dick's voice rang out, tinged with fear.
Silas shook his head, trying to dispel the dizziness.
He looked at his hands, now wrapped in translucent, glowing threads.
"I'm still alive, old Dick," he said in a low voice, a fierce glint in his eyes. "But I seem to have forgotten what yesterday's lunch tasted like."
Just then, the shadows around the altar began to ripple.
The aftermath of the War of the Gods not only brought opportunity—but also attracted the Shadow Weavers lurking at the edge of the void.
Three creatures emerged from the ruins, their bodies drifting like smoke, covered in compound eyes, relentlessly pursuing the wounded Silas.
Silas looked at the monsters, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips.
"Damn it, amnesia right after waking up? This world really looks down on me."
He watched as one of the monsters unleashed a shadow claw.
Sacred threads flickered wildly at his fingertips.
In that instant, he saw the trajectory of the attack and wove it into his own threads.
[Mirror Weave - Shadow Strike]
Silas's figure vanished instantly.
The moment the shadow claw struck, Silas's vision was swallowed by a semi-transparent mesh of threads.
He had thought "copying" would be as natural as breathing.
But as he forcibly pulled the black "shadow threads" that shimmered at his fingertips, a dull pain struck deep into his skull like a hammer blow.
It was the emptiness of memories being torn apart.
Whoosh!
Silas's figure transformed into a wisp of broken black smoke, narrowly dodging the shadow attack.
In the blink of an eye, he appeared behind a Shadow Weaver, replicating the ability he had just witnessed.
"This feeling... is terrible," Silas muttered under his breath.
He couldn't remember what he had eaten for lunch yesterday—or rather, whether he had eaten anything at all.
His stomach was growling with hunger, but his memory of food was completely gone.
This was the price.
Without hesitation, he plunged his right hand into the beast's skull.
The sacred threads wrapped around his fingertips writhed like living things, burrowing into the beast's shell and churning violently.
Boom!
The first Shadow Weaver instantly turned into a meaningless pool of black sludge.
The remaining two monsters let out heart-wrenching screams.
Their bodies began to merge, weaving into a higher form.
Shadows surged from the ruins towards them, and the pressure in the air suddenly increased.
"Hey! Kid! Run!" Old Dick frantically waved his arms in the distance, clutching a rusty musket tightly.
"That's 'Level Two Shadow Fusion'—you're no match for it!"
Silas turned to retreat, but a shadowy tentacle wrapped around his ankle, rendering him immobile.
"Damn it..."
Just as the fusion monster was about to deliver the fatal blow, a light colder than lightning and sharper than a blade cleaved down from the shadowy crack above.
It was feathers.
No—dozens of sacred feathers woven from pure silver energy.
Each feather precisely severed the monster's connection to the shadow.
The fusion monster didn't even have time to roar before it vanished into a cloud of black dust.
Silas was thrown towards the altar by the shockwave.
He struggled to lift his head and saw a figure standing on the ruins.
It was a girl.
She had a pair of almost transparent wings, the edges shimmering with silver threads. She wore a close-fitting dark gray leather suit, clearly designed for high-altitude flight.
She had a healthy, bronze complexion, and short silver hair that framed her pale purple eyes.
She was a member of the Winged Race.
In the world of the Broken Divine Weaver, the Winged Race were natural aerial overlords—proud and arrogant, rarely seen in the stinking slums.
The girl leaped lightly from the broken wall, her wings transforming into countless silver threads, retracting behind her upon landing.
She looked down at Silas, her gaze sweeping over his fingertips, and frowned.
"Ordinary Weaver (Level 1)? You actually survived the Lesser Shadow Fusion? What's your core weaver attribute?"
Silas propped himself up, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth, a mocking smile appearing on his face.
"If you're here to collect corpses, you'll have to wait for the next round.
If you're here to ask for directions, there's only mud and beggars here."
The girl ignored his sarcasm.
She bent down, her gaze fixed on the broken altar.
"A fragment of a divine core fell here—a fragment of a Dreamweaver."
That kind of divine power is far beyond your ability to withstand. Hand it over.
"If not handled properly, it will weave a nightmare in your mind from which you can never wake up."
"I'm sorry, Miss," Silas said, opening his empty palm.
Only faint golden threads shimmered between his fingers.
"It seems... it has already 'signed a contract' with me."
The girl's pupils suddenly contracted, a hint of surprise flashing in her pale purple eyes.
"You forcibly fused with it? It's a miracle your soul didn't shatter."
She took a step forward, the rapier at her waist emitting a low hum.
Silas felt immense pressure—this girl was at least a Divine Contract Weaver, possessing far more divine threads than he could command.
"I am Isha," she said coldly, sheathing her sword.
"Now that you've merged with it, come with me."
The unusual phenomenon of the Godfall Tide will attract 'Purifiers' from all directions.
If you don't want to be dissected and studied, shut up and come with me."
Silas glanced at the trembling old Dick in the distance, then looked at the imposing winged girl.
"Do I have a choice?"
"You can choose to stay here and wait to die," Isha said, turning to leave.
Her wings fluttered slightly as she added,
"But I suggest you choose to live. After all, very few in the Pantheon can withstand the impact of the Dreamweaver's core."
Silas gave a bitter smile.
He stood up, his memories blurring again—he couldn't remember Old Dick's full name.
"Alright, Isha. But before we go, I have a question."
Silas followed behind her, his tone unusually relaxed.
"Go ahead."
"What was that trick you used to save me? It looked cool."
Isha paused, glancing back as if looking at a madman.
"That's the Winged Clan's secret technique—Silver Thread Slash.
What, do you want to learn it?"
"No," Silas said softly, feeling the power of the Mirror Weaving within the core loom surge once more.
"I'm just calculating how many memories I'll lose if I try to steal it."
On the distant horizon, the crimson light of the Second Godfall Tide was rising.
At that very moment, all the clock towers across the continent tolled in unison, as if mourning the fall of the old gods and the birth of new demons.