The world was coming apart in three directions.
In the cellar, Leo pushed himself up on trembling arms. The coppery taste of blood was still in his mouth. Elara's small hands fluttered around him, unsure where to touch. "I'm okay," he whispered, the words sandpaper in his throat. "Just… a nosebleed. From the fear."
He wasn't okay. The psychic feedback had left a deep, ringing ache in his mind, like a bell that had been struck too hard. And through Silvan's eyes, he saw the new threat.
The Beast-Caller, furious and aware, had slammed his fetish into the earth. From the rotten soil around him, a seething tide of smaller creatures erupted—rat-like things with jagged teeth and spines, moving in a skittering, mindless wave. They flowed not toward the town, but toward Silvan's section of the forest. The Caller was flushing out the anomaly.
Silvan was fast, but the swarm was vast. He couldn't outrun it and maintain his狙击 point. He needed a shield. He needed a distraction.
His mind, screaming under the dual load, plunged back into the shimmering space of the Persona Weave. The loom glowed before him. One empty silhouette remained. His Fate Thread counter flickered—a meager 35 had regenerated from the minor destiny shift of saving those guardsmen and scattering the wolf-pack.
It would have to be enough.
He couldn't craft another artist. He needed a blunt instrument. A fact. A person who could plausibly already be here.
Persona Crafting:
Race: Human (Imperial, Northern Variant). Grizzled, scarred, face like worn leather.
Class: Mercenary Captain.
Background: Kaelon of the Iron Wall Company. Hired for supplemental perimeter defense three days prior. Currently stationed at the now-collapsed Western Watchtower 3. The Weave accepted the backstory, weaving it into the world's memory with a whisper of spent Threads.
Skill Weave:
- Heavy Weapons Mastery: 20 Threads
- Battlefield Endurance: 10 Threads
- Tactical Shout (Basic): 5 Threads
Fate Threads: 0.
"Persona defined. Finalize weave?"
Now.
Light filled the space. New memories, hard and sharp: the clang of forge hammers, the stink of a mercenary camp, the weight of a contract. A life of selling violence.
And then, the third split.
Leo gasped in the bunker, a fresh wave of disorientation making the room tilt. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the bench.
Three. He was in three places.
In the cellar, he was a boy trying not to vomit.
In the high tree, he was an elf nocking another arrow, watching the swarm approach.
And in the rubble of a shattered stone watchtower half a mile away, he was a man named Kaelon, rising from the debris with a grunt.
Kaelon's body was a map of old pain and solid muscle. He felt the familiar, comforting weight of the greatsword on his back. He took a single, steadying breath—the breath of a man who has survived a tower collapse—and surveyed the hellscape.
His fabricated memory provided context: hired by House Kael, tower hit, objective now is to regroup and reinforce. The logic was seamless.
He saw the skittering tide of spine-rats heading for the woods. He saw no friendly forces there. A tactical problem. His problem.
With a roar that was half performance and half genuine battle-rage, Kaelon charged.
The perspective shifts became a violent, exhilarating dance.
In the bunker: Leo pressed his forehead against the cool stone wall. "So loud," he mumbled again, in answer to his father's sharp look. Roland hadn't stopped watching him.
In the forest: Silvan, seeing Kaelon's charge, broke from his position. He moved like a grey ghost through the trees, circling to find a new vantage, trusting the mercenary to be the anvil.
At the tree line: Kaelon met the swarm. His greatsword wasn't a finesse weapon. It was a cleaver. He didn't duel the creatures; he demolished them. A wide, horizontal sweep turned three into pulp and shattered bone. A stomp crushed another. Spine-rat teeth scraped against his greaves, claws ripped his cloak, but the memory of endurance held. He was a rock in a foul stream, breaking the tide.
Captain Brandt, rallying a group of retreating guards at the inner wall, saw it. He saw the lone, massive mercenary holding the tree line against what should have been an overwhelming swarm. "By the Throne… who is that?" he breathed, before bellowing, "Archers! Support that man at the wood's edge!"
Leo felt it all. The strain was a physical weight, a band of hot iron tightening around his skull. But within the strain, new sensations emerged.
Through Kaelon, he felt the jarring impact of sword on chitin, the burn in his shoulders, the pure, adrenalized shock of combat. It was terrifying and addictive. Through Silvan, he felt the calm precision of selecting a new perch, the gentle pull of the bowstring, the patience of the hunter.
He was learning to compartmentalize. The boy in the cellar was the core, the frightened anchor. Silvan was his distant, careful hand. Kaelon was his clenched fist.
A spine-rat leapt for Kaelon's face. Silvan, from forty yards away, loosed an arrow. It took the creature in mid-air, pinning it to a tree. Kaelon didn't flinch; he simply carved through two more.
For a single, perfect moment, they were in sync. A team of one.
The swarm's advance faltered, then broke, scattering under the combined brutality and precision.
Kaelon stood heaving in the rain and gore, his greatsword dripping. He gave a sharp, beckoning wave toward Captain Brandt's position, the universal mercenary signal for job done, pay up.
Silvan, now hidden again, watched the Beast-Caller. The man was furious, confused. The anomaly had multiplied. A sword and a bow. He was losing control of the flank.
In the bunker, Leo let out a shuddering breath. The immediate fire was out. But the cost was written in the hollow feeling behind his eyes and the zero burning in his Fate Thread counter.
And a new problem now stood on the battlefield, covered in blood and waiting for payment—a mercenary captain who, as far as everyone was concerned, had always been there. A shadow Leo had cast that now had a physical weight and a history he would have to uphold.
The puppeteer had another puppet on stage. And this one demanded a salary.