Ryuxian's body tensed, every muscle coiled, every sense heightened.
The air had changed. A subtle shift, like the stillness before a storm, or the deceptive calm after a violent tremor.
The light that had broken through the darkness now felt unnatural—as if it had been placed there, carefully, deliberately, a stage set for a performance.
A cover-up, a thin veil over something far more sinister.
The woman's whispered word—"Waiting."—echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain.
Waiting for what?
"To sever a thread is to believe you are free. But freedom is not in the cutting—it is in knowing who holds the shears."
"A curse does not end when the chain is broken. It lingers in the marrow, waiting for a new shape to take."
"There is no cruelty in the village's grasp—only memory, only hunger. It does not hate you. It simply refuses to forget."
His purple blue eyes flicked to the villagers. They stood unmoving, their heads slightly tilted, as if listening to something only they could hear, a silent choir attuned to an unseen melody.
Their expressions were unreadable. Too calm. Too expectant, like puppets awaiting their puppeteer's command.
Ryuxian's fingers twitched toward his blade, the cold steel a familiar comfort. He wasn't one to be easily unnerved. He had fought beasts of shadow, walked through cursed lands, severed the threads of fate itself—
Yet something about this was profoundly wrong, a discordant note in the symphony of reality.
He had cut the thread, severed the curse that bound the man.
The curse should have ended.
Then why did it feel like it had only just begun, a dark seed planted in fertile ground?
The Hollow Echo
A breeze drifted through the village, a phantom caress.
It should have carried the scent of fresh earth, of damp stone—of life, the sweet aroma of renewal.
But instead, it brought only emptiness, a void where life should have been.
A hollow, weightless thing, a ghostly echo of what once was.
The woman took another step closer, her bare feet making no sound against the ground, her movements as silent as a wraith.
Ryuxian didn't move, his gaze fixed on her.
She lifted a single hand. Slowly. Deliberately.
And pointed.
Not at him.
Not at the sky.
But at his shadow, the dark silhouette cast by the returning sunlight.
What…?
For the first time since arriving, Ryuxian looked down, his gaze drawn to the ground beneath him.
And his breath caught, a sudden constriction in his chest.
His shadow—
It wasn't his.
The shape was wrong, distorted and unnatural.
It stretched in a way that it shouldn't, its form elongated and twisted. The edges flickered, twisting like smoke, a dark mirage against the sunlit earth. And at the very center—
Threads.
Thin, delicate threads ran through the dark form, like veins of shadow, connecting him to the ground, to the village itself.
To something unseen, an intricate network of unseen bonds.
Bound Without Knowing
"Do you see it now?" the woman murmured, her voice a soft, insidious whisper.
Her voice was soft. Almost kind, like a predator soothing its prey.
Ryuxian's pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.
His mind worked fast. Too fast, a whirlwind of calculations and deductions.
He had been here for hours. Had fought. Had severed a life thread, an act of desperate intervention.
And yet—
Somewhere in that time—
He had become bound, ensnared in an unseen trap.
No.
Not just bound.
Claimed, marked as property.
He took a slow step back, his hand tightening around his blade, the hilt digging into his palm.
The villagers tilted their heads in unison, a synchronized movement that sent a shiver down his spine.
The woman's smile did not fade, a chillingly serene expression.
"You cut the thread," she said, her voice a low, melodic drone. "But the village doesn't let go so easily."
Ryuxian's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles white. "What does that mean?"
"He had to move. He had to—The village exhaled."Stay."
This isn't magic. This is bullshit.I cut the thread. I saw it. So why the hell am I still here?
The woman did not answer, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling knowledge.
Instead—
She reached into her shawl, her movements deliberate and measured.
And pulled something out.
A needle.
Small. Silver. Shining in the sunlight, its point gleaming like a tiny,
She held it delicately between her fingers, the way one would hold something sacred, an object of dark ritual.
Then—
She stepped forward and—
Pierced her own wrist, the needle sinking into her flesh with a soft, sickening sound.
The moment the needle touched her skin, Ryuxian felt it.
A pull. A sharp, invisible tug against his very being, a phantom sting.
His thread, the unseen connection that bound him to fate.
She's touching my thread, manipulating the very essence of my existence.
Pain shot through his veins—not physical, but deeper, a violation of his very being. Like something was being stitched into him,
The villagers watched, their eyes fixed on him, their expressions expectant.
Waiting.
For what? For the final stitch?
Ryuxian exhaled sharply, a hiss of controlled fury.
No more riddles. No more whispers. I want answers.
Then, without hesitation—
He slashed.
A single, swift motion, a blur of motion.
The needle snapped, the silver shard flying through the air.
The woman blinked, her expression unchanged.
Then—
"The worst fate is not to be claimed, but to realize you were never your own to begin with."
"Some prisons have walls. Others have whispers, threads, and the promise of belonging."
She smiled.
Not in anger, the frustration of a failed attempt.
Not in surprise, the shock of unexpected resistance.
But in something else, a chillingly serene expression.
Something far more dangerous, a quiet triumph.
The Village That Remembers
The villagers exhaled, a collective breathy sigh, a sound that seemed to emanate from the very earth beneath them.
A single, breathy sigh, as if they had been holding it all this time, a silent chorus released from a long-held tension.
The wind shifted, a sudden gust that carried the scent of damp earth and something else—something ancient and unsettling.
And the threads moved, a silent dance of unseen forces.
Not just Ryuxian's, the threads that bound him to the village.
But theirs, the threads that bound the villagers to each other, to the land itself.
The village itself, a living tapestry of interwoven fates.
Something ancient groaned awake. Not dead. Just waiting.It whispered, not with words, but with need.The threads dug in, like barbed wire under his skin.
And then
For the first time since stepping into this place—
He heard it ! and a voice that soft whispering echoing from the very ground beneath him, a chorus of unseen voices.
"Stay."
A Choice That Was Never His
Ryuxian moved, his instincts screaming danger.
"His blade swung before his mind could catch up, a desperate strike at the unseen bonds."
But they did not break, the threads as strong as tempered steel.
They tightened, the unseen bonds constricting around him, a suffocating embrace.
The village—held him, a living entity claiming its prize.
"This wasn't just a curse. It was patient."
His breath came fast, his vision swam, the world blurring around him.
The villagers stepped forward, their movements fluid and silent.
Their feet made no sound, their steps as light as phantoms.
Their shadows—stretched, elongating and twisting into grotesque shapes, dark tendrils reaching out to ensnare him.
The woman—smiled, a serene expression that chilled him to the bone.
And softly, softly, she spoke, her voice a haunting melody.
"This is a village of forgotten things," she said, her words echoing in the sudden silence.
She tilted her head, watching him with something too knowing, a gaze that seemed to pierce his very soul.
"You severed his thread," she continued, her voice barely a whisper now, a secret shared only with the wind.
"But did you ever ask—"
She took another step closer, her presence a suffocating weight.
He saw the floating skulls in air, the feeling of being delusional hit him hard and then, in a voice like wind through leaves, a sound that seemed to resonate from the very earth itself—
But they didn't realise the guy who made into this world is damn science researcher especially craniologist the one who studies relationship with brain.
"Who will sever yours?"
"They expected fear. They expected struggle. But they did not expect this."Ah…" The sound escaped him, soft at first. Then, louder. Sharper. A laugh that scraped against the silence like a jagged blade. Because, in the end—They were the trapped ones.
"A sharp chuckle sliced through the silence, a jagged sound that didn't belong here."
He didn't make that choice. Hell, he never even had one.
It wasn't a laugh of amusement, but Something was off. Not just wrong—wrong in a way the world shouldn't be a sound that chilled the blood.
Loud. Cold.
It sent a shiver through the villagers, freezing them in place, their expressions morphing from expectant to terrified. Ryuxian tilted his head back, laughing even harder, the sound vibrating through the hollowed-out remnants of this forgotten place, a dark symphony of madness.
Then, suddenly—his laughter stopped, the sound cut short.
His violet and blue eyes gleamed with something unreadable, a dark fire burning within them, as he lowered his gaze to the terrified crowd, his expression shifting from amusement to something far more sinister.
"It's naïve of me… really. To think I could save you.
To think you were just defenseless people
"He who laughs at the abyss must ask himself—was the laughter his, or did it belong to the abyss all along?"
"The past does not cling to the living out of spite. It clings because it is lonely."