Chapter 7

The old man leaned heavily on his stick, his movements slow and deliberate. His face, carved with the lines of countless years.

"Still as stubborn as ever, Kaito," the old man said with a gravelly chuckle. "And yet, here you are, bringing her to me."

His gaze lingered on Aiko, narrowing slightly. "She's everything you said she'd be—and more."

Aiko felt her stomach twist at his words. What is he talking about? she wondered, glancing at Kaito for answers. But he offered none, his posture stiff and formal as he bowed low, his hands on his thighs in the traditional Japanese way of greeting an elder.

"Teacher," Kaito said softly, a rare reverence in his voice.

The old man chuckled. Aiko's thoughts raced. They know each other? Her unease melted slightly under the calm aura of the old man, though confusion still clouded her mind.

The man turned his attention back to her, his expression softening. "I am Shiro, guardian of this temple," he said. "And I welcome you to a place where answers await."

Answers. The word sent a chill down Aiko's spine. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear them, but an inexplicable sense of safety settled over her. Despite her fears, she found herself wanting to know more.

Shiro gestured toward the temple behind him. "Come inside. There is much to see."

The interior of the temple was vast and eerily empty, its marble floors gleaming under the dim light of the sun streaming through small, high windows. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of people weaving threads and working at looms.

At the center of the room was a large circular area with a golden inlay. Shiro, leaning on his stick, walked toward it with a deliberate rhythm, the sound of his stick tapping against the floor echoing in the silence.

Aiko followed cautiously, her eyes darting to the tapestries. She couldn't shake the feeling that the figures in the designs were watching her.

When Shiro reached the circle, he paused. "This temple holds many secrets," he said, his voice low but commanding. He raised his stick and struck it against the floor.

Aiko jumped as a great light rippled across the golden circle. Around it, seven straight lines extended like spokes on a wheel, each leading to a wall where a single unlit lamp hung.

Shiro looked at Kaito, who gave a solemn nod. Without another word, Shiro moved to the first line and struck it with his stick. The lamp at the end flared to life, its light golden and warm. He moved to the next, repeating the process.

With each strike, Aiko felt the air grow heavier. By the time the seventh lamp was lit, the entire room seemed to vibrate with an unseen energy.

Shiro returned to the center of the circle and struck the ground seven times. The temple trembled as if an earthquake had shaken its foundation. Aiko clutched Kaito's arm out of fear, pressing herself against his shoulder.

"It's all right," Kaito murmured, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

The walls of the temple began to glow, their dark surfaces transforming into radiant gold. The ceiling sparkled as if covered in stardust, and the once-dim temple was now bathed in shimmering light.

At the center of the golden circle, the floor split open, revealing a large chest that rose slowly from the ground. It gleamed as though forged from the sun itself.

Shiro approached the chest and removed a ring from his finger. It was made of gold, with a red stone that glinted like fire. The band was intricately designed, resembling a coiled snake.

He pressed the stone against the chest's lock. There was a soft click, and the chest opened, releasing a soft glow that filled the room.

Aiko walked closer, peered inside and gasped. The chest was filled with spools of thread in every color imaginable—red, green, blue, yellow, purple and black. Each spool shimmered like molten gold, their colors so vibrant they seemed almost alive.

A strange sensation washed over her. Her heart raced, her palms grew sweaty, and an inexplicable desire took root in her chest. She wanted to touch them, to hold them, to claim them as her own.

"What... are these?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Shiro's gaze was steady as he replied. "They are the threads of desires. Each spool is capable of offering you something you desire. That is why so many have shed blood to find them."

Aiko tore her gaze away from the chest, horrified. "What do you mean?"

Shiro began to explain, his tone measured. "These threads were created centuries ago by a master weaver—a man who poured his magic and soul into them. Each color represents a different force in the world."

He gestured to the red threads. "Love, hate, lust, beauty, ugliness and danger."

The green threads. "Prosperity, fertility, or poverty."

The purple threads. "Power, wisdom, or falsehood."

The yellow threads. "Happiness, calmness—or jealousy and pain."

The blue threads. "Companionship, the ability to save someone you love—or eternal grief for failing to do so."

He paused at the black threads. "Eternal power, evil, death, or destruction."

Aiko's breath hitched. "And the silver thread?" she asked, pulling her spool from her pocket and holding it up.

Shiro's eyes darkened. "The silver thread is unique. It grants all that the others can and more. It gives you what you truly need."

Aiko's hands shook as she stared at the spool. "Why is it so important?"

Shiro's face grew grim. "Because the silver thread holds the power to reshape the world. That is why the Weaver seeks it."

"The Weaver?" Aiko asked, her voice barely audible.

Before Shiro could answer, he struck the ground with his stick. The golden glow of the temple faded, replaced by roaring flames that surrounded Aiko.

Aiko screamed, searching desperately for Kaito, but he was gone.

"KAITO!" she yelled, her voice cracking with fear.

Amid the flames, a tall figure with thick eyebrows emerged. He wore a golden cloak made of lace, his smooth, shoulder-length hair gleaming in the firelight. His face was hauntingly beautiful, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity that sent a chill down her spine.

In his hand was a sword, its blade long and sharp, radiating an aura of power. He leaned casually on it, his gaze fixed on Aiko.

"Who... who are you?" Aiko stammered, her voice shaking.

The man didn't answer.

Shiro's voice echoed through the flames, piercing and cold. "He is the Weaver—a sorcerer and one of the Black Lotus Syndicate's heads. And he is coming for you."