Chapter Eleven “The Purest Thread”

Chapter Eleven

"The Purest Thread"

The river stirred, humming with an eerie resonance, as if it sensed something unusual within its depths.

A soft glow pulsed within the expanse, warm and steady, like a candle resisting the wind. It was rare, precious, untouched by the corruption that stained so many others before it.

Gameweaver's influence coiled around the light, drawn to its brilliance. Another healer. But no, this one was different.

"Lucinda Darling," Gameweaver sighed, almost in reverence. "You shine so brightly. But have you ever wondered why no one else does? How rare it is to find something so… untainted? Do you think it's because they chose corruption? Or do you think it's because purity… simply doesn't survive?" A chuckle, honeyed with amusement but edged with something deeper. "I wonder, will you dim, or will you burn?"

The white light flared stronger. Unyielding.

Lucinda's awareness took shape, her consciousness unfolding like petals in bloom. The warmth of the glow belonged to her, it was her. She did not recoil from Gameweaver's presence, nor did she fight against it. She simply was.

Her voice, soft but unwavering, drifted through the abyss. "I will heal. I will save. No matter the cost."

Gameweaver's laughter rippled through the unseen space. "Ah, such certainty! But surely, dear one, you know what awaits in my world? No one will protect you. No one will save you."

Gameweaver's voice curled, teasing and delighted. "But tell me, little healer, how many have you truly saved? How many walked away because of you… and how many did you let slip through your fingers?"

Lucinda did not answer.

Gameweaver sighed, a theatrical little exhale of mock sympathy. "It's not your fault, of course. You tried. You always try. But you see, Lucinda, that's the flaw of healers, isn't it? You think effort is the same as success."

She let the words settle, pressing them against Lucinda's resolve like a blade against unbroken skin. And then, her voice turned sweet.

"Shall we test that? Shall we see what the truth really looks like?"

Then, "Look at him, Lucinda."

And suddenly, the world around her shifted and fell away.

"But what if I told you, little healer, that I could fix your greatest failure?" Gameweaver's words coiled around her thoughts, sweet as poisoned honey. "Bring him back. Oh, not as he was, of course. But what is a soul but data waiting to be rewritten?"

She was back there, the room, the blood, the silence. Ethan's small hand clutched hers, the tremor of life fading. She heard her own voice, shaking, desperate. "Hold on, please, just hold on." But he didn't. He never did. The weight of failure crashed over her, but she refused to drown.

Lucinda lifted her head. "I remember," she said. "And I will not turn away." She had fought for him. She had poured everything into him. And it hadn't been enough.

His last breath echoed through her. A cruel gift from Gameweaver.

Lucinda's fingers tightened, but her resolve did not waver. "I remember."

"And yet," Gameweaver purred, "you still believe?"

Lucinda lifted her head, though she had no body yet, only light. "I do."

Silence. A pause, a hesitation. Gameweaver had unraveled billions, twisted them to suit her game, but this one, this girl, stood untouched.

Then, a delighted sigh. "Very well, little healer. Let's dress you properly."

Threads of white and gold wove around Lucinda, forming a flowing robe with intricate embroidery, its hem dipped in crimson as if kissed by the dawn. A hood draped over her head, casting soft shadows across her face, while ornate silver clasps secured a cloak that shimmered with an ethereal glow. Golden accents traced the fabric like sacred inscriptions, symbols of protection and power woven into every stitch. The unseen space around her rippled, struggling to process her existence. The Dive itself hesitated, its algorithms twisting, adjusting to accommodate something it had never encountered before.

The rules did not account for her—for purity unbroken, for defiance wrapped in light. Even Gameweaver, endless in her knowledge, paused, just for a fraction of a second, before laughter bubbled from her lips. Warmth surged through her, not like fire, but like sunlight breaking through cold clouds. It filled her, wrapped around her soul, weightless yet unshakable. This was not just an armor of cloth, it was her truth, manifest.

Gameweaver exhaled a breath that was almost… admiration. "Ah," she whispered, almost to herself. "So this is what defiance looks like in its purest form." Her golden hair cascaded, each strand kissed with light. She was not simply beautiful, she was radiant, a presence that could not be ignored.

The staff formed in her hands, an artifact reborn, no longer bound by the limits of the world she had left behind. Gameweaver hummed with amusement. "Such a fragile thing, and yet… let's make it useful, shall we?" The staff pulsed, its surface shifting as spells were woven into its very core. Lucinda felt the magic within, a promise of hope, flowing endlessly at her call.

Its power ran deep, vast and unshaped, waiting for her command. It pulsed with the same light she carried, an extension of her soul.

A whisper of its power brushed against her fingers, and she knew—it would sustain, protect, and grow with her.

The spells within were just the beginning.

The unseen realm trembled. The Dive called.

And Lucinda fell, like a star cast upon the world.

As she fell, the abyss below stretched open, no longer empty. The realm shuddered. Faint voices drifted up to meet her, voices of the wounded, the lost, the forgotten. A pull, not of gravity, but of need drew her downward. They were waiting for her. They always had been.