The City of Silver Threads

Liang Ming took his first step toward the city, and the ground beneath his feet responded—not as solid stone or earth, but as something woven, like strands of unseen fate shifting to accommodate his presence. The sky above remained in constant motion, thick with dark clouds that churned like an ocean tide, pulsing with silent power.

The city loomed in the distance, its towering structures built from onyx and silver. At first glance, it appeared impossibly pristine, untouched by time or decay. But as Ming walked closer, the illusion fractured. Cracks ran through the sky itself, silver lines of raw energy twisting in unnatural patterns. Buildings flickered, as though they existed in multiple realities at once.

He had seen this place before. Not in life, but in the visions forced upon him by the cursed book.

The City of Silver Threads.

A place that should not exist.

His grip tightened around the strap of his satchel, the weight of the book inside pressing against his side. It pulsed faintly, in rhythm with the city itself. The realization sent a chill through him.

The book wants me here.

The streets were empty as he crossed into the outskirts. No merchants, no citizens, only a silent expanse of roads paved in obsidian glass. The structures around him twisted in architecture beyond human design—staircases leading nowhere, doorways set high above the ground, windows revealing endless voids instead of interiors.

Then, the first whisper came.

Faint, almost indistinguishable from the hum of the city itself.

He has arrived.

Ming stopped, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his dagger. His eyes darted between the surrounding buildings, searching for the source of the voice. But there was nothing. No movement. No sign of life.

Just the city, breathing around him.

Another whisper followed.

The threads have tightened.

The wind stirred, carrying the voices as though the city itself spoke.

Ming exhaled slowly, forcing himself to move forward. He had been led here for a reason. He would not turn back.

The deeper he ventured, the more the air thickened. The weight of the unseen threads pressing against him grew unbearable, as if he were walking through an ocean current, unseen hands pushing and pulling at him. His vision wavered.

Then—

A figure emerged ahead.

Cloaked in deep gray, its face obscured, standing at the heart of a crossroad where the silver threads converged.

Ming stopped.

The figure raised a hand, palm open, and the threads responded—shifting, twisting, bending toward him as though awaiting command.

"You walk paths that were never meant to be crossed," the figure said, its voice neither male nor female, neither young nor old.

Ming's pulse quickened. "Who are you?"

The figure tilted its head slightly. "One who knows the weight of knowledge. One who has seen the Spiral claim many before you."

Ming clenched his fists. "If you know what I seek, then tell me. Why am I here?"

The figure was silent for a long moment. Then, it stepped forward, the silver threads shifting in its wake.

"You stand at the heart of the city, at the center of what was once a great weave," it said. "This place was a sanctuary for those who understood the Spiral. Those who tried to map its design. They thought they could control it. They were wrong."

Ming swallowed hard, the weight of the words pressing against his chest. "What happened to them?"

The figure lifted a hand, and suddenly, the city changed.

The streets, once empty, were filled with shadows—echoes of people frozen mid-step, their faces blurred, their bodies barely clinging to existence. They were not alive. But neither were they dead.

"They reached too far," the figure murmured. "And the Spiral erased them from time."

A cold dread settled in Ming's bones. This city was not just abandoned. It was a graveyard for those who had tried to understand the unknowable.

The figure turned to face him fully, and though its hood obscured its face, Ming felt its gaze pierce through him.

"You are at a crossroads, Liang Ming," it said. "You have seen glimpses of what lies ahead. You know now that the Spiral does not offer understanding without cost. The question is—how far are you willing to go?"

Ming's fingers twitched. The weight of the book pressed heavier against his side.

"Until I have my answers," he said. "Until I know why the Spiral chose me."

The figure let out a slow, measured breath.

"Then the city will not stop you. But the path ahead is not one you walk alone."

Ming frowned. "What do you mean?"

The figure raised its hand once more, and the silver threads shifted again, forming shapes in the air.

More figures. More players.

Some he had seen before—visions of those who had stood at the center of the Spiral's designs. Others were unfamiliar, their forms blurred, their presence mere suggestions of what was to come.

And then—one stood apart.

A figure bearing his own face.

Ming's breath caught in his throat.

"The Spiral is not merely guiding you," the figure said. "It is leading all of you. And not all who walk the path do so with the same purpose."

The shadows faded. The city remained still once more.

Ming clenched his jaw. He had suspected he was not the only one bound to this fate. But now, it was certain.

He was part of something far greater than himself.

The figure began to step back into the shadows. "Go now, before the city closes around you. The others are already moving. And so must you."

Ming hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. He turned, facing the path deeper into the city, where the silver threads coiled like waiting serpents.

He stepped forward.

And the Spiral turned once more.