The Spiral's Warning

The city whispered behind him.

As Liang Ming moved beyond the heart of the City of Silver Threads, its haunting echoes followed—faint voices, flickers of shadow people in windows, warped reflections of himself in puddles that showed not his present self, but versions twisted by different paths. The further he walked, the more distorted everything became. The buildings leaned in strange directions, windows grew eyes that blinked, and staircases shifted mid-step, defying both logic and gravity.

Yet none of it slowed his pace. He pressed forward, driven by a single certainty: others were already moving.

The Spiral had made it clear—this was not a solitary journey.

He crossed a bridge made of woven light. Beneath it lay not water but a swirling abyss of colors, endless and shifting, a vortex of moments both lived and unlived. Ming glanced down only once and saw himself falling, rising, dying, laughing—realities layered atop one another like pages in a book being turned at once.

He clenched his jaw and pressed on.

Eventually, the shimmering bridge deposited him in a courtyard framed by four monolithic statues. Each one bore the likeness of an individual cloaked in robes, their features blurred, their hands outstretched as if in supplication—or warning. At the center of the courtyard stood a plinth. Upon it, a sphere hovered, spinning slowly, strands of silver unraveling from its surface like living veins.

The moment he stepped into the courtyard, the threads reached toward him.

Ming tensed, his hand going to his dagger, but the threads didn't strike. Instead, they brushed against his skin like cold breath. One by one, they began wrapping around his arms, chest, and forehead, not binding—but reading.

Images flooded his mind.

Memories not entirely his own.

Visions of a woman standing in a burning city, her eyes empty and her mouth stitched shut.

A man writing endlessly in a room without doors, his ink made of blood, the pages feeding into the Spiral.

A child, alone, whispering answers to questions never asked.

And through it all—a symbol. The Spiral, etched into bone, drawn in ash, burned into the sky.

Then, the sphere spoke.

Its voice was not a sound but a resonance that reverberated through his bones.

"You carry the book. You have turned the pages. You have walked through shadow. But have you listened?"

Ming steadied himself. "I've listened. I've seen. And I still walk."

The threads pulsed in response, tightening briefly around him before retreating.

"Then hear the warning."

The sphere spun faster, and the world around him blurred. The city vanished, the statues melted, and Ming found himself standing on an endless plane of dark glass. The sky above cracked open like a shattered mirror, reflecting infinite versions of himself, each walking different paths—some triumphant, some broken, some lost.

Across from him stood one of them.

Another Ming.

But this one was not human anymore.

His skin was pale, almost translucent, his eyes gold and swirling. The cursed book floated at his side, its pages fluttering in a wind that did not exist. He smiled—a twisted, hollow thing.

"This is what becomes of you," said the alternate Ming. "When the Spiral is no longer a path, but a purpose."

Liang Ming stared at him, heart thundering. "You're not me."

"I was," the other said. "And I will be again."

The air shimmered as the distorted version of himself stepped forward, threads trailing from his fingertips.

"I tried to resist. Tried to outthink it. Tried to master the Spiral. And in doing so, I became its voice. Its vessel. You carry the book now—but soon, it will carry you."

Ming drew his dagger. "Not if I fight it."

The other Ming tilted his head. "You can fight fate. But the Spiral... is not fate. It is beyond it. The Spiral does not bind. It reveals. It does not lead. It opens."

The sky cracked again, and behind his twisted doppelgänger, thousands of doors appeared—each leading to a different timeline, a different future. Some glowed with promise. Others oozed darkness and ruin.

"You think this is a test," the figure said. "It's not. It's an invitation."

With a lurch of energy, the doppelgänger vanished, consumed by the sphere's light.

Liang Ming stood alone once more, back in the courtyard. The sphere pulsed a final time, then dimmed, its silver strands retracting into stillness.

His breath came in short bursts. The visions, the voices, the threads—they were not hallucinations.

They were warnings.

From the Spiral itself.

Ming lowered his head, sweat beading on his brow.

And then he whispered the words he had only now come to understand:

"Symbols don't speak. They unfold. And we are but the parchment they consume."

The moment he said it aloud, the book at his side vibrated.

A new page had written itself.

He pulled the book free, flipped it open.

There, etched in ink darker than night:

"The city has marked you. The next gate waits in the world between shadows."

He closed the book and looked toward the far end of the courtyard, where a new passage had opened. A staircase of shifting light descended into the unknown.

Without hesitation, Ming stepped forward.

The Spiral had warned him.

And now, he would listen.

Even if it led him deeper into the dark.