Weaver of Threads

Mornings in the capital might begin with temple bells, but mornings in The Undercroft began with whispers spreading like wildfire and new deals forged in shadows.

The next morning, after a restless but restorative sleep, Nihil descended to the common room of The Whispering Flagon. It was already bustling. Smoke from clay pipes hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of wheat beer and roasted meat. Mercenaries with dented armor, merchants with shifty eyes, and other cloaked figures filled the space, all conversing in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

Nihil chose a table in the darkest corner, pulled his hood deeper, and ordered only water. From there, he observed. Heze's analytical mind mapped the room's social network. He listened, filtering the noise for signals.

It didn't take long to hear the whispers about himself.

"...curse off Gorgon's shield, just gone! He only touched it!" hissed a tattooed man at a nearby table.

"They say the doer's a ghost mage. They call him 'Nihil'," his companion replied.

The story had been embellished. Overnight, he'd transformed from a desperate boy into a figure of legend. Reputation, he realized, was currency as valuable as gold here.

His gaze finally settled on his target. In the farthest corner sat an old woman, her back bent with age. Her wrinkled fingers deftly knitted something with thread that seemed spun from pure silver light. Everyone in the inn gave her a wide berth, avoiding her with looks of mingled respect and fear. This was "The Weaver."

Nihil stood and walked across the room, his steps measured. He stopped before the old woman's table.

The Weaver didn't lift her head from her knitting. "New blood, already making ripples in my quiet pond," she rasped, her voice like old parchment. "They call you Nihil. A heavy name for shoulders so young."

Apparently, little was hidden from this woman. "I need information," Nihil stated directly. "I will pay."

The Weaver finally stopped knitting and looked up. Her pale eyes seemed to see beyond the cloak and hood, as if gazing directly into Heze's soul. "Information is costly, ghost-child. But before we speak price, answer my riddle. What is lighter than a feather, seen by the blind, yet held by none, not even the strongest?"

Heze knew the answer instantly. A logic puzzle. "A dream," Nihil replied.

The old woman gave a rare, thin smile. "Clever. Very well, what do you wish to know?"

"I am hunted. I wish to know by whom."

The silver thread in The Weaver's hands began to move, forming intricate patterns as she spoke. "Your hunters are the Umbra Venari, a guild of professional curse-hunters. They are not cheap. Their local leader is a ruthless man named Tarek Mornhall. They will not stop until their job is done."

"Who hired them?"

"Ah, that is a more expensive question," said The Weaver. "But I'll give you a free hint. They don't work for the crown or the church. The gold trail leads back to one of the Twelve Great Noble Houses. Someone with very deep pockets wants their 'asset' back. Family, perhaps?"

The information confirmed his worst suspicions. Valerius and Alban.

"What is your price?" Nihil asked.

"I don't need your coin," The Weaver replied. She held up her knitting. Amidst the beautiful weave of silver thread, one knot was pitch-black, radiating a foul aura. "This is a 'suffering echo' from one of my clients. This knot disrupts my pattern. I cannot untangle it. But you..." she fixed Nihil with a sharp look, "...you might erase it."

Nihil extended a finger and carefully touched the black knot. He channeled a minuscule amount of Void energy. The knot shivered, then dissolved into nothingness, leaving the silver weave smooth and perfect.

The Weaver nodded in satisfaction. "A pleasant transaction."

As the words left her lips, the front door of The Whispering Flagon burst open violently. Six heavily armed, imposing figures strode in, scanning the room with predatory gazes. At their head walked a man with a scarred face, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto their position. Tarek Mornhall.

The Weaver glanced at Nihil without changing expression. "It seems," she whispered, "your creditors arrived ahead of schedule."

The previously low-humming common room fell deathly silent. All eyes turned to the newly arrived Umbra Venari members. Tarek Mornhall ignored them. His gaze was fixed on the cloaked figure sitting with The Weaver. Though he couldn't see the face, the faint aura of emptiness – like a hole in reality – was palpable to his trained senses. He'd found his quarry.

With an almost imperceptible hand signal, he ordered his men to fan out and block the exits.

Nihil felt his heart pound. He was trapped. His Capacity had regenerated overnight, **[Capacity: 15 / 15]**, but he knew fighting six professional hunters in a confined space was suicide.

Tarek strode towards their table, his steps confident and purposeful. "Weaver," he addressed, his tone respectful yet firm. "We're here for the boy. This isn't your affair."

The Weaver calmly finished a row of knitting before setting down her needles. "Tarek, you know the rules of my house," she answered softly. "All my guests are under my protection. No bloodshed on my floor. It's bad for business."

Tarek gave a low growl. He couldn't attack openly without making an enemy of one of The Undercroft's most influential figures. He changed tactics, staring directly at Nihil's hood.

"We know who you are, Nihil," Tarek said. "Your family just wants you back. Come quietly, and no one needs to get hurt."

Heze's sharp mind instantly recognized the lie. "Family?" Nihil countered, his calm voice cutting through the silence. "Tell your 'client' the asset they discarded has been liquidated. This body is under new management now."

The strange, formal answer made Tarek frown.

As the tense negotiation unfolded, The Weaver idly tapped her knitting needles on the table, creating a seemingly random rhythm. But Heze, with his pattern recognition, instantly decoded it. *...Kitchen... Door... Back...*

He needed a distraction.

His gaze fell on the sophisticated crossbow slung at Tarek's hip. A risky idea flashed into his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he focused a tiny sliver of his energy. He wasn't targeting the whole weapon, just one crucial part.

[Activating Skill: Void Grasp (F). Target: Crossbow String.]

With a muffled *twang*, the wyvern-sinew string vanished instantly. The immense tension stored in the bow's limbs released explosively. The weapon snapped violently against Tarek's hip, its metal limb cracking and sending sharp fragments flying into the air.

The momentary chaos was all Nihil needed.

In a flash, he kicked his chair backward and lunged towards the kitchen behind the bar. The Umbra Venari members were momentarily stunned, their attention diverted by the small explosion from their leader's weapon.

By the time Tarek recovered from the shock, his prey had vanished. His face flushed with fury. He looked from his useless crossbow to The Weaver, who had calmly resumed knitting as if nothing had happened.

This hunt had just become personal.

Meanwhile, Nihil burst through the kitchen's back door and plunged back into the maze of The Undercroft's alleys. He'd escaped again, but now he knew his enemy's name. The game of cat and mouse had entered a new, far more dangerous chapter.