The ascent was silent—but not empty.
As the trio walked the winding path into the starlit cathedral, the air shimmered like stretched silk, fragile and humming. Threads of light danced around them—some glowing with familiar warmth, others pulsing with eerie rhythm.
Leo reached out to touch one.
It recoiled.
Michael frowned. "These aren't just illusions. They're… memories."
> Memory Weave detected.
> Interpersonal resonance initiating…
> Sync anomaly: Kriss.
They turned to Kriss.
He staggered.
For a split second, the threads around him turned black.
"Kriss?" Michael stepped forward, but Kriss raised a hand. "I'm okay. It's just…"
Flashes tore through his mind—unseen doors, distant voices, eyes watching from a throne of ash. He didn't recognize them, but they *felt* real. Like echoes of something buried deep.
> Trait conflict detected
> Unknown signature interference: [ Origin Path - ??? ]
"Origin Path?" Leo muttered, reading his bracer. "Wait… you're syncing with something outside the system?"
Kriss said nothing. The darkness faded.
The threads parted, revealing the heart of the cathedral.
A massive loom sat suspended in space, weaving tapestries of light. Each tapestry showed moments—memories—of the three boys: laughing under a tree, playing games at school, facing bullies, standing up for each other. Their pasts, side by side.
Then, the loom slowed… and the threads began to twist.
> Trial Three: Entanglement
> Objective: Protect what binds you.
> Warning: External interference rising…
The tapestries changed.
Kriss watched as the image of him and Leo distorted—Leo walking away. Michael's tapestry faded into cold solitude. The bonds between them flickered.
Suddenly, shadows slithered from beneath the loom.
Threadcutters.
Monsters woven from unraveling light and memory, their forms constantly shifting.
Kriss shouted, "Defensive formation!"
But the floor disappeared.
Each of them fell into a different corridor—alone again.
---
Kriss: Thread of Doubt
He landed hard.
The corridor around him was dim, fogged with drifting ash. A long hallway stretched forward, but each step made the air heavier—like it clung to him, whispering forgotten names.
> Cognitive sync: destabilizing
> Emotional resonance: corrupted
> Warning: Identity flux detected
Kriss stumbled. His chest ached—not from injury, but from weight. Familiar shadows flickered at the edges of his vision.
Then, they emerged.
Leo and Michael.
But something was wrong.
Leo stood with arms crossed, his usual smirk twisted into contempt. "You always wanted to lead, huh?"
Michael's voice was cold. "You didn't want *us.* You wanted a story where you were the center. The hero."
Kriss flinched. "You're not real."
"You used us," Leo continued, stepping forward. "You were never the support. You just waited for the right moment to stand alone."
Michael's eyes were empty. "You left us. Even before all this."
The words hit harder than any weapon. He wanted to deny them. Fight back.
But a part of him believed it.
> Emotional sync: critical low
> Thread stability: unraveling
The fog curled tighter.
Suddenly, the walls around him displayed memories—selective, distorted. Kriss standing alone in the school gym. Watching Leo carry their team in a tournament without him. Seeing Michael walk off to class alone. Moments he hadn't realized hurt… until now.
A mirror surfaced in front of him—his reflection blurry, eyes cold. In its hand was a sword, forged from jagged, black thread.
Kriss looked down.
He was holding the same weapon.
A weapon meant to cut ties.
> New Trait: Severance
> Activation pending…
"No," he whispered.
His hand trembled. He saw himself striking the final blow against the Demon Lord, alone. A false victory. A lonely throne.
That wasn't the future he wanted.
Not without them.
He shut his eyes.
And pulled back—thread by thread, unraveling the blade.
His memories flooded in, not as weapons, but as warmth:
- Leo nodding silently during lunch, sharing snacks without a word.
- Michael frowning at a mistake on Kriss's homework, then patiently explaining every line.
- The three of them sitting in a treehouse they barely built, laughing so hard it hurt.
Not grand moments. Not heroic victories.
Just real ones.
He breathed in.
And with a hand now empty, he reached toward the illusion.
"I don't want to walk ahead," he said. "I want to walk with you."
The false Leo and Michael cracked like glass.
The shadows broke apart.
And in their place—a single, glowing thread floated down into his hand. Not meant to sever, but to mend. To tie.