The bicycle wheels squeaked and creaked as they rolled down the road.
The spokes spun increasingly fast, eventually blurring into shadowy silhouettes, like the destiny ahead, intricate and tangled, with countless threads intersecting and converging towards the center, entwined with each other in confusion.
Like a web, everyone thought they would eventually stand in the center to collect the net.
Little did they know, they were all just threads.
No one can see the full pattern of the web because a mere tug on a thread may weave the web into something else entirely.
No one can glimpse the future, including Feng Mu.
When the vibration from the tugged thread rolls towards you, all you can do is adapt and hold onto your thread tightly to avoid falling off.
Because in the game of interweaving nets for hunting, falling off the line means only death.
"Someone's tracking me again?"
