The aftermath of the fracture had left the sky of Bali Kumbat still trembling faintly, like a heartbeat echoing across reality. Salemadon stood on the glowing platform, his black-and-white threads coiling lazily around him, still sensing the lingering pulse from the disaster. The villagers had dispersed, whispers traveling through the streets of both the chrome city and the paradise world. Some spoke of a god, some of a hero, but all were united in awe.
Salemadon's mind, however, could not rest. The fracture had been only a test. He could feel it. Something far greater was stirring.
He turned his eyes to the horizon, where the sky met the tallest skyscraper of the chrome city. There, almost hidden among the sharp angles of reflective steel, a shadow moved. Not human, not entirely visible, but distinct — a presence. It watched. It studied.
Maweh's voice whispered faintly, like silk brushing his thoughts:
"Do not be distracted, Salemadon. Not all threads are yours to touch. Some will cut you if you are careless."
He focused on the threads again. They tingled as if sensing something new — a foreign pulse in the lattice of reality. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, but to Salemadon, it was a vibration that spoke of strategy, intent, and danger.
The shadow moved again, gliding effortlessly between shards of light and fragments of building. Its form was fractured, almost intangible, blending into the background. Salemadon narrowed his eyes. His instinct screamed at him to reach, to extend the threads, to touch it. But he remembered Maweh's warning. Some threads were not his to command.
A gust of wind erupted from the sky, swirling leaves, mist, and tiny shards around him. Not strong enough to knock him over, but enough to stir the threads into chaotic spirals. He tightened his focus, drawing them inward, spinning them around his hands like a wheel. The threads responded, tightening, stabilizing. For a brief moment, the fracture's memory seemed to echo back — a warning of the fragility of control.
Then the shadow struck.
Not physically. Not yet.
It touched the threads. A single pulse of energy, barely visible, ran through the lattice. Salemadon felt it like a cold finger tracing along his spine. The threads shivered unnaturally, responding to a force that was not his own.
Salemadon jumped back instinctively, coiling the threads defensively. But the pulse did not attack him directly. Instead, it rearranged the world slightly, like a painter adjusting brush strokes unseen. A street in the chrome city subtly warped, a waterfall in the paradise realm altered its fall. Small, precise, almost invisible changes, but they were enough to unsettle him.
"Someone else knows the Threads," he whispered.
"Yes," Maweh replied. "And they wait in the spaces you do not yet see. Observe them carefully. They will not strike openly until you are ready — or until it suits them."
Salemadon's chest tightened. He had survived the fracture, learned instinct and strategy, and even balanced reality itself — yet this invisible enemy was beyond his understanding. Beyond his sight. Beyond anything he had felt before.
The threads coiled around him again, responding to his silent command. They had learned the pattern of his control, but not the pattern of this intruder. He extended them slowly, feeling for the subtle distortions in reality. They hummed softly, vibrating with his intent. Then he noticed it: a faint shimmer in the reflection of a chrome skyscraper. A ripple that shouldn't exist.
The shadow was observing through the mirrored surfaces of the city — hidden in plain sight.
Salemadon focused harder. He felt his consciousness stretching along the threads, extending beyond his physical body, seeking the anomaly. The shadow flickered, almost playful, as if toying with him. It pulsed once more through the lattice. A whisper of energy, a ripple in the air, almost inaudible.
Then the platform quivered. Not from gravity, not from wind — but from purposeful manipulation. The threads tightened around him instinctively, sensing danger. A large shard of crystalline energy descended from the fractured sky, but it moved not by natural chaos — it was guided, falling in a pattern that mirrored his own defense.
Salemadon realized immediately: this was a test, but it was not neutral. The shadow was probing him, learning his reactions, calculating his strengths and weaknesses.
He clenched his fists. "Show yourself!" he demanded. The words carried across the lattice of reality. The threads pulsed in response. But there was no answer.
Instead, the city around him seemed to breathe. The air shimmered. Small objects floated, spinning slowly, as if the shadow's influence reached into everything simultaneously. He could feel it everywhere, but nowhere.
Salemadon inhaled, closing his eyes. The threads responded to his calm, centering energy. Slowly, he extended one hand and let a single ribbon of white thread stretch toward the source. The shadow flinched at the touch — a small flicker, almost imperceptible.
Maweh's voice whispered again:
"You have made contact. But do not be tempted to pull. Observe. Learn. The Threads will speak if you listen. They always speak."
He listened.
The white thread stretched and wrapped itself gently around the shimmer. It did not force it, it did not attack it. Instead, the thread bent around the shadow, coiling and uncoiling in a delicate dance. The shadow responded similarly, pulsing along the lattice in a mirrored rhythm. For a moment, the invisible intruder and Salemadon's Threads were in synchrony, not combat.
And then it vanished.
Not a disappearance — a shift, a faint vibration that moved away from the city, toward some unknown point in the distance. It left behind only a subtle distortion in the air and a faint pulse that faded like a heartbeat.
Salemadon opened his eyes. His threads relaxed, coiling softly around him once more. The shards of reality were stable. The platform was calm. The sky, though still tinged with the memory of the fracture, had regained its normal rhythm.
But he knew: this was only the beginning.
He looked toward the horizon. Somewhere, in the hidden threads between worlds, a watcher waited. Someone or something that had felt his strength, probed his instincts, and retreated — only for now.
Salemadon clenched his fists, letting the threads lift around him like wings. "I will find you," he whispered to the unseen enemy. "And I will learn what you want."
The platform hummed beneath his feet. The Threads responded, sensing his determination. They were ready to follow him into any danger, across any fracture, and into any shadow.
And for the first time, Salemadon understood: survival was no longer about balancing disaster. It was about anticipating the unseen, preparing for the enemy that moves in the spaces where reality itself bends.
He exhaled. The world around him was quiet, but the threads vibrated faintly, as if whispering secrets only he could hear.
Maweh's presence lingered faintly at the edge of his mind:
"Do not fear them. Fear only your inattention. Learn, grow, and when the moment comes, strike with understanding."
Salemadon nodded, silently acknowledging the weight of her words. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the threads lifted fully, spinning and stretching outward in a protective web. He was ready to step off the platform, into the city below — into the unseen battles that awaited, into the threads of destiny that were now his to weave.
The hidden watcher would return. He was certain of that. And when it did, Salemadon would be ready — not just to survive, but to command the threads as no one had ever commanded them before.
The sky pulsed once more, faintly, as the sun reflected across both worlds. And somewhere beyond sight, the shadow watched.
"Some threads move unseen. Some dangers wait in the spaces between."
"Some enemies cannot be seen, but they can feel the pull of a single thread. Salemadon had felt it — and now he knew the war was just beginning."