The sky above Bali Kumbat pulsed faintly, a rhythm barely noticeable to anyone who had not felt the fracture's echo. The city was calm, the waterfalls flowing, the streets quiet. Yet Salemadon could feel a disturbance, subtle and irregular, twisting through the Threads like a serpent weaving its way unseen.
He stepped off the glowing platform, letting his black-and-white Threads trail behind him, spiraling gently in the air. Villagers were already noticing the faint shimmer that followed him, but they only whispered, afraid to speak too loudly. He ignored them. His focus was on the pattern of disturbance.
Then it began.
A sudden pulse of energy surged through the chrome city and paradise realm at once. Not a disaster yet, but a prelude — shards of glass spun lightly off the skyscrapers, water in the falls paused mid-drop, leaves twisted unnaturally in the wind. The Threads around Salemadon tightened instinctively, sensing danger.
He reached out. The Threads responded, coiling in spirals and arcs, searching for the source.
And then he saw it: a shard of pure energy, small but glowing, hovering above a village street. It shifted subtly, spinning in a pattern that seemed deliberate, almost like a puzzle waiting to be solved.
Salemadon hesitated. If he touched it too forcefully, the shard might explode. Too lightly, it might slip into the village and harm the innocent.
"Observe first," Maweh's whisper reminded him. "Every puzzle has its rhythm. The Threads will show you the answer if you listen."
He closed his eyes, letting the Threads extend naturally toward the shard. They wrapped around it like a gentle net, not grasping but feeling. The shard responded, pulsing in patterns that mirrored the Threads' movements. Each pulse was a question, and each coil of energy was his answer.
Salemadon realized the shard was connected to several others — forming a sequence across the city and paradise realm. A threaded chain of energy, each node interacting with the next. If one moved incorrectly, the chain could collapse.
He inhaled, focusing on the rhythm of the Threads and the pulses of the shards. Slowly, he traced a path from the first shard to the last, letting the Threads flow naturally. Each coil of energy aligned with the shard's movement. Each pulse resonated in harmony.
The first shard moved as he intended. The second responded. The third trembled, almost defying him, but the Threads adjusted, bending around the resistance. He could feel the shadow's presence — subtle, observing, noting his actions. It was testing him, seeing if he could think instead of reacting.
By the fourth shard, Salemadon's hands trembled slightly. The energy pulsed violently, almost too fast to follow. His Threads stretched, bending around the chaos like a ribbon in a storm. And then he understood: the puzzle was not about moving the shards, but about listening to them.
He stopped thinking. He let the Threads feel. He let the shards guide him.
The energy calmed. The shards aligned. A hum of harmony spread through both worlds. The puzzle was solved — at least for now.
Salemadon exhaled, letting the Threads coil around him protectively. He could feel his energy draining, but he also felt something new: understanding. A lesson learned from chaos without needing to destroy it.
Then the shadow's mark appeared — subtle, almost invisible, in the corner of his vision. A tiny distortion, moving against the natural flow of the Threads. Salemadon reached toward it instinctively, but stopped. Maweh's voice cut through his thoughts:
"Not yet. Observe first. Do not react before you understand."
The mark pulsed, leaving a faint pattern on the air itself — a symbol he had not seen before, a signature of the unseen enemy.
Salemadon studied it carefully, noting how it interacted with the shards and his Threads. The shadow was teaching him, yes, but also reminding him that every movement had consequences.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the shards began to fade back into the earth, the city and paradise returning to normal. But the Thread patterns remained, faintly glowing in the air — a silent memory of the test.
Salemadon knew that this was only the beginning. The shadow would return, with more complex challenges. He could feel the intelligence watching him, waiting for the moment to test him again.
He clenched his fists. "I will not fail," he whispered. The Threads lifted around him, coiling like protective wings. Each pulse resonated with a quiet power — a reminder that he was learning, growing, and adapting.
Maweh's voice lingered softly:
"Every test shapes the Thread-walker. Every puzzle strengthens or weakens the hands that hold the Threads. You have done well today, but the lessons have only begun."
Salemadon looked toward the horizon, where the shadow had left its mark. He could not see it clearly, but he could feel it — a presence waiting, moving in the spaces between threads, unseen yet impossible to ignore.
The platform hummed beneath him, glowing faintly. The Threads coiled and stretched around him, alive and aware. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, into the streets below, into the world that was now a puzzle and a battleground simultaneously.
The first test had been survived. The shadow had been observed. And Salemadon understood one truth: the unseen always watches, and every move counts.
The night fell over Bali Kumbat, quiet but filled with whispers of power. Somewhere, in the shadows beyond sight, the enemy waited — patient, silent, and calculating.
Salemadon tightened his grip on the Threads, ready for whatever would come next.
"The Threads do not just respond; they challenge. And some challenges will break even the strongest hands."
"Some lessons come without warning. Some enemies test not with force, but with subtlety. Salemadon had survived his first true test — but the greater challenge was only beginning."