Fusheng City had never changed.
At least, in the memories of those who lived here, it had always been this way.
Old brick walls veiled in moss. Narrow alleys just wide enough for two people to pass. Morning hawkers calling out. The clatter of bowls and chopsticks. Children crying, then laughing.
Everything repeated with a precision so exact it was reassuring.
Stability was a kind of lullaby.
Lu Chen stood atop Windwatch Pavilion, looking down at the eastern street.
He watched for a long time.
Not to admire the view.
But to verify.
The tea vendor at the northern corner bent to pour water.
The first cup — set down.
The second cup — set down.
The third cup —
Fell.
Porcelain shattered.
The sound rang out, sharp and clear.
Lu Chen did not blink.
A child in red ran through the narrow alley, caught his foot on a raised stone.
Fell.
Cried.
His mother rushed over to comfort him.
Not sooner. Not later.
Lu Chen drew a slow breath.
Yesterday was the same.
The day before was the same.
Thirty-two consecutive days. Not a single beat misplaced.
"Have you watched enough?"
A hoarse voice sounded behind him.
An old Daoist in coarse gray robes leaned against a wooden pillar. A wine gourd hung at his waist. His silver hair was wild, as if no hand had ever combed it.
Lu Chen did not turn.
"I'm seeing whether today they'll do anything differently."
"And?"
"They won't."
The old Daoist chuckled softly.
"You want them to?"
"I want to know if they can."
The wind swept across the rooftop, carrying fine dust from the ancient city.
"I've counted," Lu Chen continued, his voice calm to the point of coldness.
"Counted what?"
"The margin of error."
He pointed toward the street below.
"The third cup always falls."
"The child always trips."
"The gray dog always barks exactly four times."
"No more. No less."
Silence lingered.
After a moment, the old Daoist asked, "Why do you think that is?"
Lu Chen turned.
His eyes did not belong to a sixteen-year-old.
They were not innocent.
Nor panicked.
They were simply too awake.
"As if... someone already wrote it."
The air between them grew heavy.
"Wrote it?" the Daoist repeated.
"Yes."
Lu Chen looked up at the sky.
"As if the sky were a piece of cloth."
"With threads sewn through it."
"And we are merely patterns dragged along."
The old Daoist stopped smiling.
He studied the boy for a long time.
"Do you want to know what happens if there truly are threads?"
"Yes."
"Then stop watching them."
"Watch yourself."
That afternoon, Fusheng City witnessed an event later known as The Sky Tear.
No clouds.
No thunder.
No wind.
Only a faint sound—
Like paper being pulled apart.
Then a thin white line appeared.
Not lightning.
It was slender.
Straight.
It sliced across the sky.
No one in the city saw it.
Except Lu Chen.
He stood in the square, head raised.
The white line did not descend.
It opened.
Like a seam splitting apart.
And behind that opening—
Not clouds.
But countless lines of light woven together.
A vast lattice.
Like the veins of a colossal being sprawled across the heavens.
His heartbeat slowed.
He was not afraid.
Only cold.
From the lattice, a single filament detached.
It fell.
Touched the ground.
There was no explosion.
No tremor.
The space where it landed simply... ceased.
Not shattered.
Not collapsed.
As if it had never existed.
The man standing nearby was swallowed into that absence.
He did not even have time to scream.
And the most terrifying part—
The people around seemed to forget anyone had been there at all.
They stared at the empty space in confusion.
"What happened?"
"Wasn't this always empty?"
"I thought there was something..."
Memory had been sanded smooth.
Lu Chen did not forget.
He saw clearly.
And he saw something else.
From the lattice above, a thread of light connected to him.
It trembled.
Not with his heartbeat—
But with vibrations from above.
As though something had just touched it.
A thought surfaced in his mind.
Not his thought.
Leave the square.
His body turned.
His feet stepped back automatically.
He tried to stop.
His muscles refused.
He understood.
He was not choosing.
He was being adjusted.
For the first time in his life, he realized his will was only a surface layer.
Beneath it lay an invisible pull.
He looked up—
And saw more clearly.
A hand.
Not a human hand.
A structure of intent.
It moved across the lattice, light as someone holding a brush.
And wherever it passed, the luminous threads shifted.
Lu Chen's breathing grew uneven.
If he was only one thread among them—
Then every decision he made was merely a stroke of ink.
He refused to accept that.
Not for freedom.
But for something simpler.
He did not believe he was decoration.
In that instant, he did something no one had taught him.
He did not fight his body.
He did not strain.
He looked at the thread connected to him.
And pulled.
Not hard.
Just slightly.
Half an inch.
His step fell out of rhythm.
The thread in the sky faltered.
Only for a heartbeat.
But enough.
The descending white line shifted course.
Swept elsewhere.
Space widened—
But did not swallow him.
The sky trembled.
Within the lattice, one point flared abnormally.
A deviation.
Then the seam closed.
The light vanished.
In the square, only a circular emptiness remained, like the mouth of a dry well.
The townspeople panicked.
They called it heavenly punishment.
They knelt.
They prayed.
Only Lu Chen remained standing.
His hands trembled.
Not from fear.
But because he knew he had done something forbidden.
Night fell.
Inside Windwatch Pavilion, the oil lamp burned low.
The old Daoist sat across from him.
"You saw."
"I did."
"What did you see?"
"I am not living."
The Daoist raised a brow.
"Explain."
"I am being operated."
His voice grew hoarse.
"Every thought, every step... has a rhythm from above."
"I just stepped out of it."
The old Daoist nodded.
"How did it feel?"
"Like touching the edge of paper."
The answer made the old Daoist laugh softly.
"Not bad."
He leaned forward.
"There are three kinds of people in this world."
"Those who don't know they have a thread."
"Those who know but cannot alter it."
"And those... who can deviate."
Lu Chen met his gaze.
"Am I the third kind?"
"Not yet."
The old Daoist shook his head.
"You've only brushed against it."
"If you want to step inside, you must learn."
"Learn what?"
"To perceive."
"Perceive what?"
"That you are not the center."
"That the world is not the backdrop."
"That everything has structure."
"And structure... can be touched."
Lu Chen fell silent.
The image of that hand lingered in his mind.
If there is one who writes—
Then it can be erased.
If it can be erased—
Then existence is fragile.
He lifted his head.
"Who is above?"
The old Daoist did not answer immediately.
After a long while, he said quietly:
"You are not strong enough to know."
"Why?"
"Because once you know... you will be known in return."
The words slid through his mind like a thin blade.
"I have already been known."
The old Daoist looked at him deeply.
"Yes."
The night wind drifted through the window.
The lamp flickered.
Somewhere beyond the layers of heaven—
A luminous panel appeared.
A line of text formed.
Target: Lu Chen
Status: Minor Deviation
Risk Level: Monitor
A hand paused over his thread.
Did not erase.
Only marked.
Inside Windwatch Pavilion, Lu Chen sat alone.
He closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
But to feel.
And he felt it.
Faint.
Distant.
Yet unmistakable.
A gaze from above.
Not malicious.
Not benevolent.
Simply observing.
He smiled faintly.
If he was already being watched—
There was no need to pretend ignorance.
He placed a hand over his chest and asked himself:
"If I am only a thread..."
"Then can this thread become the hand?"
Outside, the wind moved across the roof tiles.
No one in the city knew—
Tonight,
An anomaly had been born.
And for the first time in countless repeating cycles—
One thread no longer lay obediently within the pattern.