Rain fell like ash on the outskirts of Rhaylen.
Not water.
Ash.
Each flake soft, weightless, tinged with a faint crimson glow as if stained by blood long spilled. The people of the outer district knew better than to touch it.
It was Cursed Rain — a sign the veil had thinned.
And yet, a boy walked alone through it.
He moved like a shadow wearing skin, tall and thin, barely seventeen. His cloak was coarse and threadbare, the color of dried soil, hood drawn low to mask the jagged rune burned into the side of his neck — a mark no one sane would flaunt in public.
The Sigil of Reversal.
A death sentence in most lands.
He passed twisted alleys and rusted lanterns, the scent of burnt copper clinging to the air like fog. The city slept nervously, barricaded behind saltlines and prayer-thread. Still, there were watchers — eyes behind shutters, curses curled beneath windowsills, whispered tongues muttering protection rites.
No one stopped him. But everyone knew he didn't belong.
His steps slowed as he reached the district's edge — where the wards failed and the world began to rot.
A gnarled tree grew sideways out of the earth, its roots coiled around a broken shrine. Charcoal feathers drifted from its branches, and at its base, a child wept.
Or rather, something that looked like a child.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't ask questions.
He knelt, pressed one palm against the cursed soil — and murmured:
"System Interface: Soulthread Invocation."
"Unlock Domain Access: Binding Tier One."
"Curse Parsing — commence."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the mark on his neck pulsed — and the world screamed.
Not aloud. Not with sound.
But with meaning.
The grass died in an instant. The shrine cracked open, revealing bones arranged in spiral patterns. The crying child's body twitched, its limbs unraveling like rope as black ink spilled from its eyes.
A curse.
A newborn Rift-Spawned Fragment.
Low-tier. Newly manifested. But hungry.
The boy didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Instead, he spoke softly, as if to an old friend:
"You were never a child. You were grief. A mother's stillborn prayer. A regret that refused to pass."
"I name you: Hollow-Wombed Wail."
The entity froze. The name hit like a lash.
Then came the contract.
"By domain right and system clause, I offer a Binding Pact."
The curse shrieked — recoiling, deforming, shifting between forms: a baby, a twisted crow, a gurgling mass of eyes and teeth.
But the moment the name had been spoken, it had been bound.
The boy extended one hand.
"Bind… or be erased."
The ground cracked open. A glyph circle flared beneath them, ancient and brutal — made not of magic, but of law.
The curse lunged — not to attack, but to escape. It was too late.
[Binding Oath Accepted.]
Curse-Class: Tier 1 Fragment: "Hollow-Wombed Wail" — Sealed.
System Update: +1 Bound Fragment. Access to Tier-1 Curse Memory unlocked.
And just like that, the ash stopped falling.
He collapsed to one knee, breathing slow but deep. Not exhausted — calculating. His left eye flickered briefly, showing a glowing hexagram iris before returning to dull gray.
A figure emerged from the alley behind him — leather armor worn, blade drawn.
"You bound it… alone?"
The boy didn't look back. "It wasn't difficult."
"That was a soul-weeping class curse," the man said cautiously. "People vanish from hearing its cry."
"I don't listen."
"…You're not from Rhaylen, are you?"
Silence.
The man took a careful step forward. "What's your name?"
Another pause.
Then, as the ash dissolved into mist, the boy answered:
"Names are for the remembered."
And he walked past the man without another word.
High above the city, in the spires of the Cathedral of Drowning Stars, a woman stirred.
Her mirror had cracked.
Her threads had tangled.
And her curses had been… taken.
She smiled.
"The Culling Rite has begun," she whispered, voice like honey over rusted nails. "And a rogue thread has entered the loom."
Far across the land, deep beneath catacombs older than time, a chained god stirred — and laughed.