The sky above Bali-Prime darkened subtly, though no storm approached. Salemadon could feel it in the threads: a resonance unlike the peaceful hum of Pahtem or the stabilizing energy of the Redaction Echoes he had just saved. This was different — sharp, dangerous, deliberate.
He glanced at the fractured horizon, where the chrome city met the paradise waterfalls. Shadows moved unnaturally, folding into impossible angles, bending both space and perception. Something… or someone… was watching.
"Salemadon," Maweh's voice carried across the platform, calm and measured, "the threads have felt them before. But this will be your first encounter. You must learn to hear before you act."
He nodded, gripping the glowing circular platform beneath him. Pahtem's threads coiled lightly around his fingers, humming with readiness.
From the fractured edges of reality, shapes began to emerge. Tall, angular silhouettes cloaked in black energy, their bodies rippling like liquid shadows. The Redaction Agents — first of their kind he had ever truly seen.
Each one carried a pulse of anti-Pahtem, designed not just to fight, but to unmake sound and thread alike. They moved with precision, like predators aware of every vibration, every possible resonance.
Salemadon's heart pounded, though outwardly he remained calm. This was his first real test, and unlike the controlled Echoes, these agents were intelligent, adaptive, and mercilessly focused on erasure.
The First Strike
Without warning, the closest Redaction Agent lunged, its form twisting impossibly through the fractured air. Pahtem responded instinctively, threads snapping outward like white and black lightning.
Salemadon barely avoided the first strike. The threads wrapped around his arms, forming shields that absorbed and redirected the attack. The energy ribbons spiraled around the agent, attempting to tether it — but it pulsed against him, resisting resonance.
Maweh's voice rang clear, not commanding, but teaching:
"Do not try to control them. Listen. Feel their intent. Your threads are an extension of yourself — not a weapon to force upon them."
He inhaled, centering himself, letting Pahtem flow naturally through his pulse. The agent froze, momentarily confused by his resonance, and for the first time he understood — Pahtem could do more than shield or attack. It could connect, harmonize, manipulate perception.
Threads of Combat
The battle unfolded like a dance across fractured realities. One agent twisted through the chrome city's impossible architecture; another leapt across frozen waterfalls, leaving trails of shattered energy in its wake.
Salemadon's threads followed instinctively, forming webs, coils, and shields, reacting faster than thought. He did not just strike; he wove the battlefield, turning fragments of reality itself into barriers and conduits for Pahtem.
One agent lunged at him from above. Instinctively, he coiled threads beneath it, creating a temporary platform that redirected its momentum into the fractured void between worlds. Another agent attempted to flank him through a fracture in the air, but he split his resonance, anchoring it to both his position and the surrounding reality, and the agent faltered, trapped momentarily in a web of energy.
Maweh observed silently, a faint glimmer in her eyes. Though she did not intervene, her presence radiated reassurance, subtle guidance, like a mother watching her child face the storm alone. Salemadon felt it, though he did not yet understand its significance.
The Turning Point
Despite his growing control, the Redaction Agents adapted faster than he expected. One agent began mimicking his thread patterns, using them against him, turning his own resonance into a trap.
Salemadon faltered. A pulse of anti-Pahtem struck him, snapping threads violently. He stumbled, barely keeping his balance on the glowing platform.
"Focus," Maweh's voice whispered, soft but commanding. "Do not force the threads. You are part of them — not above them."
Breathing deeply, Salemadon recalibrated. He allowed Pahtem to flow naturally, sensing the intent behind each agent's movement rather than reacting. The threads responded fluidly, redirecting attacks, creating openings, and tethering agents temporarily.
With one final motion, he coiled a ribbon around the central agent, then another around its flanking allies. The threads snapped taut, resonating in perfect balance. The Redaction Agents were destabilized, forced back into the fractures from which they came.
Silence fell. Only the faint hum of Pahtem remained, echoing across fractured realities.
Aftermath
Salemadon's chest heaved. His hands glowed faintly with residual threads. He had survived, but he felt the weight of responsibility pressing down. These were not mindless creatures — they were sentient, adaptive, and lethal.
Maweh floated closer, calm and regal. "You did not merely fight," she said. "You listened, adapted, and resonated. That is the first true test of Pahtem mastery."
Salemadon looked at her, searching for any hint of emotion. She was composed, almost untouchable, yet somehow her presence carried a subtle reassurance, as though she was protecting him without revealing it.
"You will face them again," she continued. "And next time, their numbers will be greater. Your choices will carry higher consequences."
He nodded, feeling the truth of her words. This was only the beginning. The Redaction Agents were relentless, and every encounter would demand more than strength — it would demand wisdom, restraint, and strategy.
Closing Scene
The fractured skies began to calm, though tension lingered in the threads. Salemadon stepped off the glowing platform, looking toward the chrome city and the paradise waterfalls. The Redaction Agents had vanished… for now.
Maweh hovered silently nearby. Though she said nothing further, Salemadon felt the weight of her observation, subtle but persistent. He did not yet know that she would become more than a guide — that she would be a mother in a way that no one else could ever be, a presence guiding his growth through every trial yet to come.
For now, he allowed himself a moment to breathe, knowing only one thing with certainty: the war for sound, for legacy, and for reality itself had truly begun.
Salemadon flexed his fingers, letting the threads hum. His S–M–D rhythm steadied.
The universe was listening.
And now, so was the first shadow.
"Some echoes cannot be ignored. Some threads cannot be untangled. And some enemies will hear the first sound before it even exists."