The city of Umuk gleamed under the sun like a gilded corpse. Ivory towers kissed the clouds, facades glittering with stolen gems, while the streets below smelled of decay, smoke, and fear. Beneath every polished step and cobblestone lay the bones of the forgotten—slum children who had never known warmth beyond their own hunger.

Noble carriages rolled along streets paved with cruelty. The gold-painted wheels crushed stones ground from the bones of those who had dared to dream beneath the towers. Elegance and evil walked hand in hand, draped in perfume and powdered wigs, and no one—save the Silver Thread—dared disrupt it.

Once a month, the bells would toll.

"Health Inspection Day," the nobles called it.

Slum children lined up like cattle, hollow-eyed, trembling, dragged into gilded carriages with no return. Their crime was simple: being born beneath the marble steps. Their punishment was worse: turned into elixirs, powders, and soulstones to sustain noble longevity.

And no one screamed. No one stopped it.

Until the Silver Thread came.

The Night of Red Curtain

It began as any high noble celebration did—a gala, velvety and perfumed. The Grand Duchess' birthday at Velarious Hall, a cathedral of gold and crystal, where masks of opulence concealed the rot beneath. Flutes sang. Laughter poured. Wine glimmered like molten rubies.

Whispers among the servants had hinted at danger. One had muttered about missing children, another about "threads in the dark" moving unnaturally. But no one believed. Not until the first body fell.

A servant stumbled into the ballroom, eyes pale, mouth sewn shut. She collapsed with a wet thump.

From her spine emerged strings—black as midnight and sharper than blades. They twined, snaked, and hummed with unnatural life. The crowd gasped, frozen in terror.

Above, the chandeliers shuddered. Crystals shattered—not from rot, but from invisible threads slicing their supports. The first chandelier fell, glass raining down like splintered stars. From the carnage, a figure emerged:

A boy. Silver-haired. Barefoot. Calm as death.

And behind him… a girl.

Nini.

No longer a marionette of sorrow, no longer a pale corpse stitched in despair. She had been reforged into something else—something terrifying. Her black gothic corset dress, half-stitched to her pale skin, shimmered like night itself. Her hair fell like silk over sharpened shoulders. Her eyes glowed faintly red, twin dying stars of fury.

She walked beside Mormond, synchronized to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Together, they were a symphony of vengeance.

"Good evening," Mormond said, tilting his head with porcelain elegance. "Welcome to tonight's performance. Tonight's theme… Justice."

Panic erupted. Guards drew swords. They could not move. Invisible threads had already wrapped around their limbs, waiting, patient. No longer men, they were puppets—twisted and obedient.

Nini twirled, sending a spiral of black ribbons into the air. A noble fell in two, bisected mid-laugh. Another tried to flee, but his own clothing turned against him, tightening and dragging him into a grotesque dance of terror. Chandeliers became knives. Curtains became serpents. Harps hummed as buzzsaws of strings, cutting through silk and bone alike.

Mormond's voice, calm as a lullaby, echoed through the chaos:

"You took children… and called it medicine.

You stole souls… and wore them like jewelry.

Now… it's your turn to be worn."

The Grand Duchess attempted to crawl away. Nini moved behind her like a shadow of judgment, cradled her head, and whispered:

"Sleep now, poison flower."

Snap.

The Duchess' spine bent in three unnatural directions. Her eyes, wide in terror, reflected the brilliance of the boy who had become legend.

By dawn, Velarious Hall was a graveyard of aristocracy. Corpses were propped like dolls on the ballroom stage. Faces painted, mouths stuffed, blood dripping in rhythmic arcs upon polished floors. On the wall, scrawled in crimson threads:

"CURTAINS UP — PUPPETS DOWN"

—Mormond

Five Years of Threads

The name "Mormond" was no longer whispered; it was feared. Across the lands, noble children trembled at the thought of him. Even in cities untouched by his strings, daughters of the elite feared mirrors, shadows, and laughter at night.

The bounty on his head rose from a few hundred gold to a million.

Mormond had grown. Fifteen now, tall and pale, a porcelain mask of beauty and terror. His mastery over puppetry had evolved:

Corpses were not the limit. He could animate shadows, threads, clothes, even flora and fauna.

He could control multiple puppets simultaneously, each moving in perfect synchrony, orchestrated like a grand symphony.

Life itself obeyed his strings if broken, if severed, if twisted—yet the living remained largely untouchable unless they had been felled by his hand or his minions first.

Nini had transformed alongside him. She was no longer a broken doll but a weapon refined through forbidden techniques. Her heels clicked like war drums. Her voice, melodic and hypnotic, could lull even the most vigilant into trance. Her only devotion: Mormond, and the vengeance that pulsed in their veins.

The Approach of Evanica

That afternoon, the forest near Crossing Road was silent. Birds refused to chirp. The wind held its breath. Mormond lounged upon a branch, eyes closed, silver hair glinting in sunlight. Nini perched nearby, blades tucked in her sleeves, her black dress absorbing the forest's muted light.

A distant sound shattered the silence: hooves. A carriage, gold-trimmed, silk curtains swaying, black-armored guards mounted. At its forefront, a banner displayed the sigil of the High Priestess Evanica.

The woman who five years prior had ordered Mormond's bounty—a divine authority cloaked in holiness and fear. Her blessing was rumored among nobles as unmatched, her staff capable of bending reality with light. Some whispered in secret: "Even the threads of fate must obey her."

Mormond opened his eyes slowly, a smile unfurling across his face.

"Nini," he whispered, "the one who put a price on our heads is finally here. How should we welcome her?"

Nini's fingers twitched. Threads coiled around her arms, invisible yet potent.

"With silence… then screams."

The carriage halted at the tree line. Horses neighed in terror. Guards glanced around. Too late.

From every branch above, dozens of puppets dropped—souls of nobles twisted into marionettes, faces locked in grotesque smiles. Threads wrapped the carriage wheels. The road became a trap.

The lead horse's head exploded, a single red filament slicing clean through bone and leather.

The carriage door opened. Evanica stepped out—tall, white robes shimmering, eyes sharp with divine light, staff radiating an aura that made the air itself quiver.

"Demon child—" she began.

Mormond landed before her. Nini appeared behind in perfect synchronization.

Snap.

The earth cracked. Threads surged. Guards were disarmed, spun, and ensnared in a web of limbs. Evanica flared her protective sigil—light bursting—but a single red thread of Mormond's pierced her barrier.

"High Priestess," he whispered, venom dripping like silk, "you once put a bounty on me. Tonight… I collect yours."

Nini's hand lifted. A golden thread spiraled into a claw, slicing the divine aura. They lunged.

Epilogue – Five Years of Blood and Strings

In Umuk's cathedral, bells rang in panic. Priests scrambled to relics. Scribes burned prophecies.

They knew.

They had felt it.

Mormond had grown. No longer a child. No longer just a rumor. He was a calamity—a puppeteer whose threads reached beyond life, beyond death, beyond reason.

And tonight… the hunter was no longer hiding.

He was waiting.

🕸️TO BE CONTINUED🕸️.