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Chapter 4 - Chapter 4 — Threads in the Smoke

The crows were restless that morning.

Lumen woke to the sound of them circling above his small hut like a vortex of black feathers and clawed whispers. The frost had melted early — not natural for this time of year. The villagers blamed the wind. Lumen blamed the feeling.

The feeling that something was watching again.

He sat in the field, legs crossed, sack still over his head like a second skin. Beneath it, his eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't slept much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the puppet's twisted grin… and the system's flickering warnings.

🛠️ [System Log: Host Awakening Accelerated]

Sigil Resonance Level: 2.1%

⚠️ Instability Detected

He ignored it. He had no idea what any of it meant.

A boy from the village tossed a stone at him around midday. Lumen let it bounce off his shoulder. He smiled beneath the mask. The boy called him "Scarecrow" and ran laughing back to the others.

It had caught on.

A joke.

A name.

A mask.

A truth.

The chapel was closed now. Locked with ropes and a wooden bar, though Lumen could tell — someone had entered it after him. The sigils inside were smudged, tampered with. Someone else had seen.

But no one spoke of it.

The village had gone quieter than usual.

Only the crows talked.

That night, a fire broke out in the granary.

No lightning. No accident. Someone had done it.

The villagers gathered in a frantic circle, shouting accusations at one another. Old men pointed fingers. Mothers clutched their children. Lumen stood on the outskirts, silent, unnoticed. As usual.

Then the whispers came again.

From the woods.

From nowhere.

"They're cracking already… so easy to split."

He turned.

A man stood just at the edge of the trees. No — not a man. A figure made of stitched cloth, too tall, face sagging like melted wax. It tilted its head.

Then it vanished.

🛠️ [System Notice: External Entity Approaching Boundary]

Classification: Unknown

Threat Level: ⚠️⚠️

Engage? [Y/N] → ❌ Access Denied

Observer Override Active

The girl found him again near the burnt field. Same one who'd shared her lunch.

"You talk to crows?" she asked, hands on her hips.

He shrugged.

"They talk to me."

She stared.

"Do they say anything fun?"

Lumen considered. Then whispered:

"They told me someone in this village isn't real."

Her eyes widened. She looked around like the grass might rise up and eat her.

"Who?"

He tapped his mask with one finger.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

She giggled nervously, then ran off.

Behind him, the scorched soil still smoked.

That night, as he sat on the scarecrow's perch — the old wooden pole he'd claimed as his seat — the crows gathered again. One landed on his shoulder and began to peck lightly at his sack-mask.

He didn't flinch.

🛠️ [System Notice: Emotional Anchor Detected]

📍 "Acceptance of identity: prototype trait confirmed"

Codename: "Scarecrow"

Category: Class-Δ [Common / Anomalous Hybrid]

Threat Prediction: Unstable

Recommended Protocol: Do not engage. Let it grow. Watch.

A second later, a new prompt flickered through his vision.

🛠️ [Quest Triggered: The Burned Thread]

🔍 Investigate the recent fire and locate the one who tampered with the sigils.

Reward: +2% Resonance / [Unknown Item]

Optional: Prevent further disappearances

❗ Warning: System interference growing. This task is being monitored.

⟶ Accept? [Y] / [N]

Lumen raised a brow.

"Guess I'm being drafted," he murmured. Then pressed [Y].

In the following days, the village changed.

The butcher closed his shop early. The blacksmith stopped making noise altogether. Children were told not to stray near the woods — especially near the chapel.

Someone, somewhere, had spread a whisper:

Scarecrow caused the fire.

The stitched boy is cursed.

He didn't defend himself.

Instead, he walked the edges of the village each dusk, watching shadows move in patterns too fluid to be human. The scarecrow's pole became his tower — his place of watch.

Something was coming.

He could feel it.

And so could the crows.

One night, beneath the sliver of moon, he found a trail of feathers leading to the chapel again. Inside — the sigils had changed.

Twisted. Inverted.

A sixth symbol had appeared beneath the Threadbinder one.

A sigil that looked like a jester's grin stitched across a bleeding eye.

Lumen touched it.

The air grew cold.

The system panicked.

🛠️ [Emergency System Notice: Unstable Connection Detected]

Subject: ████████

Type: Observer-Class

Thread Level: UNKNOWN

Lockdown Imminent

Warning: DO NOT SEEK THE SMILING ONE

✴️ AUTO-TRIGGERING MEMORY SEAL

Lumen stumbled back, coughing, his skin burning like static.

His vision blurred. The chapel pulsed. The sigils blinked.

And in that moment — in that terrible, impossible moment — the mirror that had once hung above the altar showed him something:

His own face…

…but stitched into a sack.

Smiling.

He left without a word.

He climbed back onto his pole.

He sat there till dawn.

The villagers watched from behind closed shutters. Some prayed. Some sharpened blades.

But no one spoke to him again.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Until a stranger arrived.

She came from the forest, cloaked in travel leathers, blades at her hip, hair like storm clouds and a stare like lightning. She didn't speak when she entered the village — just looked once at the burned field, then at him.

She tilted her head.

"You the one they call Scarecrow?"

Lumen looked down from his perch.

"Depends who's asking."

"I'm Rin," she said simply.

"And I'm not afraid of ghosts."

He smirked behind the mask.

Then climbed down.

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