They left Sector F7 in silence.
The rotborne woman said nothing. She walked beside Elian like a weapon still unsheathed — adjusting to her new form with every step, moving smoother, deadlier.
The girl followed just behind, gaze tight on Elian. Not out of fear.
Out of curiosity.
The way one might study a crack in a dam — wondering when it would burst, and what kind of flood would follow.
And Elian?
He said nothing.
Because he didn't need to.
He walked like someone who had erased their name from history…
…and now intended to replace it with a warning.
Far above, behind thread layers and sky code, something stirred.
Not a god.
Not quite.
But a watcher.
Old, bound to observation. Meant to monitor the evolution of high-priority threats.
It had seen other Crownless rise before.
Most burned out.
Most broke.
This one?
This one had vanished from the system's record…
…and returned louder.
[Surveillance Layer Disturbed]
[Threadmaker Signature Detected – Untraceable ID]
[Designation: Irretrievable Entity]
The watcher paused.
It was not designed to fear.
But when it looked at Elian, it didn't see a pattern or projection.
It saw a choice.
One the system hadn't approved.
One the world wasn't ready to answer.
And still… it watched.
Elian stopped by the edge of a shallow, corrupted lake.
The water didn't ripple.
It pulsed.
Rot and memory coiled across the surface, drawing spirals around his reflection — only it wasn't quite his face that stared back.
It was older.
Sharper.
Almost… monstrous.
"We're being watched," the girl said softly.
"I know."
"By what?"
"Something that hasn't decided what I am yet."
The rotborne woman crouched by the lake.
Dipped one claw into the water.
It hissed.
She smiled.
"Let it decide wrong."
Elian's eyes glinted.
"It will."
"They always do."
Above them, the watcher receded — not gone.
Waiting.
Logging.
Trying to build a future from a man who no longer followed cause and effect.
[Prediction Models: Incomplete]
[Outcome Probability: Fractured]
[Warning: "Soulfrail" progression is non-linear.]
Elian rose.
The lake stilled.
The Seed hovered, pulsing once — not in alert.
In rhythm.
With something far below.
And far above.
He whispered:
"They'll write legends about this moment."
"And every one of them will start with the same mistake."
"They thought I was trying to win."