It had been several days since Ari left Ren behind in Kaelwyn, but not without gifting him a glyph-inscribed ribbon—a harmless trinket by appearance, yet one that resonated with Ren's awakened Hearththread. Not for power, but as a symbolic promise: You've begun to write your own syntax.
Ari continued his pilgrimage alone, bearing no coin, no crest—only the Originis Pendant that earned him curious glances and silent nods from those who remembered the legend.
He crossed wind-swept fields, sat beneath waterfalls to hear the whispers of mana, and walked through villages where the war's scars had just begun to fade. He offered no magic in return for shelter, only stories—tales that made even hardened soldiers cry or children dream.
It was in a quiet lakeside hamlet near the borders of Aurelion that Chapter 80 truly began.
Daranthill was known for one thing: the Firefly Threads. Once every year, fireflies woven with bioluminescent mana would appear in the twilight, dancing above the lake and illuminating the sky like constellations.
Locals believed the threads of those who saw the fireflies would realign—rekindling purpose, resetting one's path.
Ari arrived the day before the bloom. Tired. Silent. Thoughtful.
He was invited to stay at a small cottage by an elder woman named Maerine, who had lost her granddaughter in the war. That night, Ari helped her cook, listened to her grief, and said nothing in return—only placed his hand over her hearth and cast a silent Threadkindle, a spell that returned warmth to a fireplace whose thread had long since gone dormant.
When she woke up the next day, the cottage glowed with warmth. It reminded her of when her granddaughter used to run through it.
As dusk fell, the entire village gathered by the lake. The children laughed. Elders prayed. Couples held hands. And there, standing beneath the first drifting shimmer of silver-blue light, Ari watched the sky reflect on the water.
The fireflies came—thousands of them—each glowing with delicate thread-rings. Some weaved slow, methodical patterns. Others erratic, chaotic, emotional. Ari watched, and for the first time in months… he wept.
Because he remembered.
Because each firefly thread reminded him of someone—Primira's proud poise, Eluin's gentle chaos, Lysira's defiance, Cerys's grace, Saphielle's quiet ache. And Ren's stubborn, bright flare.
One of the fireflies hovered toward him.
It settled on his hand and pulsed gently, synchronizing with the rhythms of his own thread. For a moment, Ari's body shimmered in a soft cascade of syntax glyphs—old, forgotten, some never spoken aloud. The villagers gasped.
But Ari said nothing.
He looked down at the firefly and whispered:
"Even the smallest thread… can echo eternity."
Later that night, as the fireflies thinned and the villagers slept, Ari stood alone at the lake's edge. He took out the Originis Pendant and held it in the moonlight.
And then—he heard it.
A pulse.
A tone.
An old fragment of syntax embedded deep within the pendant awakened for the first time in centuries. The language of Originis whispered in his mind—not in words, but emotion, intent, purpose.
It spoke of a place beyond kingdoms, a rift untouched by thread, a truth unwoven.
And then, it faded.
Ari stood still, heart pounding. The pilgrimage… it wasn't just a legacy.
It was a map