The chill that gripped Samuel Raveish had nothing to do with the inn's drafty common room. It was a cold that began deep within his mind, a lingering sensation of emptiness, like a network had crashed, leaving behind only the ghost of a connection. The Weaver hadn't just attacked him; it had tried to unravel him, to consume his very thoughts. The phantom unspooling of his consciousness was a terrifying new experience, far worse than any physical pain. His limbs thrummed with a residual feeling of disconnect, as if they were no longer quite his own.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, suppressing a dry retch. The blue screen pulsed, calm and infuriatingly normal: "SOUL INTEGRATION FAILED."
"Unraveling," he choked out, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. He tried to piece together his thoughts, to rebuild the firewalls in his mind. "It wasn't a damage type. It was... a drain. A consciousness drain. A sanity debuff that goes straight to zero. And then... what? Do I become one of those whispers? A ghost in its garden?" The idea sent a fresh wave of primal fear through him.
He pushed himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, but the true battle was in his head. His gaming brain, usually so quick to optimize, found itself grappling with an enemy that had no health bar, no visible attack patterns, no clear hitbox. This wasn't a boss; it was a psychological warfare unit.
"Okay, Aetheria," he whispered, a tremor in his voice. "New meta. This isn't about physical survival anymore. This is about mental fortitude. About maintaining core processes when the system is under attack." He rubbed his temples, trying to clear the lingering haze. "Iron helps, but it's not a full immunity. It just... dulls the signal. I need more."
He needed a new kind of counter. Something to anchor his mind. In games, mental attacks were usually resisted by a 'Willpower' stat or specific consumables. Here? What was the equivalent of a 'Mind-Shield Potion'?
He slipped out of the inn, the familiar routine a small comfort against the chaos in his head. Elara was already haggling with a fur-clad trader. Roric stood by the palisade, his gaze sweeping the horizon, seemingly oblivious to Samuel's internal struggle. Good. No new aggro. Keep it subtle.
Samuel avoided Lyra's cottage for a moment, needing a less direct source of "mental defense" intel. He wandered towards the village square, a small, dusty patch where a few villagers idled or went about their mundane chores. He decided to try a different approach: eavesdropping, looking for folklore, for anything related to spirits or mental resilience.
He spotted two older women, their faces weathered like dried apples, gossiping by a well, their voices a low murmur.
"Old Man Tiber's boy, young Finn, he weren't right after he strayed near the Whisperwood, was he?" one said, drawing up a bucket of water. "Stared at naught but shadows for a week, muttering 'bout pretty voices."
"Aye," the other sighed, shaking her head. "Took Old Maude's poultice of dream-moss and sung-water to set him right. Said it drove the dark thoughts away."
Dream-moss? Sung-water? Samuel's brow furrowed. Okay, so there are local remedies for mental debuffs. Probably a traditional healer's item. Lyra. But he needed more than just a vague ingredient. He needed to understand the principle behind it.
He moved closer, feigning interest in a stray dog sniffing a discarded bone.
"They say," the first woman continued, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "the Weaver feeds on sorrow and doubt. The more you fear, the more you give it. Old Tiber always taught his children, 'When the shadows whisper, you sing your truth louder.'"
Sing your truth louder? Samuel almost scoffed. Okay, so the meta is... positive affirmations? Self-belief as a counter? That's... surprisingly on-brand for a fantasy world, I guess. Willpower stat check, but disguised as a folk saying.
He needed to test this. He needed to find a way to actively ground his mind against the Weaver's influence. And he needed to learn more about this 'dream-moss' and 'sung-water.'
He made his way back to Lyra's cottage. This time, he didn't even try to feign ignorance. He was direct, but still respectful.
"Lyra," Samuel began, his voice low, his expression serious. "I... I went into the Elderwood again, deeper this time. I found the Whispering Glade. And I encountered the Weaver." He saw Lyra flinch, her kind eyes widening with a familiar fear. "It wasn't like a beast. It tried to... get inside my head. To take my thoughts." He almost shivered, the memory fresh and nauseating. "It felt like my mind was unraveling."
Lyra's face paled. "Oh, bless you, child! You saw the true horror of it! Not many return from that without a lasting mark." She wrung her hands, concern etched deep into her features. "Old Maude herself only barely held on after such a touch. It feeds on despair, on lost will. It leaves you an empty shell."
"I know," Samuel said, his voice flat. "But I... I reset. It brought me back." He saw Lyra's confusion, but he couldn't explain. "What can truly fight it? Not just ward it off, but actively resist it? I heard whispers about 'dream-moss' and 'sung-water' for those affected. Is there truth to that?"
Lyra hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Aye. Dream-moss, it grows deep in the oldest roots, a rare thing. It calms the spirit, helps mend the threads of a frayed mind. And sung-water... that's less a thing, more a way. Water drawn at dawn, when the Aether is pure and still, and blessed with a strong heart's intent. Old Maude would sing prayers over it, or brave men would speak their oaths." She looked at Samuel, her gaze intense. "It's about purpose, young man. About holding onto what makes you you."
Samuel's mind raced. Purpose. Intent. That's the counter-play! It's not a physical thing, it's a mental attribute. A 'resolve' stat! This was actionable intel.
"So, if I go back," Samuel said, his voice quiet, filled with a new resolve, "and I have a clear purpose... and perhaps some dream-moss... I can fight it?"
Lyra frowned. "Fight is a strong word, against such a thing. But you can resist. You can refuse to be consumed. It will sap you, yes, but it won't break you, if your will holds. A clear mind, a focused heart... that is the strongest shield against the Weaver."
Samuel nodded. He finally understood. This wasn't about strength or agility. It was about his own internal fortitude. And Lyra had just given him the cheat code.
He thanked Lyra profusely, then headed towards the outermost edge of the Elderwood once more, the heavy iron bar clutched in his hand. He hadn't found dream-moss yet, but he had something more crucial: a strategy. He had a purpose.
He needed to re-enter the Whispering Glade. He needed to understand the Weaver's patterns further, to quantify the drain, to find a weakness in its method. But this time, he wouldn't be searching for Miri's body. He'd be searching for Miri's essence, for any trace of what truly happened to the children it took. And he would do it with a mind steeled, every thought focused on the task, blocking out every insidious whisper.
He pushed through the gnarled trees, the air growing heavy, the distant, shimmering glow of the Glade beckoning. The whispers began, soft and insidious.
...lost cause... no hope... give up...
But this time, Samuel fought back. Not with words, but with a cold, clear focus. He concentrated on the rough feel of the iron bar in his hand, on the sharp scent of the pine needles beneath his feet, on the steady rhythm of his own breath. He forced his mind to recite multiplication tables, to recall lines of code, to visualize his spreadsheet, anything to create a mental barrier against the seductive pull.
"One plus one is two. Two times two is four. Error, system overload, calculate optimal route... Miri's disappearance. Weaver's pattern. Cognitive Aether drain..." he mumbled to himself, a bizarre litany against the internal assault.
He pushed deeper into the Glade, the whispers intensifying, becoming a cacophony of enticing promises and despairing thoughts. He could feel the draining sensation begin, the insidious pull at his consciousness. But this time, it was slower. Weaker. His iron bar felt heavy, but comforting. His mind, though besieged, held firm. He was resisting.
He focused on the faint, sickly green glow emanating from the giant, skeletal tree where he'd last seen Miri's shawl. The Weaver was there, a shimmering, indistinct presence woven from shadow and light, its predatory eyes fixed on him.
It pulsed, and the mental drain intensified, but Samuel held firm. He wasn't broken. He wasn't unraveling. He was a rock against the tide of its influence.
Why do you resist? the Weaver's voice resonated in his mind, sharp with what sounded like surprise, a faint crack in its otherwise flawless facade. Such futile effort...
Samuel didn't reply aloud. He focused his will, his thoughts like a spear. Because I have a purpose, you overgrown root network! I'm here for data! And I'm not. Dying. Today.
He held his ground, forcing himself to observe, to analyze. He saw faint, almost imperceptible threads of light, like tiny, glowing fibers, stretching from the shadowy form of the Weaver to the surrounding glowing fungi, and even further, deeper into the earth.
It's a network! Samuel realized, a flash of insight cutting through the mental noise. It's not just feeding on individuals; it's drawing Aether from the environment, and perhaps using the children's essence as a catalyst, or a battery!
The Weaver flickered, its form distorting, as if his sheer defiance was an anomaly it couldn't quite process. The mental drain lessened, almost imperceptibly, as if its attack was momentarily disrupted by his unexpected resistance.
This was his chance. He had new data. And he was still standing. He turned, slowly, deliberately, his mind exhausted but whole. He had faced the Weaver's ultimate attack, and he had survived. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his gut, but it was accompanied by a new, grim satisfaction.
He walked out of the Elderwood, the twilight giving way to night, his body aching, his mind reeling, but his sanity intact. The whispers faded with distance, leaving him with only the lingering coldness and the profound exhaustion of a battle fought within his own skull. He had faced the Empty Net, and for the first time, he hadn't been consumed. He had learned its shape.