Threads of Rivalry

The training arena buzzed with energy.

The first duels had been impressive—blades of woven fate clashing, spells bending probability, techniques that hardened the very air into shields.

Ren had studied them all.

He could see how the students shaped the Loom, how they reinforced their actions with woven strands of destiny.

And more importantly—he could do the same.

He just had to make sure no one realized that his method wasn't like theirs.

Instructor Rylis stood in the center of the arena, his hands clasped behind his back, his robes shifting with constantly adjusting threads.

"Weaving is not just reinforcement," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly. "It is war."

The students straightened.

"You do not simply control fate," Rylis continued. "You impose your will upon it. The battlefield is a place where hesitation means death, and where the strongest are those who do not just follow fate—but shape it."

With a flick of his wrist, threads surged outward from his fingertips.

They coiled into a spear of golden energy, gleaming with untapped potential—then, with the smallest gesture, he released it.

The fate-bound spear exploded forward at impossible speed, bending toward a target dummy on the far side of the arena.

The students barely had time to react.

But just before impact, Rylis lifted a single finger.

The spear vanished.

Not destroyed. Not deflected.

Unwoven.

Silence filled the air.

"The strongest Weavers do not merely react," Rylis said. "They dictate the outcome before the battle even begins."

The students murmured amongst themselves.

Ren, however, stayed silent.

Because he already understood that better than anyone.

Instructor Rylis turned back to the students.

"Now, you will test yourselves," he announced. "Step forward and challenge a partner."

Excited murmurs spread through the crowd. Some students were already turning toward each other, discussing who to challenge.

Ren had no intention of stepping forward first.

Then—

"I challenge Ren."

The arena went silent.

Ren exhaled slowly. Jorrik Tavren.

Of course.

Jorrik stepped forward confidently, his broad shoulders squared, green eyes fixed on Ren. But there was no hostility in them—just curiosity and challenge.

Then, Ren caught it.

Jorrik's gaze flicked—just briefly—to Kara, who stood at the edge of the arena, arms folded, her sharp gray eyes focused on only one person—Ren.

Understanding hit instantly.

Ah.

Jorrik didn't hate him.

He just didn't get it.

Kara wasn't easy to impress, but from the moment Ren had stepped into their group, she had been watching him, questioning him.

And Jorrik?

Jorrik was one of the strongest Strandbearers here. He had trained for years. He had a reputation.

Yet Kara had barely glanced at him today.

It wasn't anger on Jorrik's face—it was confusion.

And he wanted to settle it the best way he knew how.

A duel.

"You've been quiet," Jorrik said, a smirk playing at his lips. "Figured it was time to see what you're really capable of."

Ren forced a neutral expression. "You sure you don't want a better challenge?"

Jorrik chuckled. "You don't get to decide that."

The arena stirred with interest.

Instructor Rylis glanced between them before nodding. "Very well. No fatal weaves. No irreversible changes to fate. Begin when ready."

Ren took a slow breath and stepped into the ring.

The woven stone beneath his feet pulsed faintly with the residual energy of past battles. The arena was alive with tension—students forming a loose circle around them, some whispering, others watching in silence.

Jorrik rolled his shoulders, his stance relaxed but intentional. He wasn't just standing still—he was already weaving.

Then the duel began.

Jorrik moved first.

Golden threads snapped into place around his legs, reinforcing each step—Fatebound Acceleration, a technique that wove a fragment of the Loom into a fighter's momentum. It didn't just make him faster. It smoothed his movements, pulling him forward with the inevitability of fate itself.

One moment, he was across the ring.

The next—he was right in front of Ren.

Ren's instincts screamed at him to react.

Jorrik's fingers flicked—no hesitation—and a spear of woven fate materialized in his grip.

The lance wasn't just energy—it was crafted, threaded together with Binding Bolt, a technique designed to track an opponent's future movements rather than their present. A normal dodge wouldn't work. The attack would follow the pull of the Loom, bending to strike where fate dictated Ren would be.

But Ren wasn't bound by fate.

His fingers twisted subtly, threading golden strands into Fateweave Bastion, a technique used to disperse force rather than block it outright.

A translucent woven barrier flared to life just as the lance struck.

The impact was immense. The weave shuddered, rippling like fabric in a storm, but Ren had layered it correctly. Instead of stopping the attack head-on, he let the force unravel harmlessly across the threads.

The spear collapsed into golden filaments—dispersed.

Jorrik didn't stop.

Instead of fading, the energy coiled midair, reforming in an instant.

Returning Spear—a technique that anchored an attack to its own remnants, allowing it to reform and strike again from a different angle.

This time, the lance curved toward Ren's exposed side.

Ren didn't try to stop it.

Instead, he reached out—not to block, but to adjust. His fingers wove a single, imperceptible strand into the returning spear—Guiding Thread, a technique that didn't disrupt an attack but nudged it just enough to shift its path.

The spear veered off course, missing him by inches.

Jorrik noticed.

His stance shifted slightly. The look in his eyes changed—not frustration, but calculation.

"Counter-weaving?" he murmured, adjusting his grip. "Didn't take you for the type."

Ren exhaled, rolling out his shoulders. "You assumed wrong."

Jorrik smirked. "Good."

Then he was on him again.

This time, he didn't use a weapon.

His fists glowed with golden filaments, wrapping around his arms in precise patterns—Fatebound Blows, a close-combat reinforcement technique.

It wasn't just for strength.

Each strike he threw was anchored to a pre-set thread, locking it into fate itself. A normal fighter could dodge or block—but not against an attack that was destined to land.

Ren saw it coming.

Blocking was suicide.

Instead, he stepped—not back, but sideways, into the space where the Loom had the weakest hold.

The punch that should have connected whiffed past his shoulder.

To the watching crowd, it looked like perfect footwork, as if Ren had predicted the strike a heartbeat before it happened.

But to Jorrik?

It felt wrong.

His attack hadn't been a simple swing. It had been tied to the Loom—it should have hit.

He didn't hesitate. He adjusted instantly, fingers twitching mid-motion—Binding Cage, a formation technique that wove razor-thin fate threads into the air, nearly invisible, but deadly. If Ren moved the wrong way, they would snap tight around him, sealing him in place.

Ren felt the trap before he saw it.

Instead of resisting, he slipped his own threads into the weave, not unmaking the trap, but delaying its activation by a fraction of a second.

To everyone watching, it seemed as if he had simply timed his movement perfectly—stepping out of the snare just before it locked down.

To Jorrik?

His eyes narrowed slightly.

That had been too precise.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders.

"Not bad," he admitted.

Ren smirked. "You're slower than I thought."

Jorrik grinned.

"Alright. Let's see you dodge this."

This time, he didn't throw the spear.

He raised his hands, and golden filaments wove into a formation above them both. The air shimmered with latent power as the threads bound themselves together—not a projectile, but an event.

A preordained moment.

The spear didn't need to be aimed. It descended like a falling star, its outcome already written.

Ren's eyes widened.

There was no trajectory to shift.

No weave to redirect.

Jorrik had bound it so that it would happen, no matter what Ren did.

A perfect weave.

Ren's mind raced.

No time.

His instincts took over.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, the threads within him shifted—

And suddenly, he was behind Jorrik.

Not dodging. Not stepping.

Just… there.

The spear struck the ground where he had been standing.

Jorrik froze.

Slowly, he turned.

Ren's hand hovered over his shoulder.

If this had been real—if he had struck—

He would have won.

Silence.

Then the crowd erupted in whispers.

To them, it had been a perfect dodge.

Jorrik let out a breath, staring at him for a moment. Then—he grinned.

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was fun."

Ren blinked. That… wasn't the reaction he expected.

Jorrik extended a hand.

Ren hesitated, then took it.

"Didn't think you'd keep up like that," Jorrik admitted.

Ren smirked. "Guess you'll have to try harder next time."

Jorrik laughed. "Yeah. Next time."

The tension was gone.

This wasn't resentment.

This was the start of something else.

A rivalry, maybe.

A friendship, eventually.

As Ren stepped out of the ring, he felt another gaze on him.

Kara Dain.

Not just watching.

Studying.

She knew there was something different about him.

Ren exhaled slowly.

Jorrik had challenged him because of Kara's attention.

Kara?

She was still watching him.

And that?

That was more dangerous than any duel.