Chapter 29: The Loom of Fate

Asrial lay on the cold marble floor of his dorm, motionless, the weight of defeat still clinging to his bones like frost. His wounds had closed, his flesh mended, but his spirit… that was another story. His breath was shallow, his fingers twitching as if reliving every second of the battle he barely survived.

Above him, threads danced in the air—thin, silver slivers of divine silk, shifting and folding into a humanoid shape. Weiver's manifestation loomed above like a god staring down at a fallen pawn. His voice, as always, was many and none—a chorus of fates, mocking and cryptic.

> "Tsk… Didn't think you'd get beaten up that badly by a lowly heretic—one who doesn't even believe in the Original," Weiver sneered, then stopped, a flicker of restraint in his tone, as if he'd spoken more than he intended.

Asrial's eyes narrowed. His chest rose slowly as he regained control of his breath. Weiver's words echoed in his mind.

The Original.

He remembered the tales studied with Therisia back in the estate's grand library. Myths, ancient and dusty, about the "Original Creator"—the god of purity, origin, and law. The one who shaped the cosmos, who created the seven divine dragons, and who banished the Filth that eventually reassembled into what's now known as the Broken God.

A god whose silence had echoed through the ages.

A god whom not even the most devout of the Holy Factions—like Elenor's family—had ever truly heard from.

Yet now, Weiver—an original dragon—slipped up. And that one slip confirmed what Asrial had always doubted. The Original still existed.

He rose slowly to his feet, still gripping his side. Blood loss made the world spin, but the fire in his eyes flared.

> "Tell me," he said through gritted teeth, "if I died back there… wouldn't that have been a loss for you? For all the dragon spirits who want me to awaken?"

Weiver's mask turned slightly, unreadable.

> "A fair question… but you're mistaken." The dragon's voice was colder now. "Your near-death is precisely what they needed. Each time you brush the edge of death, the slumbering four stir… When they awaken, you will not overcome them, Asrial. You will endure them, if you're lucky."

Asrial took a step forward, voice steadier.

> "But my death—"

Suddenly, countless threads surged from above, wrapping around his limbs, tightening like restraints of divine judgment.

> "KNOW YOUR PLACE!" Weiver's voice boomed, echoing in every corner of his soul. "If not for Xucutle's essence residing within your cursed soul, we would've erased you from the tapestry of time long ago!"

The strings dissolved into dust, fading into the air like mist at dawn. Weiver's form scattered, his presence receding with a chilling final whisper.

> "Prove you're worthy. Or perish. The thread shall be cut."

Asrial collapsed to one knee, finally letting his body fall. He couldn't hold the weight anymore. Not of his secrets. Not of the strings.

Not of the truth.

He took a deep breath, slowly rising again. Thoughts swirled in his head like a storm.

Red.

The Third Bishop.

His blazing hair, infernal eyes, and the white blade that cut everything.

He remembered how no matter what he threw at him—wind, stone, fire—it was all sliced like air.

He remembered how Red called him the "descendant of the Dragonborn."

Was he truly…?

Then, there was the blindfolded man. Silent, still, deadly. Just watching. Another bishop, perhaps?

And finally… her.

The shadowed figure who halted the battle.

The one Red kneeled to.

Her voice, dark and smooth.

Her power… terrifying.

And yet, something in her presence felt familiar. Those purple glowing eyes—he'd seen them before. Somewhere distant… or close?

His inner monologue trailed off, shattered by the sound of a familiar voice.

> "Asrial!"

He looked up. Therisia stood at the arena gates, armor shining, brows furrowed in worry.

He forced a smile, brushing himself off.

> "Sorry," he said. "I… had something urgent. Couldn't catch your match."

She folded her arms, clearly annoyed.

> "That's two matches you've missed now. You're lucky I won mine, or I'd kill you."

> "Let me guess…" he smirked. "They sent you three commoners instead of nobles?"

She blinked in surprise, then nodded.

> "You noticed."

> "Yeah. I'm starting to understand how things work around here," he muttered.

They shared a moment of silence—one that spoke of friendship, of battle-born trust, and of unspoken storms to come.

---

Later That Day

The matches continued. Asrial pushed forward. Again and again.

Opponents fell. Not without effort—but with precision.

Each victory brought whispers.

> "That commoner… he's insane."

"Is he even human?"

"He controls two elements like a prodigy..."

And from the back of the stands, Weiver watched silently, his threads still, for now.

Six victories. Each a war. Each under the silent manipulation of a dragon god. Asrial didn't even know how he endured it—but he did.

Finally, the last match was announced. The finals.

And with it, his next opponent:

> "Therisia Valtz of the Sword Saint's Lineage..."

The crowd hushed.

> "...versus her sworn knight, Asrial, the Dual Elemental Warden."

Asrial felt it before she even looked at him—the tension, the burning desire to fight.

He glanced at her.

She smiled.

He sighed.

> "Great. Now the real battle begins."