Threads of Power, Threads of Fate
Chapter 2 — Threads of Power, Threads of Fate
The morning sun broke through the high mist of the outer mountain ranges, casting long golden beams across the training plaza. The air shimmered faintly — not from heat, but from residual spiritual energy left behind by last night's meditation.
Standing at the edge of the field, Aorin flexed his wrist, spinning his weighted yoyo in a tight arc before locking it around his forearm. Cyan light pulsed from his eyes for a moment, matching the slow hum of energy in the string. It wasn't just a toy — it was a weapon of fluid destruction, created from aurium fiber mined beneath the spirit veins of Mount Qiulan.
"Focus," a voice called.
It was Sayuri.
She stood barefoot in the grass, the morning wind playing with the long ribbon at her waist. In one hand, she held a slender flute-sword, elegant and curved, its silver sheen catching the morning sun. Her black hair, adorned with a single pearl pin, was tied back in a way that looked effortlessly regal. But it was her eyes — sharp, calm, and unwavering — that demanded respect. She had already entered the Stage 19 realm, far ahead of most their age.
Aorin lowered his arm and gave her a half-smile.
"You're not going to go easy on me just because we're married, are you?"
Sayuri raised an eyebrow, stepping forward. "If I did, you'd die in the first real fight. Again."
"Technically, I dodged last time," he replied, voice dry.
"You dodged into my blade."
They circled each other now, lightly, respectfully — like dancers. But each step was calculated, each breath measured.
Aorin moved first. The yoyo unraveled, releasing spiritual threads that flickered like cyan lightning across the training field. With a flick of his wrist, the yoyo split in two — twin weapons now — arcing out to trap Sayuri in a cross-spin.
But she was already in the air.
A single note from her flute cracked through the air like thunder, sending out an illusionary wave. Aorin blinked — she wasn't where she had been. For a heartbeat, his instincts screamed.
Too late.
Sayuri was behind him, her flute now a blade against his throat. "Dead," she whispered.
He groaned. "How do you even move like that? You're not supposed to be able to use illusion until Stage 20."
"I practice more than you talk."
"That's impossible."
She grinned and stepped back, sheathing the flute. "Still... better control today. Your energy's stabilizing."
Aorin looked down at his arms. The cyan threads had faded into his skin, pulsing faintly. "I think I'm starting to feel... the flow. The spiritual river, like the elders call it."
Sayuri nodded, more serious now. "That's Stage 19. You're opening your vessel, not just channeling power, but understanding it."
They walked side by side toward the garden ridge. Beneath them, the village of Lianshan sprawled like a tapestry stitched from history — a union of cultures, born from the ashes of three nations: old America, post-war China, and ancient Japan.
This wasn't just any village. It was one of the rare Remnant Strongholds — where old philosophies and pre-collapse technologies coexisted with newly awakened spiritual systems.
As they passed the cherry blossom trees lining the edge of the cliff, an elder monk — Master Renshu — sat meditating with incense wafting in rings.
He opened one eye.
"You've grown louder," he said to Aorin. "That yoyo of yours hums like a spirit beast in heat."
Aorin bowed. "It's improving."
"Louder is not better. Harmony. Your energy is like a river in flood — you must learn to make it flow gently."
"Yes, Master."
Renshu turned his eye to Sayuri. "And you... already at the cusp of Stage 20. The spirits whisper about you. The Songblade returns."
Sayuri bowed low. "I do not seek titles, only mastery."
"Then the title will seek you."
Behind them, a low rumble echoed from the far hills.
Aorin and Sayuri turned instantly. A dark plume of smoke was rising.
Renshu stood slowly. "The beasts are growing bolder," he said quietly. "And not the wild ones. These are corrupted. Marked."
Sayuri's voice was hard. "Stage 30?"
"No. Higher. One of them is... human-born."
Aorin felt the hairs on his neck rise. A Blood Human?
Corrupted by spiritual energy so deeply they'd become something inhuman. Whispers of them had crept even into Lianshan. They carved others for power. They were hungry. And they were growing in number.
Sayuri gripped her flute-sword. "Do we go?"
"Not yet," Renshu said. "The 8th City must be warned first. They're not attacking at random. They're searching for something... or someone."
He looked at Aorin then. His gaze lingered.
Aorin frowned. "What?"
Renshu smiled faintly. "You'll know soon enough."
---
And far away, in the deepest chamber of the Demon City... a masked figure knelt before a corrupted altar. On the stone slab, seven symbols glowed — the ancient marks of the superpowers. One by one, they darkened. All but one.