Michael: Thread of Control
The corridor was silent, lined with floating equations and shifting variables etched in the air—like the interface of a living formula. Runes spun, calculating probabilities in real time. Every few steps, the path split in three, then in five, then more—each presenting a different solution to a problem he hadn't been told.
Michael analyzed.
He adjusted for pattern frequency. Calculated energy dispersion. Measured emotional variance and potential outcomes. He chose the most efficient path.
And it looped.
Over and over again.
The fifth time through, he paused.
"This is a loop," he murmured. "But the numbers don't reset."
> Wielder of Insight: Fractured focus
> Trial construct: Ego recursion
> Path forward: Unavailable until anomaly is addressed
A mirror materialized in front of him—framed with mathematical symbols twisting like vines. In its reflection, Michael wasn't the composed strategist everyone knew. He looked… younger. Smaller. Scared.
"You can't control everything," the reflection said softly. "That's why you calculate. Why you obsess."
Michael clenched his fists. "I do it to protect them. To plan ahead. To—"
"To avoid the risk of losing them," the mirror replied. "You think if you're perfect, they won't leave. That nothing will go wrong."
He stepped back.
"No."
The thread wrapped around his arm again—tightening with each doubt. He had planned for this, hadn't he? He had failed to predict this loop. He had to find the answer—
And then he stopped.
He looked at his trembling hands and remembered Kriss diving in to help a stranger. Leo laughing off failure. Neither of them planned. They lived.
Michael closed his eyes and breathed.
"I don't need to control everything," he whispered. "I just need to be there when it matters."
He let go of the numbers.
And the thread slipped from his arm, dissolving into particles of gold.
The corridor opened.
---
Leo: Thread of Trust
The room was dark, lit only by flickering neon glyphs. Puzzle panels hovered in the air, forming a chaotic symphony of logic traps, reflex tests, arcane coding patterns, and combat simulations. It was like the final boss chamber of a game—one designed to break you.
Leo's eyes scanned the room. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's win this."
He dashed from one glyph to the next, solving triggers, bypassing errors, chaining sequences like a speedrunner chasing a record. His hands blurred. Sparks flew.
The door didn't budge.
A giant screen appeared overhead. It played a loop of moments—his mistakes. Times he'd lost. Times he'd failed the team. Times he'd quit.
"You only trust your mind," a voice said. "Because your heart is afraid."
Leo growled. "Shut up. I don't need cheesy boss fight dialogue."
But the puzzles grew erratic. One glyph triggered another trap. Another reset the room. Logic spiraled into chaos. The rules changed—and he couldn't keep up.
"I don't lose," he said, trying to restart.
The bracer on his arm buzzed.
> Wielder of Intellect: Cognitive overload
> Solution invalid: Logic collapse imminent
> Suggestion: Reassess emotional parameters
Leo froze.
Emotional parameters?
He hated those. They weren't numbers. They couldn't be cracked.
But then—he thought of Kriss, always steady, always trying to understand people. And Michael, calculating but honest, quietly believing in Leo's instincts even when Leo didn't.
They weren't just a team.
They were his friends.
And he'd never told them how much he relied on that.
He placed a hand on the final glyph and whispered, "I trust them."
No equation. No trick.
Just belief.
The glyph turned blue. Then gold.
The puzzle vanished in a burst of soft light, leaving only a thread—warm and glowing—that wrapped gently around his wrist.
---
Back in the cathedral, the three emerged—frayed but whole. The threads that bound their wrists glowed as one, knitting into a tether of shared light.
The loom roared to life.
> Trial Three: Complete
> Bond: Stabilized
> External force neutralized (for now)
But above them, the cathedral trembled.
A shadow split the stars.
Black feathers fell like ashes.
And in the fracture between light and dark… eyes watched.
The Demon Lord's voice rumbled—not in words, but in instinct, fear, and fate.
"Grow stronger. Survive. Become what I need you to be."
Kriss stood still, jaw tight, the thread on his arm pulsing between violet and shadow.
A single thought burned in him like a curse:
Who am I becoming?