Jayden Black
"You'll lead the Black family at this rate."
"No one your age compares."
"We're proud of you."
Jayden used to believe those words.
They weren't lies.
But they weren't the truth either.
They were projections.
Expectations dressed as praise.
He'd grown up inside that pressure—trained relentlessly, corrected constantly, measured against futures that hadn't happened yet. His status window climbed cleanly. Numbers rose. Skills refined. In his private world, growth meant inevitability.
He was supposed to stand at the top.
Then he entered the Triangle.
And the Triangle did not care about inevitability.
It cared about outcome.
He watched rankings update.
Watched students leap ahead.
Watched Lucas Væresberg move through conflict like gravity bent around him.
Watched Raisel refine precision into something clinical.
Watched Alan Walker dominate without visible strain.
Jayden trained harder.
His numbers still rose.
But not enough.
Never enough.
If he couldn't be the strongest—
then what was he?
The thought lodged in his chest like a splinter.
So he did what wounded pride always does.
He observed.
Patterns. Posture. Breathing. Recovery rate. Habit.
He compared everything.
And eventually—
he moved.
"Let's fight."
Lucas blinked. It was the first time Jayden had addressed him directly.
"What do you mean?" Lucas asked, calm as ever.
Jayden adjusted the weight of his newly acquired spiritual weapon across his shoulder—a heavy battle axe. Balanced. Durable. Built for dominance.
"We both just chose our weapons," he said lightly. "No better time to test them."
The spiritual weapon hall was still crowded. Racks of low- to mid-tier armaments lined reinforced walls—blades, bows, scythes, pistols. Nothing extraordinary, but enough to shape early growth.
The overseeing professor watched the two boys with quiet interest.
He understood tension when he saw it.
"Very well," he said at last. "Demonstration only. If I say stop, you stop."
Students backed up, forming a wide circle.
Lucas drew his Tier 3 sword. The edge hummed faintly—clean resonance, precise alignment.
Jayden rolled his shoulders once.
The professor's hand rose.
Then dropped.
"Begin."
Dreyden
From the sidelines, I watched.
Jayden Black.
Not the final villain.
But an important fracture.
He wasn't evil.
He was ambitious without elasticity.
The Triangle eventually broke that kind of person.
Steel met steel.
At first, it looked balanced.
Jayden swung in wide, controlled arcs—forceful, decisive. Not sloppy. He'd trained properly.
Lucas absorbed, redirected, counter-measured.
That was the difference.
Jayden attacked to dominate.
Lucas fought to understand.
Axes aren't subtle weapons, but in trained hands they overwhelm through momentum.
Jayden tried exactly that.
He shifted his footwork, doubled pressure, forced Lucas backward.
For a moment—
it almost looked promising.
Then Lucas adjusted spacing by half a step.
Half a step.
That was all it took.
Jayden's third swing carried slightly too much weight forward. Not dramatic. Just enough.
Lucas slipped outside the attack's axis.
His blade rose.
Mana gathered along the steel—dense, controlled, compressed.
Not flashy.
Efficient.
Jayden roared and brought his axe down with full force.
Lucas answered with one clean diagonal cut.
CRACK.
The Tier 2 axe split at the haft.
Not chipped.
Split.
The sword continued forward, carving across Jayden's chest in a shallow but decisive line.
His uniform tore. Skin scored. Breath vanished.
Jayden hit the ground staring up at the ceiling.
Silence settled.
The professor exhaled slowly.
"Near-grade weapons do not shear that easily," he said calmly. "That was skill application. Observe and learn."
A lesson for the audience.
But Jayden wasn't listening.
He was staring at the broken halves of his axe.
His fingers twitched around empty air.
"I'm better than this," he whispered.
Not angry.
Confused.
That was worse.
In the original timeline, this moment planted a seed.
Not hatred.
Not yet.
Doubt.
And doubt in someone raised on certainty had a tendency to rot from the inside.
Demon of Fear.
Bad path.
Worse consequences.
I shifted my focus to my own weapon.
Black brass knuckles.
Forged from a Blue Lion core.
Tier 2.
Fire-resistant. High durability. Reliable.
I wasn't here to posture.
I was here to survive escalation.
Around the room:
Lucas — Tier 3 sword.
Raisel — Tier 3 bow.
Dhara — twin black knives.
Riven — curved dagger.
Jayden — empty-handed.
"Some structures still hold," I murmured.
The professor's voice cut through.
"Tomorrow you begin personalized combat training. I will dissect your weaknesses and optimize ability efficiency. This preparation is mandatory before the monthly dungeon evaluation."
Translation:
They want data.
The Triangle didn't just train.
It profiled.
We were assets.
Assets were evaluated continuously.
"Dismissed."
I left immediately.
Gym
Magic stats were climbing.
But numbers alone didn't win sustained fights.
I stepped onto a treadmill and began steady.
7.12 m/h — manageable baseline.
The original Dreyden had trained consistently.
That foundation saved me.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Forty.
Lungs burned. Muscles protested. Sweat blurred my vision.
I pushed until the edges of my sight went gray.
"You've got endurance."
Lucas stepped onto the treadmill beside me without asking.
Of course he did.
"I have routine," I replied.
We ran.
In sync.
Annoyingly in sync.
After several minutes, he spoke again.
"Have you reconsidered my offer?"
"No."
Silence stretched between our footfalls.
"Why?" he asked at last.
I slowed the machine gradually and stepped off.
"What do you see in me?" I asked.
He studied me properly this time.
Not casually.
Seriously.
Then he sighed.
"Alright," he said. "I'll stop pushing."
But he didn't look convinced.
The offer wasn't gone.
It was waiting.
He left.
I resumed lifting.
We both knew this wasn't over.
Lucas Væresberg — White
"What do you see in me?"
The question lingered.
Lucas had built his life around interpretation.
When he first awakened his ability, he'd been disappointed.
Luck Point {2}.
Level 2.
Non-combat.
He nearly discarded it.
Then he activated it.
The world shifted.
Red — misfortune.
Blue — neutral.
Yellow — good fortune.
Gold — great opportunity.
White — unknown.
White was the problem.
White was beyond calculation.
He'd learned to test outcomes.
Arlo once glowed red.
Lucas adjusted proximity.
Red shifted to yellow.
Controlled variables.
Improved outcome.
But Dreyden—
Dreyden never stabilized.
White.
Always white.
Unless Lucas attempted to formalize alliance.
Then white faded to blue.
Neutral.
As if something enormous recalibrated the moment structure was applied.
That unsettled him more than red ever had.
As Lucas walked back toward his dorm, the voice stirred.
"Still curious?" it asked within his mind.
"Yes," Lucas murmured.
"White paths are the most interesting," the voice replied smoothly. "They are either disaster… or transcendence."
Lucas touched the necklace at his chest.
In his perception, it glowed gold.
Reliable.
Safe.
Dreyden, somewhere else in the Triangle—
shone white.
Lucas frowned faintly.
"Are you my luck," he muttered softly,
"or my undoing?"
The voice did not answer.
And deep within the academy's rigid hierarchy—
two trajectories bent, slowly and inevitably,
toward collision.