The plain buckled under Kiro's feet.It wasn't just shaking—it was tearing, threads snapping like overstretched wires. Each break sent a shockwave across the dreamlike horizon, warping the burning sky.
The masked mentalist's voice thundered, no longer calm. "You have no discipline! You'll tear the weave apart!"
Kiro wiped sweat from his brow, smirking despite the ache in his head. "Good. Means I'm getting to you."
The mentalist surged forward, seizing every loose thread in sight. The air itself twisted, becoming a hurricane of razor-sharp strands. They lashed toward Kiro in a thousand strikes.
He grabbed two thick, gold strands above his head and yanked hard—pulling the sky down. The storm smashed into the lowered horizon, collapsing into a sphere of tangled light between them.
For a heartbeat, both stood frozen, caught in the violent glow.
Then it exploded.
The blast hurled Kiro back, but he caught a dangling thread mid-fall, swinging himself upright. Beneath him, the ground was gone. An endless void stretched in every direction, dotted only by floating fragments of the plain.
"Your arrogance will drown you," the mentalist said, appearing atop a fragment opposite him. "Let me end your struggle—"
"Not today," Kiro snapped.
He dove through the void, weaving threads as he went, shaping them into a jagged bridge toward the masked figure. The mentalist countered instantly, snapping the bridge in three places. Kiro fell—
—only to catch another thread and whip it upward, lassoing the figure's ankle.
The pull was brutal. The mentalist stumbled, mask tilting down as Kiro yanked with all his strength.
For the first time, the masked figure's stance broke.
Kiro didn't waste the moment. He dove straight into their core thread—a burning silver line that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The instant he touched it, everything shifted.
He was no longer in the plain or the void.He was inside their mind.
Memories blurred past him like scenes in a rushing river—training halls lined with mirrors, a boy kneeling before a robed teacher, the endless repetition of mental drills. A cold, sharp voice echoing: Control the weave, control the world.
And underneath, buried so deep it was almost invisible—fear.
Fear of losing control. Fear of being unseated.
Kiro grabbed that fear and yanked.
The mental plain shattered. The masked figure reeled backward in the real chamber, hands clutching their head.
Ara gasped, breaking free of their grip, and stumbled to Kiro's side. "What—what did you—"
"Loosened a knot," Kiro said, breathing hard.
The mentalist staggered once more, then straightened—mask cracked right across the center. "You've made an enemy for life, boy."
Kiro met their gaze through the break in the mask. "You'll have to keep it first."
The mentalist retreated toward a side door, their remaining threads folding tight around them like armor. By the time Ara lunged forward, they were gone.
"Coward," Ara spat.
Kiro didn't answer. His vision still swam with golden and silver threads, but now they felt sharper, more responsive—like he'd just taken a step forward into something bigger.
He didn't know how much time he had before the mentalist struck back.But for now… they'd won.