The next morning, the academy halls buzzed with rumor.
Every whisper, every stolen glance, carried one name—Kaito Fei.
"He didn't even move…"
"Ren almost fainted!"
"Did you see that black thread? That wasn't normal…"
Students parted as Kaito walked through the corridor, his expression calm, unreadable. The chatter rolled off him like rain against glass. He'd already anticipated this reaction.
Fame was noise. Noise attracted attention. And attention meant risk.
When he reached the end of the hall, a familiar voice cut through the murmur.
"Fei Kaito," said Professor Lian, his tone firm. "Follow me."
Kaito turned, offering a silent nod. He followed the man through the winding marble corridors, their footsteps echoing in rhythm. The further they walked, the quieter the halls became—until the sound of voices faded completely.
They stopped at an empty faculty chamber.
The door sealed with a faint hum of thread energy as Lian gestured for Kaito to sit.
"I watched your duel yesterday," the professor said slowly, his sharp gaze unwavering. "It wasn't approved."
Kaito met his eyes. "I didn't start it."
"No," Lian said, "but you ended it… decisively."
He leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Tell me, Fei, what was that thread you used?"
Silence filled the air. The faint hum of thread resonance surrounded the room like invisible static. Kaito's expression didn't change.
"My Vital Thread," he said flatly.
Lian's eyes narrowed. "Black, with a red outline. I've seen thousands of students—never one with a thread like that. Its energy felt… wrong. Too still. Too heavy."
Kaito said nothing.
He could feel Lian's thread brushing faintly against his own—a subtle test. The professor was probing, trying to read him.
"You can stop that," Kaito said calmly.
Lian froze. For a student to sense that—let alone interrupt it—was rare.
He leaned back, studying Kaito with renewed interest.
"You have good instincts," he admitted. "Perhaps too good."
Kaito looked at him evenly. "Is that a problem?"
"That depends," Lian said. "Power like that draws eyes. The Academy monitors anomalies. And yours—" he paused, searching for the right word— "doesn't feel human."
For the first time, Kaito's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Then perhaps your senses deceive you."
Lian smiled faintly. "Perhaps." He stood, pacing toward the window overlooking the vast academy grounds. "Still, I need to report what I saw. You'll be evaluated next week—standard procedure."
"I understand," Kaito replied simply.
But inside, calculations were already forming. Evaluation means exposure. Exposure means weakness.
He couldn't allow that.
Lian turned back to him. "You remind me of someone," he said quietly. "A boy from twenty years ago—cold eyes, calm voice. He, too, thought he could weave fate."
"What happened to him?" Kaito asked.
"He vanished," Lian said. "Threads don't like being forced."
The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible.
Then, Lian's tone softened. "Be careful, Kaito. The academy isn't as safe as it looks. Even a thread can strangle its own weaver."
He waved his hand, dismissing him.
"You may go."
---
Outside, Kaito walked through the quiet garden paths leading back to the dormitories. The wind tugged at his uniform, carrying the faint scent of iron and rain.
He stopped beneath an old willow, watching the thread lines of other students shimmer faintly in the distance—each a faint glow of blue or gold.
His own thread, invisible and dark, pulsed once beneath his skin.
"An evaluation, huh…" he murmured. "They'll learn nothing."
He remembered the duel, the faces staring at him in awe and fear. The way Aria's eyes lingered longer than they should have.
It was all so predictable. Admiration, jealousy, curiosity—it was always the same cycle. Always noise.
Above him, storm clouds began to gather, the sky echoing his mood.
I should've stayed silent longer, he thought. But maybe… this exposure will accelerate the plan.
The Karma Thread stirred within him—alive, restless.
Threads of fate trembled faintly in the air, as if reacting to his presence.
---
Far away, inside the faculty building, Professor Lian stood before a large thread projection—a web of glowing lines showing all active students' energy signatures.
Most were bright blue or white.
Only one stood out.
A black thread.
Barely visible.
And pulsing.
Lian frowned. "What are you really, Fei Kaito?"
The projection flickered once—then shut down abruptly, as if something had cut the connection.
Lian blinked. The entire screen went dark.
---
Back in his dorm room, Kaito opened his eyes from meditation.
The faint hum of the thread monitor collapsing reached him seconds later.
He smirked.
"Don't try to weave my thread," he whispered. "I already cut yours."
The candle beside him flickered once—then steadied, its flame standing perfectly still despite the wind outside.
In that calm, oppressive silence, Kaito smiled faintly.
The academy thought they were watching him.
But from the very beginning—
he had already started watching them.