The open field, previously a battlefield of muck and clatter, had gone quiet under the gentle mid-morning sun. The air was crisp and clean, scented with the smell of damp earth and pine drifting from the surrounding Evergreen Forest. Golden-green blades of grass swayed indolently, whispering secrets to one another on the breeze. The river which cut the field sparkled in the sunshine, the surface glinting like glass as it continued on unaware of the devastation that had just been wrought alongside it.

  Yukio sat propped against the trunk of a thick oak, the bark rough against his back, his damp clothes clinging stubbornly to his skin. His breathing was steady now, his body whole again—thanks to Michibiki’s almost frighteningly perfect healing magic. She’d mended his bruises, soothed every muscle, and left him physically sound.

  But inside, he was wrecked.

  His pride somewhere out in the flattened grass, probably beneath the crater his face had created the last time Michibiki pushed him to the ground. His arms hung at his sides, fingers absent-mindedly prodding the dirt, eyes on the smooth glide of the river. The water shone, catching sunlight in glints that taunted him—peaceful, unreachably far away, calm.

  The air between them was charged. Sometimes, a bird chirped overhead, or the wind rustled the leaves of the oak tree, but neither of them said anything. Too many things were swirling through Yukio's mind all at once—how phenomenally strong Michibiki was, how far behind he actually trailed, how he appeared to be dragged along by destiny without ever being given a choice in the matter.

  He finally exhaled. I look miserable, he thought. Like some veteran hero in a tavern corner.

  Beside him, Michibiki sat with infuriating calm. Her immaculate white mage robes were still unstained even after the grime, her silver eyes twinkling faintly in the light that filtered between the leaves. She was so composed that she could have leapt directly out of a painting—smooth, unreadable, and decidedly too composed for a woman who'd just punched him across next week.

  Then, without warning—snap!

  Her fingers snapped inches from his nose, sharp enough to slice through the haze he was in.

  "Stop overthinking—you'll be old before your time,"

  She jeered, sneering.

  "Or was I hitting too hard?"

  Yukio blinked, slowly turning toward her. His scowl was half-hearted at best.

  "Oh, I don't know,"

  He said, expressionless.

  "Perhaps I have brain damage. You treated me like a stress ball! You angry with me or I owe you money or something ?"

  Michibiki's laugh was clean and sharp, uncluttered as the sound of a bell. It had no place on the battlefield.

  "You owe me more than money, Yukio,"

  She taunted.

  "You owe me your potential."

  He gave her a sideways stare.

  "That is not so intimidating."

  "Good,"

  She said. A smile relaxed her features, then vanished behind a glint of anger.

  "Because that was just your first taste of what I can do. You've got ability—but you're wasting it, hiding behind that luck of yours like it's some sort of crutch. Power like that isn't luck, it's duty. A weapon's only as good as its owner."

  She prodded at his chest with a light fingertip, and for some reason, she was surprisingly gentle.

  And you're whacking it like a stick right now."

  Then that smile reappeared—the one that always preceded something ridiculous.

  "So, no more taking a break. Round two. And this time, hit me back."

  The peaceful morning was shattered like glass.

  Yukio's eyes widened in horror.

  "Wait, what?! We're doing this again? It's been like—what—five minutes? My bones just healed!"

  Michibiki stood up, smoothing her robes with an almost regal gesture.

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  "Excuses,

  She said flatly, putting her hands on her hips.

  "You said you wished to study magic. You warm up your body before you put hands on magic. That's the deal. Now get up."

  "I'm gonna complain to the gods,"

  Yukio growled, but he still let her pull him up by the wrist. Her grip was a vice, tugging him back to the clump of trampled grass where his dignity had been brutally dispatched.

  Standing before her again, Yukio took a deep breath. The clean air filled his chest, forcing some of the last haze from his mind. He folded into a stance—shaking, but firm.

  "You know,"

  He said dryly,

  "if anyone were to see this, they'd think you're bullying me."

  Michibiki smiled.

  "If it makes you stronger, I'll proudly accept the title."

  He flinched.

  "You're crazy."

  "Thank you."

  Yukio scowled.

  "That wasn't a compliment."

  She rested her head.

  "Still taking it as one."

  He could feel his pulse start to rise, both from nervousness and the very small trickle of adrenaline creeping back in. Her icy confidence was infuriating—and infectious.

  "Relax,"

  She spoke, spreading her stance.

  "I'm not even using one percent of my power."

  His voice cracked.

  "You're saying that like it's reassuring!"

  "Because it is,"

  She replied sweetly.

  "Though I might crank it up just a little."

  "You're unbelievable,"

  He complained, shifting his footing.

  "With your god-like strength, my punches probably feel like… I don't know, a mosquito trying to sting you."

  Her laughter drifted across the clearing, warm and maddening.

  "Sting harder, then."

  And then, like that, she was gone.

  Yukio's instincts took over—his gambler's instinct, that mystical sense that had saved his life more than once. Behind you, he thought, and spun even as a darkness flickered in the corner of his eye.

  Michibiki’s foot came down in a sharp axe kick, the force of it splitting the air with a crack! He rolled aside, the heel slamming into the dirt where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.

  “I knew it!”

  He shouted triumphantly, pivoting on one foot and driving a punch toward her ribs.

  She caught it in her palm without even looking.

  Her other hand flew around in a blur—then another, then another. The space around her distorted as she unleashed a burst of punches. Yukio parried and danced, working to read her timing. His forearms burned where her punches slid off them; his ribs ached from the dozen or so that caught him.

  She's faster now, he calculated, clenching teeth. She's not leaving as much back.

  He saw an opening and swung in a roundhouse kick. His foot connected with her ribs, firm and clean.

  Silence.

  She didn't budge. Didn't blink.

  Then—WHAM!—her fist crashed into his stomach, driving air from his lungs. He had less than a second to suck breath before her knee rose and smacked into him right in the face.

  "Weak, Do better."

  She stated.

  Pain flared brightly behind his eyes.

  Yukio staggered back, eyes blurrying, arms raised as he tried to keep his balance. I can't keep this up, he panicked. She's too strong. Too fast.

  And then—something changed.

  It started as a shimmer on the edges of his sight, threads of gold unspooling like silk strands in mid-air. They weren't real, but he could see them—dainty lines binding all of his sight. One thread pulsed more intensely, unwinding toward Michibiki.

  His breath caught. What—

  Before he could even consider asking, his eyes crossed once more. For a single beat, he saw Michibiki shift—a high kick, curving toward his head.

  Then the vision took off—

  and the real attack came.

  He didn't have time to think. His body acted first.

  He moved low, turning his hips, extending his leg wide. His kick landed firm with her ankles, and Michibiki's poise for the first time was upset. She cried out a shocked

  "Ah—!"

  As she fell to the ground with an ungainly thud.

  Yukio froze where he stood, eyes wide open. No way… I actually—

  He lunged forward, his fist raised for the knock-out blow—then froze. His knuckles an inch from her cheek. For once, he'd had the best of it.

  A slow smile crept onto his face.

  "Finally,"

  He panted, but still grinned.

  "I really knocked you down."

  Michibiki blinked at him, dirt carved into the curve of her cheek. For a moment, she did look surprised. Then, a growl crept up to the tip of her lips.

  " Took who down? "

  She talked in a low voice.

  Yukio didn't have time to blink before she spun upward in a flawless spin. Her leg came whirling around, a sweep of white and metal, and her heel struck his face squarely.

  The world whirled. Grass, sky, pain—then sky again.

  He hit the ground flat on his back, the impact thudding through him.

  Michibiki landed gracefully, dusting herself off like nothing had happened. She stepped closer, crouching down beside him. Her expression softened, the smugness giving way to something calmer—almost proud.

  “You’re improving,”

  She said quietly.

  “That last move—your reaction time. That wasn’t luck alone.”

  Yukio groaned, blinking blearily up at her.

  “Could’ve fooled me,”

  He muttered.

  “But don’t get cocky,”

  She talked over him, voice steady again.

  "That thread of yours—it's precarious. You read one move ahead by happenstance, not control."

  He squinted up at her.

  "Thread?"

  Her gaze darted to the river, sunlight playing off it.

  "You saw them, didn't you? The golden threads."

  Yukio hesitated.

  "Maybe. Thought I was going crazy."

  "You weren't."

  She stood tall, arms crossed.

  "That's The Threads of Fate. Now you see them. Now you can feel them."

  He tilted his head, wincing slightly.

  “So you’re saying my luck’s… divine destiny now?”

  Michibiki smiled faintly.

  “Or maybe fate just has a sense of humor.”

  For a moment, they stood in the quiet again—the wind brushing through the grass, the river murmuring its endless song.

  Then Yukio groaned, rolling onto his side.

  “Next time,”

  He said,

  “we train after breakfast.”

  Michibiki chuckled.

  “Next time, maybe you’ll land a real hit.”

  He glared at her on the ground.

  "You're enjoying this too much."

  "Obviously,"

  She giggled, fingers on hips, smile all the way back.

  "Now stand up. We haven't finished yet."

  Yukio flung his hands over his face.

  "I swear you'll kill me."

  "Not if you can catch on in time,"

  She said brightly.

  And with the sun higher over the plain, the wind carried the far-off ring of laughter—hers, light and wild; his, tired but genuine. The morning no longer tasted like defeat. It tasted like the first strand of something new being spun.