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 had grown up inside that pressure—trained relentlessly, corrected constantly, measured against invisible futures. His status window climbed cleanly. His numbers improved every year. 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 conflicts like gravity bent around him.
Watched Raisel sharpen precision into something terrifying.
Watched Alan Walker dominate without 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 calmly.
Jayden adjusted the weight of his newly acquired spiritual weapon onto 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 high grade, but enough for early Triangle growth.
The overseeing professor observed 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. Clean edge. Good resonance.
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 by nature.
He was ambitious without elasticity.
The Triangle would break that kind of person eventually.
Steel met steel.
At first, it looked balanced.
Jayden swung wide, heavy arcs—forceful, decisive. He wasn't sloppy. He'd trained.
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 can overwhelm through momentum.
Jayden tried exactly that.
He shifted footwork, doubled pressure, forced Lucas backward.
For a moment—
it almost looked good.
Then Lucas adjusted spacing half a step.
Half a step was enough.
Jayden's third swing overcommitted.
Not dramatically.
Just slightly too much weight.
Lucas stepped outside the axis.
His sword rose.
Mana gathered along the blade—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 blade continued forward and carved across Jayden's chest in a shallow but decisive strike.
His uniform tore open. Skin scored. Breath vanished.
Jayden hit the ground staring up at nothing.
Silence settled.
The professor exhaled.
"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 weapon.
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 can curdle.
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.
Practical.
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 — large curved dagger.
Jayden — weaponless.
"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 rising.
But numbers alone didn't win sustained fights.
I stepped onto a treadmill and started steady.
7.12 m/h — current manageable pace.
The original Dreyden had trained consistently.
That foundation saved me.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Forty.
Lungs burned.
Muscles protested.
I pushed until peripheral blur edged my vision.
"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.
After several minutes he spoke.
"Have you reconsidered my offer?"
"No."
Silence.
"Why?" he asked.
I slowed the machine gradually and stepped off.
"What do you see in me?" I asked.
He studied me.
Not casually.
Seriously.
Then sighed.
"Alright," he said. "I'll stop pushing."
But he didn't look convinced.
The offer wasn't withdrawn.
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 gained his ability, he'd been disappointed.
A Level 2 non-combat skill.
Luck Point {2}.
He almost threw it away.
Then he activated it.
The world changed color.
Red — misfortune.
Blue — neutral.
Yellow — good fortune.
Gold — great opportunity.
White — unknown.
White was the problem.
White was potential beyond calculation.
He had learned to test colors.
Arlo once glowed red.
Lucas adjusted his 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 immense balanced itself out the moment structure was applied.
That unsettled him more than red ever had.
As he walked back toward his dorm, the voice in his mind stirred.
"Still curious?" it asked.
"Yes," Lucas murmured.
"White paths are the most interesting," the voice replied. "They are either disaster… or transcendence."
Lucas touched the necklace at his chest.
It glowed gold in his perception.
Reliable.
Safe.
Dreyden, somewhere else in the Triangle—
Shone white.
Lucas frowned.
"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 quietly curved toward collision.