Cold sweat woke him. Three days had passed, his body insisted. But the scene in his palm hadn’t moved on at all.

  Yu lay sunk in the mattress, staring at the wood grain in the ceiling as if it might rearrange itself into an answer. The room was dim, the curtains pulled tight, but light still leaked through a narrow seam and drew a thin blade across the wall. His sheets clung to his skin, damp and clammy, and every time he inhaled, the air felt heavier than it should have—like the room had learned a different kind of density while he wasn’t looking.

  Sand. Teeth. A shadow rearing up from beneath the desert. Then the flash, the roar, the world turning white and brown at once as the blast rolled through the dunes like a god’s breath. And then— “Yu… thank you…” Rize’s voice wasn’t a memory the way other memories were. It didn’t sit politely behind his eyes. It pressed right up against his ribs, warm and sharp, as if it still had somewhere to be.

  When he pictured her face—tear-smeared, dust-streaked, lit by that harsh desert sun—his chest went hot in a way that had nothing to do with fever. I protected her. The thought slid into place as naturally as breathing. It came with its own proof: the sensation of [Bind], the satellite’s mass dragging through a door that shouldn’t exist, the authority flooding into his skull like an invasive rewrite.

  The pain had been unbearable. The recoil had been worse. But that single line—her gratitude—had made it all feel like it had meaning. Then the next thought followed, colder and heavier. But the satellite is gone. He’d returned it to this world. He’d destroyed it.

  Not because he wanted to. Not because he thought it was right in some clean, heroic way. Return it. Then drop it. A patch. A delay. Yu swallowed, throat still dry enough to burn. The act of swallowing felt like pulling sandpaper through his neck, but he did it anyway, because the alternative was to lie here and drown in the same loop forever.

  Delay. He didn’t fully understand the shape of her meaning when Mamiya said it. He understood it the way you understand a storm warning while still standing in sunlight. The atmosphere changes. Pressure drops. Birds go quiet. You don’t see the lightning yet, but you know it’s coming.

  His fingers twitched against the sheet, searching for something to grab. The fabric bunched under his nails, and the small roughness of the weave grounded him for half a second. He’d wanted a power to protect. And now, the world had held up a mirror and shown him the same power with a different label: destroy.

  The contradiction made his chest feel like it might split. He shut his eyes, and for a moment the darkness behind his lids wasn’t just darkness. It shimmered, faintly, like heat haze over asphalt. Like the air before a door opens.

  “…What did I do…” Yu Said, the words came out as a whisper, and even that was too loud in the hush of his room. His voice sounded scraped raw, like he’d swallowed gravel. He wasn’t sure he could hear it himself. He felt it more than heard it—vibration in his throat, air leaving his lungs. Every time he tried to answer, the answer shifted. His thoughts slipped on themselves, and all that remained was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, like regret that had turned chemical. And yet—there was something in him that refused to let go. Not the missile. Not the satellite. Not the power. For her.

  The memory of warmth between them—the day they’d touched, promised, held on as if words could stitch two worlds together—sat in his chest like a fragile candle. It wasn’t just happiness. That was why he was afraid. Because happiness was something you could lose. Because he had already almost lost her once.

  I never want to lose her again. The thought came with an ugly companion: the certainty that without power, he couldn’t keep that promise. Without the ability to reach her, to intervene, to tear open distance like paper, the world could take her away and there would be nothing he could do but watch. His vision narrowed as if the room itself had tightened around him. The edges of his world felt smaller, darker. The ceiling above him seemed lower.

  So what do I do? The answer arrived with a simplicity that scared him. Throw this world away. School. Family. Homework left half-finished. The soft, normal weight of a life that had never asked him to decide the fate of anyone but himself. All of it—discard it like a skin that no longer fit. If he went to the other world, he wouldn’t have to keep balancing on the line between “boy” and “weapon.” He wouldn’t have to pretend he was normal while governments and corporations and secrets circled overhead like vultures.

  He could live with Rize. And if he needed food, shelter, tools—[Bind] can provide it. That thought didn’t feel like fantasy. It felt like a plan. Like a straight path through the fog. He could pull what he needed across the worlds. He could bring supplies. Medicine. Money. Or leave money behind and never need it again.

  If his power could only be a hammer, then he could choose what he hit. If his power broke things, then he could choose which world took the cracks. His hand tightened on the blanket until his knuckles ached. Sweat gathered in his palm, warm and slick. His heartbeat sped up, not from fear now, but from the dangerous relief of a decision that felt too easy.

  “…Yeah.” Yu’s voice trembled, but the shape of the thought didn’t. “…As long as I can protect Rize…” The sentence sounded like a prayer. It also sounded wrong. It was the kind of logic that ate everything else and called it love. It was the kind of vow that made the world small enough to carry in one hand.

  The rightness and wrongness of it melted together, blurring at the edges until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. All he could feel was the terror of losing her again—pure, animal, overriding. And under that terror, a new fear bloomed: that this was what his power did to him. Not just mana poisoning. Not just pain. Warping the shape of what he could justify.

  He inhaled shallowly, as if a deeper breath might collapse the fragile structure of his resolve. The room remained still, silent, waiting. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling again, as if the wood grain might tell him whether he was saving someone—or becoming something that couldn’t be saved.

  ?

  “…If I’m not in time, there's no point.” Rize’s voice came out in a thin breath that turned quickly into steam in the cool air.

  The forest wrapped around her in damp green layers. The ground was soft with fallen leaves and dark soil, and every step sank slightly, springy and uncertain. The air smelled of wet bark and moss, sharp and clean compared to the desert’s baked dust. Somewhere overhead, branches shifted with a quiet creak as the wind moved through them, and stray droplets fell from leaves to patter against the earth.

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  Sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken shards, painting the clearing in mottled gold. In that dappled light, Rize stood with her sword raised, shoulders trembling with fatigue she refused to acknowledge.

  She inhaled slowly through her nose and tasted the forest: dampness, sap, earth. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her face. Her fingers tightened on the hilt until the leather bit into her palms.

  I understand it in my head. Her mind could track movement now. She could see the angle of a falling branch before it fell. She could read the tilt of a leaf as wind gathered. She could sense the subtle shift of mana in the air the way you feel temperature changing before rain. But none of that mattered if her body lagged behind her thoughts like a stubborn shadow.

  She lowered her stance and drew in mana. Not a gentle draw. Not the cautious kind a mage might teach a beginner. She reached outward with intent and pulled more than she should have, dragging the forest’s mana into herself like she was trying to fill a cracked vessel faster than it could hold.

  The world sharpened. The swaying branches became slower, almost syrupy. A leaf drifting down from above seemed to hang in place, rotating lazily as if time had decided to admire it. The sound of her breathing grew louder, each inhale a measured intake, each exhale a controlled release. Her heartbeat no longer felt like a rush—it felt like a drum in a spacious room.

  She lifted her sword. A twig snapped somewhere to her left, not loud, just a minor sound. But in her sharpened state, it rang out like a signal. Rize shifted her weight to move—Her foot caught. Her ankle rolled just enough for pain to spark. Her knee buckled. The ground rushed up, and she slammed her knee into the soil hard enough to jar her teeth.

  “—!” She hissed through clenched teeth. The world snapped back toward normal speed in a nauseating lurch, as if time itself had yanked her by the collar. Her stomach flipped. Her vision swam.

  She tried to stand, but bile rose sharply, burning her throat. She clapped a hand to her mouth and swallowed it down, shaking. Her shoulders rose and fell too quickly. Sweat gathered at her hairline despite the cool air. Her mind was still fast. Her body was not.

  “…I know it.” Rize said, the words came out ragged, furious at herself. “I know it, but I can’t—” She forced her feet under her again. Her legs trembled like they belonged to someone else. Dirt clung to her knee where her armor had scraped, and pain throbbed in time with her pulse.

  She raised her sword once more. A low branch hung in front of her—a target she’d chosen because it didn’t move, because it didn’t fight back, because it wouldn’t judge her. She drew in mana again, feeling it slide over her skin and sink into her muscles.

  The world sharpened. Her thoughts raced ahead. She swung. The blade cut air. The branch remained untouched, mocking her with its stillness. The momentum pulled her forward, and she stumbled, catching herself with a hand in the dirt. Gravel bit into her palm. A sting followed—a thin line of blood where her skin had split.

  Rize froze, breathing hard, staring at the small red line on her hand as if it were an accusation.“…Why.” Her voice cracked. “Why can’t I—” Anger surged. Not at the forest. Not at the branch. At herself. At the gap between knowing and doing. At the fact that awareness alone hadn’t saved Yu when the light swallowed him. At the memory of helplessness that still burned beneath her ribs. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away, but more came, hot despite the cold air.

  “…I can see it.” Rize spoke through clenched teeth. “I can see everything, and I still can’t reach it.” She pulled in mana again, harder this time, desperate. It rushed into her like cold water poured into a heated cup. Her skin prickled. Her bones felt too small.

  Her thoughts accelerated until the forest felt like a painting. And then her stomach lurched again, violent. She gagged, choking down nausea until her eyes watered. Her hands shook so badly the sword’s tip trembled. Still—she swung. Still—she missed.

  The failure wasn’t clean. It wasn’t a simple “not enough.” It was messy: slipping feet, shaking knees, wrists that didn’t obey the moment her mind commanded. She fell again. Dirt smeared her cheek. Leaves stuck to her damp skin. Her palm stung from the cut, and when she flexed her fingers, the wound opened slightly and bled anew.

  Rize pressed her forehead to the ground for a heartbeat, breathing in the scent of soil, letting it steady her. Then she lifted her head. “Yu…” The name escaped without permission. The sound of it loosened something inside her. Not weakness—resolve. The memory of the desert. The shadow. The moment she’d thought she would die. And then the pillar of light that arrived like a promise made real.

  If I can reach it, I can protect it. The thought returned, as clear as the dappled sunlight above her. She pushed herself upright, trembling, and planted her sword into the earth like a staff. She leaned on it, shoulders heaving, eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall freely.

  “…This will be my strength.” Rize’s voice was thin, but it didn’t waver. “This… will become my Skill.” She drew in a shaky breath and looked at her hands—dirty, scraped, bloodied. They didn’t look like the hands of a hero. They looked like the hands of someone who kept getting up. “…Faster.” She swallowed. “No delay. No hesitation.” Her mind latched onto the concept the way it had latched onto Yu’s path.

  Speed that wasn’t just awareness. Speed that forced her body to match. She whispered as if saying it aloud would carve it into her bones.

  “ [Lightning].” Rize call the name struck something inside her chest like flint. A pulse. Small but undeniable. She blinked, confused for a heartbeat, then stared at her sword hand. Her grip tightened. The leather wrapped around the hilt creaked faintly. A faint light gathered at her fingers. Not a blaze. Not a spell-circle. Not the dramatic glow of high-tier magic. Just a tiny, trembling spark, flickering like a firefly trapped under her skin.

  Her breath caught. The spark wavered, almost vanishing, then flared again—weak, fragile, but present. Rize’s throat tightened with emotion too raw to name. She laughed once, breathless and broken, because the body that had betrayed her was answering—just barely—at last.

  “…I won’t lose.” Rize spoke like she was making a vow to the forest, to the earth, to herself. “If I have this… I won’t let anything slip away again.” She tried to stand without leaning on the sword. Her legs spasmed. Pain shot through her knee. Nausea rolled again, and she gritted her teeth until her jaw ached.

  She didn’t fall. That alone felt like victory.

  “ [Lightning].”Rize swallowed, then spoke the name again, softer this time, as if reassuring the fragile spark that it belonged to her. The spark flickered in answer.

  It was tiny. It was pathetic compared to the power that had split the desert sky. But it was hers. And the idea had shape now. Not just trial and error. Not just desperate flailing. A path.

  Rize lifted her sword and faced the branch again, eyes still wet, face smeared with dirt and sweat. “…I’ll reach it.” Her voice shook with exhaustion, but the light in her eyes held. “No matter what it takes.” She swung once more, slower than her mind wanted, faster than her body wanted.

  The blade whistled through the air. This time, the branch trembled—not cut, not severed, but touched by the wind of her strike. Leaves fluttered down. Rize froze, then exhaled a laugh that sounded like a sob. It wasn’t enough. But it was a beginning.

  ?

  “I’ll throw it all away.” Yu’s voice was barely more than breath, but the words carried weight like a blade being drawn. He lay sunk into the bed, staring at a ceiling that didn’t answer, and yet his mind moved with brutal clarity.

  “…School. Family. Everything.” His throat hurt with each word. His chest felt tight, as if the air had thickened again. But the thought kept pushing forward, unstoppable. “…I’ll take it all on.” The vow sounded like devotion. It also sounded like someone stepping toward a cliff with their eyes open.

  Somewhere in a damp forest under broken sunlight, Rize forced her trembling body to match her sharpened mind, a spark of Lightning flickering at her fingertips. Somewhere in a dim room behind heavy curtains, Yu let fear shape his love into something dangerous.

  Neither of them knew what the other had chosen. But their decisions, born from the same desperation—to never be too late again—were already moving toward each other, silent and inevitable, like two storms drawn to the same sky.