The moment Ren's boots touched real ground again — the Vein gate sealing behind him with a vibrating chime — he didn't have time to breathe.
Shouting. Footsteps. And then — fuck.
Two factions, same target.
From the west tunnel: dark-robed local Enforcers, blades humming with static magic and eyes twitching from the scent of a fugitive.
From the east tunnel: pristine, crystal-stitched armor of the Guardian Order, helms glowing with celestial glyphs. Illegal. Powerful. Unwelcome.
They all stopped. Looked at each other.
Then came the accusing finger.
"You're not supposed to be here!" barked an Enforcer.
"Neither are you," hissed a Guardian. "We'll take custody of the anomaly."
And just like that, Ren was no longer the main event.
Chaos. Delicious, stupid chaos.
Sparks flew. Swords clashed. Spells erupted like horny fireflies on crack.
Ren didn't wait for an invitation. He turned, sprinted — only to feel something tighten around his leg.
Thread. Smooth. Precise. Vicious.
"Going somewhere, sword-boy?"
A girl stepped from the shadows above — silver eyes, half a mask, fingers dancing with thread-light. Graceful as sin and twice as sharp.
He tried to slash the thread — too late. It yanked him sideways into a pillar. Groaned. Rolled.
The sword pulsed.
"Oh. A fight. Finally. Try not to embarrass yourself, bearer."
"Oh, I'll try," Ren grunted, "but you're gonna need to help, you smug butterknife."
"I'm a celestial soulblade forged in pre-Vein fire by a choir of star-priests."
"Then stop narrating your Tinder bio and CUT SHIT."
No response.
He swung anyway. The sword didn't glow. Didn't hum. Didn't do anything except be marginally sharp.
Fine. It was a goddamn metal stick today. He'd work with it.
The girl lunged again — a twirl of thread, a flash of a hidden blade.
Ren blocked. Barely. She was fast — too fast. Not just trained — experienced. Her hits came in flurries, testing him. Judging him. Playing.
"You're not bad," she murmured. "But that sword's not yours."
He panted. "And you talk like you know me."
She smirked behind her mask. Didn't answer.
Thread whipped toward his throat — he ducked, rolled, used the slope of the Vein floor to gain space.
The sword whined in his mind.
"Ugh. Your footwork is tragic. Pivot left next time."
"Oh now you fucking care?"
"You called me a butterknife."
"Earn your edge back, then."
With a growl, Ren stopped running.
He stepped into the next strike, let her thread wrap his wrist — and then yanked her forward.
That one caught her off-guard.
He slammed the hilt of the blade into her gut — not graceful, not fancy — raw, human, desperate.
She skidded back, thread snapping loose.
Ren raised the sword high, gritting his teeth.
The sword finally spoke again — but softer.
"You're not ready. But… you're real."
The blade shimmered. Slightly. Not glowing — but no longer dead weight.
The girl pulled herself up from the dirt, staring at him differently now.
Like a memory stirred. Or a past poking through her practiced mask.
But before either could move — a blast from behind.
Both turned. The tunnel trembled.
Enforcers screaming. Guardians retreating.
And the Vein bell in the distance now glowed a deep, pulsing blue — waking up again.
Ren whispered, "...Shit. Round two."
Her threads snapped back into her palm like obedient snakes — but her other hand shifted.
Blades. Thin, curved, gleaming. Two. Then four. Then six.
She moved like she had more limbs than a human should.
"Thread test? Passed," she said smoothly. "Now let's see if you survive the rest."
She vanished — fuck, she was fast.
Ren barely blocked the first blade. The second sliced his shoulder. Third missed by a breath — but the fourth? Thunk.
His leg gave out.
He dropped, gasping, sword scraping stone.
"You're not fast enough," she whispered near his ear.
He was going to die.
And then — stillness.
⏳ Time… stopped.
The air froze mid-blood droplet. Her blade hung mid-swing. Even sound died.
And then, they returned.
(CORE, distant and smug):
"Aww. Look at him. Half-dead on a magic floor. How nostalgic."
(FROST, sharp and cold):
"He shouldn't even be standing. This is why mortals need leash laws."
(BLAZE, hot and horny as ever):
"Pfft. You're just mad because I got dibs on his left lung."
(CORE):
"Technically, I got there first. I'm literally his fucking eyes."
(SWORD, freshly pissed off):
"Silence, gremlins. He called me a butterknife."
(CORE):
"And you were. Emotionally. Spiritually. Spiritually dull."
(BLAZE):
"He's bleeding. Can we let him stab something now or are we still circle-jerking about 'destiny'?"
Ren twitched.
"…are you all arguing in my head while I'm about to be murdered by a girl with six blades and a vendetta?"
(FROST, matter-of-factly):
"Technically, she's not trying to kill you. Yet. It's a test. Or a memory. Or revenge. Could be horny, too. Hard to tell with her."
(CORE):
"You're welcome for the second wind, by the way."
(BLAZE):
"Fractional energy boost incoming. Don't waste it being sexy on the ground."
(SWORD, grumpy):
"Do not miss with me this time. Or I will fold myself into a spatula out of spite."
Energy surged.
Not a lot — just a sliver. Enough to feel his limbs again. Enough to move. The sword in his hand warmed — slightly.
His eyes glowed faintly — CORE's shimmer bleeding into view. His breath fogged — FROST's chill coiling from his lips. His skin tingled — BLAZE's fire dancing in his chest.
Time resumed.
She struck.
Ren parried — barely. But this time, he countered.
One spin. Blade clash. A downward thrust — blocked. A sudden roll into a scissor kick that sent her skidding.
She landed light on her feet, smirking.
"…Not bad," she said, twirling two knives back into her sleeves. "Looks like something inside finally woke up."
(CORE, smug):
"Told you we imprint. Like divine parasites with opinions."
(FROST):
"Correction: like divine parasites with standards."
(BLAZE):
"Screw standards, I'm just here for the fight moans."
(SWORD, offended):
"I have dignity, you flame-brained pervert."
(BLAZE):
"You live in a man's pants, don't get too smug."
(CORE, thoughtful):
"Technically, it's sheath storage, but point taken."
Ren breathed harder, not quite smiling — but not bleeding as badly either.
The girl tilted her head. "You're not using that sword right. But you're not using it wrong, either."
He blinked. "Thanks?"
She turned away — only slightly. "Next time, use it before you nearly die."
Then she was gone.
Ren stood alone, the fight over — for now.
(SWORD, whispering):
"She'll be back. And when she is… you'd better be ready to actually wield me."
(CORE, fading):
"Also — you should ask her name next time before she rips out your liver. Just saying."
Next stop? Probably trauma. Definitely more interdimensional lore sex. And maybe, maybe, some answers.
But first?
Ren looked down at the sword and muttered, "I'm going to name you Buttermurder."