The dream always began the same — thunder rolling above an endless field, red threads glimmering in the rain, pulling you toward a shadowed figure. When you finally met Barou in reality, the world seemed to still, his eyes narrowing as if recognizing something ancient.

Match after match, the same fire burned between you — rivalry, obsession, something more. Each victory felt fated, each loss, shared.

One night after training, he caught your wrist, his voice low but certain.

"Guess even fate knows I don’t lose… not to you, not to this."