The training chamber beneath the Veyron estate was a cathedral of absolute isolation. Six layers of reinforced lead-alloy and gravitic dampeners ensured that no external signal—no whisper of the Core's bustling traffic—could penetrate.
Astra's voice echoed against the seamless walls. "Environment sealed. External ribbon interference minimized to 0.0001%."
Arin Veyron stood at the center of the circular platform, his presence naturally warping the light around him. He was a man built of Loom-phase density, a living anchor. Opposite him, the five-year-old boy looked small, yet his posture mirrored the obsidian floor's stillness.
"Ribbon does not respond to desire," Arin said, his voice dropping into a register used for soldiers, not children.
"It responds to structure," the boy replied. He wasn't reciting a lesson; he was stating a law of physics.
Arin nodded. "Show me."
The First Alignment
The room's illumination dimmed to a faint amber. In the twilight, the air began to shimmer. These were raw Ribbon threads unbound, chaotic, and translucent. To a normal five-year-old, they would be invisible. To the protagonist, they were a disorganized set of variables.
"First lesson: Awareness," Arin commanded.
Without moving a muscle, Arin's Loom-phase presence expanded. The air didn't just get heavy; it became ordered. The drifting threads snapped into alignment toward him, compressing into a tight, stable field. The boy felt the density increase, a silent weight pressing against his chest.
"I did not force it," Arin said, releasing the pressure. The threads scattered like startled fish.
"You defined its boundary," the boy observed. "You gave it a reason to stay."
Arin's silver eyes flashed. "Correct."
Dr. Lyra, watching from the console, adjusted a projection. A complex geometric model rotated in the air—a visual representation of how a human mind interacts with the structural substrate of the universe.
"Your father stabilizes through physical compression mapping," Lyra explained. "He uses the Ribbon as a hammer. I use it as a scalpel."
She shifted the projection. The geometry dissolved into multi-layer probability fields. Under her influence, the Ribbon threads didn't tighten; they simply fell into place along invisible paths she had pre-calculated. No pressure. No heat. Just perfect, quiet order.
"Your turn," Arin stepped back.
The Zero-Leakage Anomaly
The boy stood alone. He closed his eyes, but not to block out the world. He was looking inward at his own Thread Phase development. At Level 5, his internal "wiring" was barely a few centimeters long, snaking from his brainstem to his heart.
Every 10 levels, those threads were supposed to broaden. He was still "thin." Fragile.
But he didn't need breadth.
He pictured the star lanes. He pictured the way a circuit board optimizes the flow of electrons. He didn't try to "pull" the Ribbon. He simply visualized the room as a giant equation that was currently unbalanced.
Slowly, the threads near him began to straighten.
"Ambient ribbon density increasing by 3%," Astra reported.
Lyra leaned forward, her medical sensors spiking. The boy wasn't sweating. His heart rate remained at a resting 70 beats per minute.
Around him, the Ribbon formed clean, parallel alignments. It looked like a weaver's loom before the first pass of the shuttle. It was a Level 5 Thread performing a Level 100 Strand alignment.
"It resists unnecessary compression," the boy whispered, his eyes opening.
"Explain," Arin demanded.
"Force introduces instability. Instability creates heat. Heat is lost energy," the boy said, his gray eyes locked on a single strand. "Structure invites alignment. If the model is correct, the Ribbon wants to be still."
"Energy leakage is negligible," Astra added, her tone almost sounding puzzled. "Stability index: 98.7%."
Arin and Lyra exchanged a look of profound concern. In the history of the Unified Council, no one not even the First Scientist had displayed near-zero loss at the beginning of their journey. It was the mark of a "Perfect Conductor."
The Pressure Test
"Second lesson: Resistance," Arin's voice was harder now. He raised his hand.
He didn't just align the Ribbon; he slammed it into a high-compression combat mode. The air distorted into a visible blur. A low hum vibrated the floor. This was the raw power of a Loom Phase 390+ combatant.
"Stabilize within this field," Arin commanded.
The pressure surged, trying to crush the boy's fledgling threads. It felt like being at the bottom of an ocean made of static.
The protagonist didn't fight the weight. He didn't push back with his own meager Level 5 energy. Instead, he searched for the "nodes" the points where Arin's compression was slightly irregular.
He found them. He adjusted his internal model, making tiny, microscopic corrections to his own frequency.
Slowly, a small "bubble" of structured calm formed around him. Within Arin's violent storm, the boy stood in a pocket of perfect stillness. He wasn't resisting the storm; he was becoming a part of the wind that didn't move.
"Local stability achieved," Astra confirmed.
Arin released the field instantly. Silence returned, heavy and thick.
"Dual-method inheritance," Lyra whispered, her hands trembling slightly on the console. "He didn't just use your compression or my modeling. He used the gaps between them."
Arin knelt to eye level with his son. "You did not resist me."
"Resistance increases instability, Father," the boy said. "I just... found where the Ribbon wasn't busy."
Arin allowed the faintest smile to grace his lips—a rare, terrifyingly proud expression. "Good. But remember this: optimization scales. Right now, you are a quiet room. One day, you will be a quiet universe. And that is a very dangerous thing to be."
Private Observation: The Veyron Study
Later that night, the two Pillars of the family sat in the dark.
"He cultivates like an engineer, not a warrior," Arin said, looking at the data readouts of the "Zero-Leakage" session.
"Most people build a bigger engine to go faster," Lyra agreed. "Our son is just removing the friction of reality itself. Arin, if he continues like this, he won't need to reach Level 500 to control a Space Fortress. His math will let him do it at Level 300."
Arin looked out at the Core. "Then we keep him hidden. If the Council or the Entity sees a child who can 'solve' Ribbon rather than just use it... they won't see a savior. They'll see a threat to the hierarchy."
In his room, the boy looked at his palm. A single, thin Thread, invisible to the naked eye, hovered there. He knew that at Level 10, it would thicken. At Level 100, it would become a Strand.
He didn't want a thicker thread. He wanted a more perfect one.
"The universe is just a very large, very poorly designed machine," he whispered to the dark. "I think I'll fix it."