Episode 1 — The Chain That Would Not Break

The marble hall of the High Council was so silent Rowan could hear the faint hum of psychic fields buzzing above their heads.

Cold light spilled from the skylight, gleaming on the gold emblem behind the judges’ dais—a crowned lion, its mane threaded with chains.

Every match in the Guideverse began here, under the scrutiny of the Council and the public eye.

And every high-rank pairing was treated less like a ceremony… and more like a spectacle.

“Compatibility rate: 100%,” the announcer’s voice rang through the chamber.

The number glowed in crimson letters on the massive screen, casting an eerie glow over Rowan’s pale face.

He kept his eyes forward, though his stomach tightened. Perfect match. He hated those words. They didn’t mean harmony. They meant ownership.

His wrists were locked in silver-etched manacles, psychic dampeners humming softly against his skin. Even without them, he could feel the oppressive air pressing down on him.

Somewhere behind the crowd’s polite silence was the unspoken truth: an S-ranked Guide with a perfect match to an SSS Esper didn’t get a choice.

The heavy double doors opened at the far end of the hall. A ripple went through the audience.

The man who entered moved like he owned the air itself.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a tailored black suit with a crimson tie that caught the light like fresh blood. His black hair was slicked back, sharp lines framing a face carved in perfect control.

His presence was like a psychic storm barely leashed.

Alder Varyn.

Rank: Esper SSS. Codename: Dominion King.

Rumors wrapped around his name like barbed wire.

Four Guides before Rowan—two broken beyond repair, one vanished without a trace, and the last… dead.

The crowd’s whispers swelled, but Alder ignored them. His dark eyes found Rowan immediately, assessing him with a slow, deliberate sweep.

“Bring them forward,” Alder’s voice cut through the air, low and commanding. Not a request—an order.

Two Council guards pushed Rowan forward. The closer he got, the heavier the atmosphere became, Alder’s psychic pressure curling around him like invisible chains.

Then—contact. Not physical, but mental. A featherlight brush against Rowan’s mind, testing the surface. A warning and a promise in one.

Rowan straightened his spine. “I’m not your pet.”

Alder’s gloved hand caught his chin, tilting it upward until their eyes locked.

“No,” Alder said, his tone like velvet over steel. “You’re my Guide.”

Gasps rippled through the hall. The Council Head’s raised hand silenced them, signaling the start of the ritual.

A circle of golden light flared to life beneath their feet. Fine strands of energy rose like smoke, weaving into glowing chains that wrapped around Rowan’s wrists before slithering toward Alder. The psychic link clicked into place with a sharp snap.

A rush of sensation flooded Rowan’s mind—Alder’s power, raw and jagged, colliding with his own calm center. It was like standing in the heart of a storm while holding the only unshakable ground.

It was intoxicating. And terrifying.

Alder didn’t let go. He stepped close, the faint scent of smoke and leather brushing against Rowan’s senses. His lips hovered near Rowan’s ear.

“Try to run,” Alder murmured, low enough only Rowan could hear, “and you’ll learn exactly how unbreakable this chain is.”

The hall erupted into applause.

Rowan didn’t hear it.

All he could feel was the weight of the chain… and the dangerous pull in his chest, as if the link was already rewriting something deep inside him.

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