Drew and Eason were assigned a room in the academy. It was spacious, with two beds, a compact kitchen, and a clean bathroom. It wasn't luxurious, but it had everything they needed.
"Yo Eason, my man, cook something," Drew said, tossing himself onto one of the beds.
Eason looked over with a blank expression. "Do I look like a cook to you? There's nothing in the fridge anyway. And even if there was, I wouldn't know how to cook it."
Drew let out an exaggerated sigh. "Alright, my treat. Let's go."
Eason stood up without hesitation.
"Of course you got up fast," Drew muttered.
The academy grounds were vast, almost like a miniature city. The Psychic Association had everything — training halls, residential quarters, grocery stores, and even restaurants.
Drew led the way into a small, bustling diner tucked between the training blocks. The smell of sizzling spices filled the air. He walked up to the counter and ordered a plate of chicken wings and rice. When it arrived, the two of them shared the meal, eating in quiet satisfaction. Drew paid for it with two credit coins.
"Next time, you're paying," he said as he wiped his mouth.
"Why not," Eason replied, still chewing, clearly enjoying the food.
After the meal, they stepped outside. The sky above Mythara was painted in dusk's fading light, casting long shadows across the stone paths.
"Man," Drew said, stretching his arms, "that girl... she was sexy as hell. No lie. And get this — she's Tier 3."
"You asked her what her ability is?"
"I did, but she didn't really give me a clear answer. Avoided it. But I did find out something else." He leaned in a little. "Livermore. That guy's terrifying. Looks scarier than you, and that's saying something. He's a Tier 9 psychic. Apparently, he stands right at the top."
Eason's brows drew together. His steps slowed just slightly.
"Tier 9, huh," he muttered under his breath
"That guy's also the one who's gonna train us next week," Drew went on. "He's the one in charge of the Weapon Compatibility program. We'll get to choose our weapons, and he'll teach us how to use them based on our psychic resonance."
Eason gave a slight nod, his gaze thoughtful.
"You see those capsule-type things near the edge of the hall?" Drew pointed toward a large glass structure on the far side of the training center. Inside, they could see students stepping into sleek, upright pods. Some were glowing faintly, while others pulsed with strange colors.
"I asked around about them," Drew continued. "They're like simulation chambers. We're supposed to use them to get familiar with all kinds of psychic gear and scenarios. Combat, defense, even resonance syncing."
Eason's eyes lingered on the capsules.
From the outside, they looked like translucent coffins — lined in chrome and humming with energy. He watched as one student stepped inside and disappeared beneath a veil of light.
Interesting.
The world has progressed by leaps and bounds.
He said nothing, but the thought stirred something inside him — a mix of curiosity and quiet contempt.
"Let's go give it a try then, shall we?" Eason said, brushing his hair back as he stared at the glowing capsule chambers.
Drew hesitated. "Uh, it's a little expensive… I think I'll wait back in the room."
Eason didn't argue. He walked toward the capsule room, where a stern-looking attendant stood near a panel.
"Ten credit points for two hours," the man said, his voice flat.
Without hesitation, Eason handed over the credits. The capsule slid open with a faint hiss. He stepped inside.
A soft white light enveloped him. Inside, a translucent interface bloomed to life, revealing several floating options: Training, Battle with Other Players, and Weapon Trial.
Eason ignored the weapon trials. He tapped on Training.
A new menu appeared.
Difficulty:
Easy
Normal
Hard
Extreme
He smirked. Without pause, he selected Extreme.
Enemy Configuration:
Eason began customizing. For his opponent, he selected two elemental types: Cryokinesis and Hydrokinesis — a blend of devastating force and fluid adaptability.
He equipped the enemy with dual weapons: a frost-coated blade in one hand and a flowing whip of water in the other. A perfect test.
As he finalized the simulation, the sterile whiteness of the capsule faded. A snowy battlefield materialized. The wind howled, and a figure cloaked in mist stood on the other end, blades at the ready.
Eason cracked his knuckles, eyes narrowing.
The moment the signal flashed — the bot struck.
A freezing current exploded beneath Eason's feet. With a short blast of telekinesis, his body launched backward, avoiding the icy eruption just as it tore the ground apart. That was the first use.
He landed light, sliding on the slick ice — not skidding helplessly, but in control. His legs moved fast, guided by internal enhancement. Body amplification kicked in, flooding his limbs with psychic force. His muscles burned with acceleration. His reflexes sharpened. He became a blur.
The bot chased, riding a wave of rushing water. It came in close, ice blade flashing toward his head.
Eason raised his hand, forming a compact telekinetic barrier. The edge of the ice blade smashed against the invisible wall — that was the second use — and cracked. But the bot didn't stop. It twisted and spun, sending a spiral of pressurized water at Eason's side.
Instead of blocking, he vanished.
One step, enhanced by psychic power. He appeared behind the bot mid-spin, and slammed a palm toward its back. The bot swerved unnaturally — ice shielding its spine, water cushioning the blow — and countered with a roundhouse slash. Eason ducked. He punched upward, not with strength, but with speed.
His fist drove into its gut.
A burst of steam hissed from the bot's vents. Water exploded out of its chest. But it didn't fall.
It surged again — ice forming wings, and the water around the battlefield lifting into a cyclone.
This time, it launched all of it.
The air filled with razors — water shaped into blades, spinning ice daggers, and compressed needles flying in all directions.
Eason didn't run.
He crouched low, planted his foot, and shot forward with a burst of body amplification. A second step, even faster, split the air. His coat whipped behind him like a shadow. He moved straight through the incoming barrage, slipping through narrow gaps, twisting, dodging, dashing.
One shard cut his cheek. Another sliced his sleeve. He didn't slow.
He leapt.
The bot raised both weapons to block, but too late.
With his last telekinetic use, Eason reinforced his leg and kicked downward. The force of it cracked the bot's shoulder plating and slammed it into the ice, shattering the lake's surface.
Eason landed, chest rising slowly.
The bot struggled to rise. Water around it tried to reform, but its systems were overclocked — too much pressure, too much strain.
Eason took a breath and charged again.
No more tricks. Just raw, augmented speed.
He appeared in front of the bot, stepped into its guard, and unleashed a flurry of palm strikes to its chest, neck, shoulder joint. Each one precise. Each one brutal. The final hit sent it flying, crashing into the ice wall behind.
The simulation flickered.
Match complete.
Eason stood alone in the cold.
"I have grown a little rusty," he muttered under his breath.