Eason stepped out of the capsule room and made his way back to the dorm. As he walked, he closed his eyes and focused inward. Within the depths of his mind, his gaze fell on the sphere seed.
Eason had already faced the bot several times. The first match had pushed him, ending in victory after eight minutes of grueling effort. The second bout went faster — five minutes. By the third, it was over in less than three. He was adapting fast, memorizing movement patterns, exploiting weaknesses, and syncing with the rhythm of combat like it was second nature.
He hadn't just fought barehanded either. Between sessions, he experimented with different weapons — short blades, polearms, gauntlets. Each one handled differently, each brought its own strengths and flaws. Some fit naturally, others felt like dead weight. But the experience was invaluable. It wasn't just about power. It was about precision.
Now, walking back to his room, the calm expression on his face didn't reflect the storm of thoughts within.
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
The sphere seed inside his mind felt off. The glow was dim. The energy flow — stagnant.
"Internally damaged," he muttered. "It's not producing anything. No output. That's going to be troublesome."
He pushed the thought aside and entered the room.
Drew glanced up from the bed. "Yo, where were you? You actually went and trained in that capsule?"
"Yeah. It gave me a lot of insights. I'd say you should try it too. This Livermore Program… from what you were saying, he might be arrogant, but he's not stupid. He's smart. Strategic."
"Yeah, keep up the guesswork," Drew said with a grin
...
A week passed in an instant.
The large training hall echoed with low murmurs. Sixty-one students stood in rows, anticipation crackling in the air.
A man stepped forward. His presence silenced the room.
He had wild crimson-red hair, spiked and untamed, flaring like a burning mane. His violet eyes glowed with sharp intensity, scanning each student like he could see right through them. A jagged blue tattoo ran down the left side of his face, like a bolt of lightning etched into his skin. Whether it was the result of battle or psychic enhancement, none could tell.
"My name is Livermore," he said. His voice carried authority—steady, cold, and commanding. "As most of you have probably heard, yes, I am a Tier 9 psychic."
The students stood straighter.
"I'll be your combat instructor from today onward. You'll learn the basic psychic techniques under me, as well as the foundation of psychic combat arts. For those stuck at Tier 1, I'll also guide you on how to break through into Tier 2."
His gaze lingered on a few faces. Some students flinched under his stare.
"Fail to keep up, and you'll be left behind. Simple as that."
Livermore crossed his arms.
"Let's be honest—Tier 1 isn't even a real tier. At most, it's a modified or enhanced human state. You awaken some abilities, sure, but it's still nothing worth being proud of. You've merely taken the first step."
More than forty students shifted uncomfortably. Most of them were still Tier 1.
"Breaking through is simple, if you know what you're doing. Your seed — that core of psychic energy within your mind — must be shattered. Once it breaks, you refine a new seed. That refined seed becomes your foundation as a true psychic. It's the most basic transition."
A voice suddenly cut through the silence.
"Easy?" one student scoffed. "Then why are we even called students?"
Heads turned. The speaker was a boy with yellow hair and piercing blue eyes — Lucas.
Livermore turned slowly. His gaze locked onto Lucas like a predator spotting prey.
"Pathetic."
The word rang out like a strike.
"You dare question what I say?" Livermore's eyes seemed to burn brighter. "I could incinerate you where you stand. But I'll answer."
He stepped closer.
"You're called students because you're still clueless. You know nothing about your own seed, about how it works or what it means. And second—no one forced you to be here. You signed up for this."
He leaned in slightly, voice colder.
"And if you do want to stay, you can shut the fuck up and keep your personal opinions to yourself."
Lucas went silent. The heat of Livermore's presence still lingered like fire in the air.
No one else dared to speak.
Livermore stood tall before the students, arms folded behind his back, his gaze scanning each face like a hawk surveying prey.
"Your first task today," he announced, "is to break through Tier 2."
Whispers echoed across the group.
He raised his voice, sharp and commanding.
"I've already explained the process. You have your seeds. You have your essence. Now stop standing around and get to work. Hurry up."
A girl near the center of the group sat down cross-legged and closed her eyes. Her long black hair swayed gently as a faint psychic aura pulsed around her. She was focused.
Her seed — a crystal-like box glowing faintly red — floated within the depths of her consciousness. The red essence inside flickered restlessly like flames trapped in glass.
She guided the flow of energy, concentrating on the structure of the box. It began to tremble, faint cracks forming along its smooth edges. Pressure built. Her breathing grew heavy.
Suddenly — a sharp flash of light inside her mind.
Crack.
The crystal box shattered.
Essence spilled out wildly, chaotic, untamed. But she didn't panic. With calm control, she gathered the released energy, drawing it inward and refining it.
The essence compressed, reshaped, and solidified once more — forming a new seed, smaller, denser, and alive with pulsing psychic force.
Her eyes snapped open, glowing faintly red.
She had stepped into Tier 2.
Livermore watched from a distance, arms folded, face unreadable but with a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes.
"At least one of you isn't useless," he muttered.
Eason sat cross-legged, closing his eyes as he examined his inner state. His seed was in poor condition. Half-filled, with no psychic essence being produced. Internally, it was practically dead.
He clicked his tongue silently. Those four psychics — his former companions — had used a forbidden move against him back then, one specifically designed to cripple his seed. Although he had taken precautions to preserve its structure, its current state left him at a clear disadvantage.
If he went up against someone like Livermore now, he would lose without question. Tier 9 was not a level that could be underestimated. Most psychics barely touched Tier 3 their entire lives.
There was only one path forward — deception.
He focused, tapping into his ability: Psywave Distortion, a high-tier illusion technique. With absolute precision, he crafted a convincing illusion around his damaged seed — a vibrant sphere glowing with orange essence. To any outside observer, it would look stable and powerful. As long as Livermore didn't use advanced technology or specialized psychic methods to check its internal state, it would remain undetected.
This wasn't just a trick he learned through human means. He had learned it from the Voyari — the monstrous enemies of mankind — a technique buried in their instinctual battlecraft. This was one of the reasons Eason had once been called the Perfect Psychic.
Unlike others, he didn't just mimic powers.
He mastered them.