The underground training facility at headquarters was even more desolate than Ethan had imagined.
Rows of metal racks held strange instruments—some resembling old revolvers, others like ancient ritual implements—each faintly glowing with arcane runes. Cold reflections occasionally flickered on the walls, as if spying on every soul that stepped into this place.
The air carried the scent of cold metal and ink, mingled with an ineffable sense of oppression, like invisible hands squeezing the chest, making each breath heavy and labored.
Silas led Ethan to a table and pointed at a short blade resting on it.
The blade was pitch-black, its surface seemingly containing flickering points of light, like stars trapped in the void of night.
The hilt's icy chill cut into the palm, as if warning: grasp it, and you step into another reality.
"This is the most basic psychic weapon—the 'Nightwalker Blade,'" Silas introduced coldly. "It resonates with the wielder's mental waves, severing projections of nightmares. Pick it up."
Ethan hesitated for a moment, then reached out to grip the blade.
The cold metal surged through his palm like electric currents, instantly stimulating his nerves. In the next moment, his vision warped, and fractured images appeared before his eyes:
A dark room, surrounded by countless unseen eyes.
A familiar figure slowly turned, a blade pointed straight at his heart.
The air reeked of blood and indifference, as if every breath would freeze in his lungs.
"Hiss—" Ethan yanked his hand back, letting the blade clatter to the floor.
Gasping, cold sweat beading on his forehead, his heart thundering as if to burst from his chest.
Silas frowned. "As expected, your mind is still unstable."
"Could you at least warn me next time?!" Ethan laughed nervously, voice trembling. "I almost thought I was about to get stabbed again."
Silas ignored him, pulling another device from the cabinet—a strangely shaped revolver, its surface etched with dense runes, the barrel faintly flickering with silver light.
"This is the 'Dreamhunter.' It doesn't fire bullets, but rune rounds condensed from psychic energy. If your will is strong enough, you can strike a nightmare's core. Try it."
Ethan blinked and carefully took the weapon.
The revolver was lighter than expected, yet holding it felt like carrying an invisible weight. Every trigger pull seemed to consume a fraction of his soul.
He aimed at the phantom target in the firing range and pulled the trigger.
"Bang—!"
Not a muzzle flash, but a silver beam shot forward, striking the target. The phantom instantly shattered into fragments, scattering like shattered glass.
Ethan froze, then broke into a grin. "Wow… this feels better than any game I've played."
The smile carried a mix of surprise and hidden excitement—finally, he realized he was holding more than a weapon; he held a force capable of turning the tide of battle.
Silas cast him a glance. "Don't forget—that isn't a toy. Every shot consumes your psychic energy. If your will collapses, the weapon will turn on you."
Ethan's grin stiffened. "…You could've told me earlier."
Footsteps echoed from the other side of the training area. Several investigators approached, each armed with different weapons: some with long rifles embedded with purple crystals, others carrying thick tomes with flaming letters dancing across the pages.
Their gazes landed on Ethan, cold or mocking, like predators sizing up prey.
"Newbie?" one sneered. "Lucky to survive a rift once. Don't come back next time leaving nothing but bones."
Ethan forced a smile, raising the Dreamhunter and firing again at the phantom target.
The beam struck, shattering the illusion once more. With each pull of the trigger, he felt his psychic energy ebbing like a tide, but a sense of mastery and exhilaration surged within him.
He spread his hands. "At least I don't miss."
The training area fell silent. The investigators exchanged glances, snorted, and walked away.
Silas studied Ethan, his expression briefly unreadable, as if weighing his potential. Then he spoke coldly: "Don't get cocky. Psychic weapons choose their wielder easily, but mastering them is another story. You're far from ready."
Ethan grinned, knowing the danger yet whispering to himself:
"At least now, I'm not unarmed anymore."
Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the air trembled. A voice called from afar:
"The rift in Phantom Dream Town… it's fluctuating again!"
Silas' expression shifted, his usual cold detachment replaced with urgency. He moved swiftly toward the exit.
Ethan froze for a moment, inhaled deeply, and tightened his grip on the Dreamhunter.
His heartbeat still raced, but no longer from pure fear—it carried anticipation.
Anticipation for the unknown battle, anticipation for the moment he would truly stand on the battlefield.
He closed his eyes, feeling the cold and power flowing from the blade and revolver, as if fate itself whispered his name.
—The fight that belonged to him was truly beginning.