Eason had two thoughts racing through his mind ,could he snatch another seed, or perhaps refine one himself? But he pushed them aside. He didn't know how to create seeds. He didn't even have the recipe.
The first psychic to ever appear was Leo.
A legend.
He had long yellow hair, and four seeds embedded in his body. Four seeds , that meant he could wield four different psychic abilities. That alone made him a prophet in the eyes of the world.
Eason was different.
He could use every psychic ability not because he was chosen, but because he was made.
An experiment.
Leo had refined two of his seeds, that much was known. After his rise, more and more psychics began to awaken across Mythara, each generation stronger than the last. The world changed. Power escalated. And the government?
They got desperate.
They wanted control. So they tried to create the perfect weapon.
In other words... me.
Eason chuckled.
"Another one's broken through Tier 2," Livermore muttered, checking the latest data on his tablet. "Good. Very good."
Moments later, another alert blinked."Drew's made it through as well. Hmph. Took him long enough."
But not everyone was as fortunate.
Twenty names flashed red across the screen.
"Failures," Livermore said coldly. "Expel them."
Within minutes, twenty students were escorted out of the training arena — their dreams cut short. No ceremony. No second chances.
Drew walked over to Eason, sweat still clinging to his brow. "Yo," he said, catching his breath. "Why don't we spar sometime?"
Eason gave a small nod. "Sure."
Before they could say more, Livermore suddenly stood up from his chair, his voice cutting through the entire chamber.
"Who wants to spar with me?" he barked. "Or are you all just a bunch of weak little cowards?"
His eyes swept the room, daring someone to speak.
Drew's eyes widened. I want to see how strong this guy really is. He's cocky as hell.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward.
Livermore's gaze locked onto him, sharp and unwavering. "You?"
He stood up, not a hint of mockery in his tone. No matter the opponent, he never took a challenge lightly.
Drew didn't waste time. No preparation. No psychic body amplification. Not even the basic stance of a combat art.
He just charged in.
Reckless.
Livermore didn't move not until the very last second. One precise strike, fast and brutal, landed deep in Drew's gut.
A dull thud echoed across the training hall.
Drew's body folded instantly. His breath escaped in a choked gasp, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Livermore stood over him, unfazed.
"Next."
Livermore scoffed, his voice loud enough for the remaining students to hear. "Don't you lot even know how to use basic body amplification?"
But before the mockery could settle, Eason stepped forward without a word.
Livermore glanced at him and smirked. "Another weakling?"
Then he paused — his eyes narrowed.
He sensed it.
Body amplification. Clean. Stable. Controlled.
He's using amplification already? Can his psychic channel even handle ten times output? Livermore's expression shifted subtly. Guess I'll lower my prowess a little.
Eason charged.
But two steps before impact, he suddenly rolled to the right a quick feint and launched a sharp kick from a low angle.
Livermore blocked it easily.
"Oh? You've got some tricks."
They exchanged blows, fast and close. Eason was sharp, but Livermore moved like a machine , dodging, parrying, never striking back. He was testing him.
Then Livermore sensed it again.
Fifteen times amplification? His eyes flicked with interest.
But at that moment, Eason's rhythm broke.
A wave of nausea hit him. His vision blurred. Blood ran down from his nose. He stumbled, frowning, his breath short and ragged.
What... is this?
He was sure he could handle mental techniques they'd always come easily. But now, a sharp, excruciating pain drilled into his skull like needles. He clenched his jaw, barely staying upright.
Livermore clicked his tongue. "Get that treated."
He crossed his arms, speaking like a teacher addressing a foolish student.
"Body amplification gives you strength, speed, and durability sure. But it burns through mental energy fast. Faster than you think."
There was a pause. A few students nearby leaned in, listening.
Livermore continued, calmly, "Every psychic has a channel near their seed. Through it, you can use techniques that feel like instincts mental-type moves. But they're not true psychic abilities. Not unless you have a seed attuned to the mental spectrum."
He glanced down at Eason, who was still clutching his head.
"Mental abilities feed on mental energy. Overdo it, and your mind pushes back. Nausea, internal bleeding, blackouts... and that's just the beginning."
...
A while later, Eason sat alone in his room. The air was quiet, almost suffocating.
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
His mind seed was dim. Empty. No essence flowed through it.
But it wasn't the seed that made him frown.
It was the psychic channel. The bridge that connected his brain to the seed.
Earlier, there wasn't anything wrong. At least that's what he thought. The bridge looked intact. Stable. Nothing to worry about.
But now, after using body amplification beyond his current limit, the illusion broke.
And he saw it clearly.
Cracks. Thin but deep. Splintering across the bridge like fractures in glass.
No wonder his telekinesis felt dull. Weaker. Slower.
Psychic abilities like that drew directly from mental energy. Without essence to support the channel, the strain was too much.
If he had essence generation, he could've stabilized the pressure. Maybe even avoided this. But to actually heal the damage, he would need Vitakinesis. And without it, the channel would continue to degrade.
A new problem. Before he had even fixed the first one.
He leaned back against the wall, exhaled slowly.
"What great fortune," he murmured. The sarcasm in his voice was bitter, but his face remained calm.
He closed his eyes.
"The most important treasure in one's life is his own life."