Livermore stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. Behind him, rows of weapons were neatly aligned on metal racks , blades, polearms, gauntlets, staffs, and more. The cold steel glinted under the sterile lights.
It had been five days since he began training the so-called students.
Today was different.
"Today is the day you'll select your weapon of choice," Livermore said, his voice calm. "And then, you'll enter a Green Gate."
A wave of murmurs swept the room.
"What? A Green Gate?" one student shouted. "You haven't even trained us to use weapons. Only barehanded combat!"
Livermore grinned.
"You'll learn to use your weapon more precisely on the battlefield," he said. "When your life's on the line, trust me you'll figure it out. Pain is a better teacher than I'll ever be."
He looked over the students, letting the silence press down like weight.
"You may form groups of four," Livermore added, still smiling. "That might increase your chances of surviving."
Thanks — here's the corrected version with that detail: Elara had already used her ability during class to extract information about Eason, so he was well aware of what she could do. The tone remains tight and gritty, matching Eason's perspective.
"Awesome. I'm picking gauntlets," Drew said, grinning as he headed straight toward the weapon racks. "Screw this sword and spear crap."
Meanwhile, Eason wasn't looking at weapons.
He was scanning the crowd.
He'd hoped to find someone with an illusion-type ability. Or a healer. Something tactical. But in this world, nothing ever went according to plan.
Drew, somehow, had managed to pull Elara into their group. She was quiet, reserved, the type to slip under most people's radar.
But not Eason's.
He already knew her ability. She had used it during class once not openly, but brazen enough. She had tried to extract information from his mind, slipping through like smoke. Not an attack. Not a threat. Just a probe.
It was all he needed to know.
Her ability was Mnemonikinesis
She could manipulate memory , remove it, rewrite it, implant something new, within limits. Silent, invisible damage. The most dangerous kind.
And then there was Layla.
Silver hair. Cold blue eyes. Ridiculously beautiful. She hadn't been invited, but somehow she was already standing with them. No one questioned it. Maybe they were too distracted. Maybe too afraid.
Eason said nothing.
His thoughts, however, were sharp and unfiltered.
Three attackers. And one manipulative bitch. Nothing to worry about.
After all, the best defense... is offense.
"Who invited you?" Eason asked, eyes locked on Layla.
She met his gaze without hesitation. "I joined simply because I wanted to. Do you have any problems with that?"
Eason studied her for a moment, then shrugged. "Not at all."
He turned to Drew. "I'm going to pick my weapon."
Without waiting for a reply, he walked over to the weapon racks.
His eyes scanned across rows of blades, gauntlets, and exotic arms. The first thing that caught his attention was a pair of gloves, sleek, dark, with embedded runes. They could amplify a Pyrokinetic's Abilities.
Drew should've picked this, he thought briefly.
He moved on.
Next was a spear. He picked it up, gave it a short twirl. It felt balanced, deadly, but it didn't suit him. Too long. Too rigid.
Then he saw it.
A sword.
Straight in design, its blade constructed from interlocking crystal-like shards. Unlike the others, this one had a small button built into the hilt.
Eason pressed it.
With a faint mechanical whirr, the blade fell apart, collapsing into shards on the ground like broken glass. Then he pressed the button again.
The shards pulled themselves together, snapping back into place, reforming the blade in perfect silence.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
A reconstruction mechanism. Good engineering.
It was a Tier 2 weapon, that much was clear. Clean design. Utility-focused. No unnecessary flare.
He picked it up and strapped it to his back.
"I'm ready," he said.
Livermore clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention.
"Connect your watches with your partners," he said. "So you don't get separated inside."
He gestured toward a nearby table. "And grab one of these pouches. They're for collecting cores."
Small, leather pouches sat in neat rows. Each student grabbed one.
Without wasting time, Livermore turned and began walking. The students followed in a loose formation, their weapons strapped in, pouches fastened.
They moved through a narrow path until they reached a dark, cave-like opening carved into the hillside. At the far end of the tunnel, glowing faintly in the shadows, stood a gate.
Not green.
But purple.
Drew blinked. "That's a purple gate. You said it was a green gate!"
Livermore glanced over his shoulder, smiling.
"I lied."
For a moment, no one moved. But no one could stop it either.
This was the authority of power.
Green Gates were low-tier training grounds, basically. Purple was mid-tier, with real threats inside. Red Gates were high-tier, death nearly guaranteed.
And Black Gates?
Black Gates were the kind that erased teams from existence.
Only one Black Gate had ever appeared in the history.
During the era of the first psychic Leo.
And now, they stood before a purple one.
No one spoke.
Livermore simply stepped aside, arm extended.
"Go."
One by one, the students stepped into the gate, vanishing through its glowing surface.
Eason waited calmly at the back, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.
When his turn came, he stepped forward and entered.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the world twisted.
Light stretched, sound warped, and the sensation of gravity inverted for half a second—then everything snapped into place.
He stood atop a ruined building.
The sky above was a deep, unnatural red, casting the crumbling city in a sick glow. Skyscrapers leaned like broken bones, streets fractured, ash drifting in the stale air.
Of course.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist. It blinked faintly, showing the last known coordinates of his teammates—nothing more.
Figures. He smirked. The Association's gone soft. At least they tossed us into a purple gate this time instead of a red one.
A dry wind passed.
Then Eason heard it.
A faint, leathery flap.
He turned his head slowly.
There, perched on a rusted metal beam a few meters away, was a creature. Roughly three feet tall. Gaunt. Bat-like wings folded behind its back. Eyes pitch black and locked onto Eason without blinking.
Its fangs gleamed, stained with old blood.
Eason sighed.
"A Blood Fang Beast."