The practical lesson for Fundamentals of Psionic Combat Coordination was held at the edge of the Watchers' Fortress, in the Hall of Great Force. Unlike the quiet introspection of the Weavers' Cloister, this hall was raw, heated, filled with the roar of primal power and the clash of fury.
The chamber stretched as wide as a small plaza. Reinforced steel plates formed the floor; the black obsidian walls bore scars of countless impacts and scorch marks from unstable energies. Massive steam conduits coiled overhead like sleeping serpents, periodically hissing white clouds of high-pressure vapor, powering dozens of training servo-armors and psionic target generators. The air itself was a cocktail of sweat, molten metal, ozone, and faint blood, tinged with adrenaline.
The exercise aimed to synchronize Watchers and Weavers. Watcher trainees, entering Bloodrage, unleashed violent strikes, while their Weaver partners channeled psionic barriers to shield them from mental backlash and augmented their abilities—briefly enhancing strength, speed, or defense.
Elara Thorne stood among the Weavers, feeling the oppressive psionic waves slam against her, scorching like invisible fire. The Watchers moved like unleashed beasts: towering, muscular, clad in reinforced training armor, wielding blunt chain-blade swords, powered gauntlets, or massive shields. Their roars, weapon impacts on steel targets, and the hydraulic groans of jointed armor combined into a symphony of raw power and controlled fury.
Her gaze swept the hall, immediately locking on a familiar figure—Gideon. He had bulked up since Slagtown, the training armor tight against his frame. In his hands, a massive twin-handed training hammer gleamed under the vapor-lit hall. His face had lost much of its youthful innocence, marked by a gravity beyond his years and a faint, almost imperceptible anxiety. His Bloodrage surged violently, unstable and turbulent, like a boiler about to breach its bounds.
The lesson commenced with paired drills. Gideon's partner was a first-tier Empath, visibly nervous. As Gideon entered Bloodrage on command, his low roar vibrating through the hall, his metallic sheen flashing, the girl extended a psionic link to form a mental barrier. Instantly, his chaotic flood of fury smashed through her fragile shield. She staggered back, pale, the faintest tremor of fear crossing her eyes.
"Useless! Focus!" barked Brock, a second-tier Riftbreaker instructor, his voice carrying the contempt typical Watchers reserved for "non-combat sequences."
Gideon froze, his hammer striking askew, sparks clanging across the steel. His crimson eyes dulled, fleeting guilt passing through them before being swallowed by deeper agitation and self-loathing.
"…S-sorry," he rasped, knuckles white around the hammer.
"Again!" Brock commanded.
Another attempt. Another failure. His Bloodrage grew wilder, his strikes reckless, narrowly avoiding his peers. The girl's psionic energy could no longer penetrate his mental barriers. Whispered judgments and mocking glances from noble Watcher apprentices cut like lashes, stoking Gideon's frustration.
"Gideon Ironanvil! Control your fury, or retreat to the Crucible and train until you can!" Brock lost patience.
Gideon halted abruptly, chest heaving, sweat sliding down his temples. Head bowed, he muttered through clenched teeth, "…Yes, Instructor."
The session ended under oppressive tension. Most students filed out, but Elara lingered, deliberately slowing. She watched as Gideon did not leave, instead moving to the isolated Crucible Cage at the hall's corner—a structure meant for punishment or solo overtraining. The heavy gate clanged shut behind him.
Through the bars, Elara observed Gideon removing his gauntlets and striking the reinforced steel walls again and again, silently, almost masochistically. Each blow echoed through the vast chamber, carrying desperation and fury. He was punishing himself—for failing to control his power, for the harm he might have caused, for the inescapable sense of not belonging, a residue of Slagtown's harshness.
A complex emotion flickered in Elara's cyan eyes. She understood the pain and solitude of being torn apart by one's own strength. Without a word, she subtly summoned psionic energy—not to connect directly via standard calming threads, which his Bloodrage would reject—but to act like a lubricant between hammer and wall. Drawing on her notes from Breath of Blight and traces of her self-made Serenity Resin, she infused the slightest calming influence at the impact points. It was not healing, merely a subtle buffer, gently guiding the chaotic energy along less destructive paths while delivering a whisper of cool composure.
At the same time, she transmitted a low psionic murmur to the edges of his consciousness:
"Gideon. Fury is fuel, not master. Feel it, guide it—like steam into a piston. An uncontrolled boiler will destroy itself; a precise engine can drive a battleship."
Gideon's hammer paused mid-swing. He did not hear the words clearly, yet a strange force had entered his rage—not to suppress it, but to organize it. Pain shifted subtly; the impact no longer burned with raw chaos but carried a cool, regulating undertone. In his mind, he glimpsed a mental image of a precise steam engine, pressure constrained and directed into controlled, potent force.
Panting, he slowly turned, sweat-soaked and bruised, eyes locking in surprise on the distant red silhouette of Elara. He could not see her face, only the calm figure standing quietly.
Before his gaze fully registered, Elara withdrew her psionic energy, lowering her head, appearing merely to pass by. Yet, in her mind, she cataloged the observation: Gideon was an ideal study for stabilizing Bloodrage through alchemical means. Combining Serenity Resin with conductive metallic powders might yield a controllable buffer. He was both an overlooked subject and a potential ally.
The brief intervention had not solved the core issue, but it was a pebble in a stormy sea. In Gideon's heart, it left the faintest ripple. Alone in the Crucible, fists wrapped in blood-stained bandages, he did not strike again—but the readiness to destroy remained, now tempered, waiting for the next test.