Dawn broke grey and cold over the small house.
Eason rose before the sun cleared the horizon. He dressed in silence—simple black clothes, worn soft from years of use, nothing that would draw attention. On his feet, boots his mother had mended twice. On his hands, fresh bandages over wounds that hadn't fully healed.
He looked in the small cracked mirror hanging on the wall.
Black hair. Black eyes. The face of a fifteen-year-old boy who'd lived twice as long as his body suggested.
Today.
His father was already waiting by the door. Gordon wore his best tunic—still plain, but clean. A sword hung at his hip. Not for show. A Tier 1 Swordsman carried his blade everywhere, even if it meant nothing.
"Ready?"
Eason nodded.
They walked.
The road from their village to the evaluation centre took two hours.
Small houses gave way to farmland. Farmland gave way to packed earth roads. Packed earth gave way to stone—first scattered cobbles, then proper paving as they neared the town.
Eason watched everything.
The world had changed in ways he couldn't measure. Seven centuries? More? The language was the same, mostly. The people looked the same. But the buildings were different—taller, denser, built with materials he didn't recognize. In the distance, he saw structures that gleamed like metal but weren't. Smoke rose from chimneys that seemed too thin.
Progress, he thought. The world moves on.
His father walked beside him, saying little. Gordon was not a talkative man. He'd never asked why his son trained until he bled. Never asked about the nightmares. Never asked why a boy of seven had looked at him once with eyes that seemed to weigh his soul.
Some fathers would have noticed.
Some would have cared.
Gordon simply... accepted.
Eason wasn't sure if that made him grateful or contemptuous.
The evaluation centre rose from the town's heart like a fist punching through stone.
It was massive. Five storeys of dark grey granite, windows narrow as slit eyes, a single great door of iron-bound oak standing open at its base. Spires jutted from its roof—not decorative, but functional, humming with energy Eason could feel even from here.
Psychic construction, he realized. Kinetic shaping. Cognitive planning. Multiple paths working together.
The building itself was a testament to what psychics could achieve.
And around it, filling the vast stone plaza before its doors, stood hundreds of people.
Boys and girls, mostly. Fifteen years old, like him. Some wore fine clothes—silks and dyes that cost more than his family earned in a year. Others wore rags. Some stood with parents, others alone. Some talked and laughed. Others stared at the building in silence, fear plain on their faces.
Eason took it all in.
The plaza was circular, wide enough to hold a small army. Stone slabs fitted so perfectly that grass barely grew between them. At its centre, a fountain—not water, but something that glowed faintly blue, rising and falling in patterns that meant nothing to most but everything to him.
A testing mechanism, he thought. Measures ambient psychic potential. Probably feeds data to whoever runs this place.
His father nudged him.
"Line forms over there. South side."
Eason looked. A queue stretched from a side entrance, twice as long as the main door. The poor side. The ones who couldn't pay for priority.
Of course.
He walked toward it without comment. Gordon followed.
They waited.
The sun climbed. The line moved. Slowly. Painfully. Around them, conversations drifted like leaves:
"My cousin awakened a beast tamer seed last year. Tier 3 already."
"If I get swordsman, my father will kill me."
"Did you see the psychic examiner? She flew in. Actually flew."
"My family hasn't had a psychic in three generations. We're due."
Eason listened but said nothing.
His father stood beside him, silent as always. Once, Gordon's hand drifted to his sword hilt, then away. Nervous? Probably. Tier 1 Swordsman watching his only child face the moment that would define his life.
If only you knew, Eason thought. If only you knew I've already lived a life. Already been defined. Already been destroyed.
The line moved.
Closer.
Before them, the building loomed.
From up close, its details were sharper. The granite wasn't just grey—it was veined with something dark, almost black, that seemed to pulse faintly. The narrow windows weren't empty—shadows moved behind them, watching. The great iron-bound door wasn't just for show—it was thick enough to stop an army, carved with symbols Eason recognized.
Psychic wards. Tier 4 at least. Probably higher inside.
This wasn't just an evaluation centre. It was a fortress. A statement. Psychics built this. Psychics run this. Remember your place.
Finally, Eason's turn came.
A door opened. A hand pushed him through.
He stood alone in darkness.
Pressure crushed him from all sides. His lungs burned. His knees buckled. He couldn't breathe—but there was no water. Just darkness pressing, drowning, consuming.
Move, he told himself. Move.
He took a step.
The pressure doubled.
Another step.
His vision blurred.
Another.
Then light.
Tiny particles appeared from everywhere, swarming into his mind. A thousand sparks. Then ten thousand. Then too many to count.
They entered him. Became him.
And exploded.
Soundless. Gentle. Final.
Silence.
Eason looked inward.
A sphere floated in the darkness of his consciousness. Small. Perfect. Glowing.
Psychic seed.
The pressure vanished. The darkness lifted. The chamber door opened.
He walked out.
A woman waited behind a sleek glass desk. Glasses. Plum chest. Sharp features. Beautiful.
Lydia.
She glanced at him, then at a floating screen.
"Eason. Fifteen. Village boy."
Her eyes looked deeper. Into him.
"Psychic seed. Tier one. Rank low."
She turned away.
Eason hid his shock. Low?
He pushed the thought aside.
Lydia glanced back. "This is an academy. If you wish to learn here, we grant you the privilege. Obey the rules. Your choice."
She paused.
"No charge first year. Second year, you earn. Kill voyari. Beasts. Or whatever you choose. Your debt."
Eason nodded.
"I agree."
She waved him away.
He walked out into daylight.
His father waited among the crowd.
"Well?"
Eason met his eyes.
"Psychic."
Gordon's face went pale. Then red. Then something else.
"My son. A psychic."
He didn't ask about rank. Didn't know to ask.
Eason let him have his moment.
Low rank, he thought.
They have no idea.
On the journey back, Eason asked his father, "Can you tell me what rank of seed even is?"
His father glanced at him. "Rank of seed? It depends on the shape. A rank four seed looks like a crystallized butterfly. Beautiful. Complex." He paused. "A rank one seed usually has a dishevelled appearance. Nothing more significant than that. That's all I know about seeds, son."
Eason said nothing. Walked beside him. Thought.
They reached home as the sun set.
His mother met them at the door. "Well?"
Gordon answered. "Psychic."
Her hands flew to her mouth. Tears welled. She pulled Eason into an embrace.
"Finally," she whispered. "Finally our family's curse is broken."
Eason stood still in her arms.
Psychic seed. Rank low.
He remembered now. In his first life, they'd called it the Psionic Seed. Could use every known ability.
And they call it low rank.
She released him.
"I'm joining the academy," Eason said.
His father's face fell. "Son, we don't have enough money to—"
"Don't worry about that." Eason cut him off. "First year there is no charge. They'll give enough basic training so that we can earn the next year."
Gordon stared at him.
"I will earn myself," Eason said. "I leave tomorrow."