Ten days had passed since the human began his training within the Royal Palace, and in that span, Neimar had witnessed the sort of growth he had not seen in centuries.

  Raime moved through the courtyard like a fragment of thought given form — bare feet striking the pale stone, air shivering with the faint pulse of psychic resonance. His body and mind no longer worked as separate instruments; they braided into one rhythm. One stream of consciousness sparred, anticipating feints and counters, while the other absorbed the lesson Neimar spoke into his mind.

  “Maintain the distinction between awareness and focus,” the Sovereign’s voice echoed, both within and without. “Awareness perceives; focus defines. Confuse the two, and your perception collapses inward.”

  Raime’s body twisted mid-air, a telekinetic burst propelling him above the shimmering arc of force Neimar released with the swipe of his hand. It wasn’t an attack meant to kill — but it still was strong enough to break some of Raime’s bones if it hit. The wave grazed him, brushing his aura, and immediately his second stream of thought reacted, recalibrating energy flow along his limbs.

  He landed lightly, psychic pressure condensing around him like invisible armour. Sweat traced faint lines down his temple, but his breathing was steady, controlled.

  “Again,” Raime said aloud, voice even, the sound slightly distorted by the low hum of psionic tension in the air.

  Neimar obliged.

  Reality itself seemed to ripple as the Sovereign stepped forward. He didn’t walk so much as shift between moments, each movement rewriting space around him. He was teaching Raime how to better feel space through direct experience, given his high affinity for the concept he should be able to feel it. His hands formed precise, almost ritualistic gestures that warped the local field behind the young human, bending light and matter in smooth, effortless arcs.

  Raime responded instantly — his instincts had sharpened to something close to precognition. His psychic sense projected outward, sculpting a three-dimensional image in his mind of Neimar’s attack. The echo of his master’s energy unfolded like a fractal map: infinite, incomprehensible, yet no longer terrifying.

  That is new.

  In the first days, Raime had flinched before every pulse of Neimar’s power. Now, he used it. Adapted to it. Like an organism adjusting to the gravity of a new world.

  The Sovereign watched him with quiet fascination. The human’s neural pathways were evolving, stretching the boundaries of what flesh and thought could sustain. His divided consciousness — the “split mind” — had become not a trick, but a natural state. One half learning, one half fighting, and somewhere between them, a bridge forming. And when used together for the same purpose, Raime’s capabilities increased considerably.

  Neimar had taught thousands of beings across the span of his long life, but few had adapted so quickly.

  The fight grew sharper. Raime darted forward, a blur of motion. His energy flowing around his limbs, augmenting each strike until the air cracked like thunder. Neimar deflected easily, the flick of his wrist unravelling Raime’s force before it could reach him. Yet he noticed something else — Raime’s energy no longer spilled chaotically when countered; he absorbed the recoil, redirected it through the ground, using it to spring back into motion.

  Reflexive adaptation, Neimar thought. He’s learning through failure in real time. That level of cognitive fluidity shouldn’t be possible without years of mastery.

  Raime’s fist lashed out, and Neimar parried it with a thought, letting the psychic pressure ripple past him like a breeze. The Sovereign didn’t need to attack; his presence alone was a trial. The human’s mind strained under the weight of proximity, and yet he endured — even flourished.

  Meanwhile, the other half of Raime’s mind absorbed theory, drifting from lessons of core formation, elemental manipulation until they touched the subjects of System management and the differences between assisted and unassisted cultivation. Every new topic was absorbed and stored, Raime’s cognition shining in the learning department.

  If only there was more time, this young man would have had a much brighter future…

  Raime’s learning process was unlike anything Neimar had seen. An average student required decades to internalize the basic structure of psychic flow. Some of the most gifted managed them in months or years. Raime was assimilating them in hours. Not just memorizing — understanding, adapting to them.

  Does all humans possess this level of adaptability and comprehension? It shouldn’t be, none of the young races possess this tremendous potential. It is probably due to his status as primogenitor. The Administrator did something outside of what even I can understand while he was putting Raime back together, the way it connected his mind to his body is fascinating, but I suspect even itself didn’t anticipate the ending result. An experiment of sort perhaps.

  Neimar circled him, not as a teacher but as a scientist examining an evolving principle.

  “Do you see now, Raime?” his voice brushed through the human’s mind like a current. “The body and the soul are reflections. The energy that sustains one must harmonize with the other. When they diverge, corruption begins. Mutation. Madness. What you felt when your attributes grew beyond human limits was the first sign.”

  Raime’s response came layered — one voice physical, the other mental.

  “Then the solution… is alignment,” he said aloud, while the silent part of him continued to weave defensive fields around his body.

  “Yes,” Neimar replied. “The core is the anchor of that alignment. Without it, your body will eventually fracture under its own expansion.”

  Raime pivoted, a sweeping motion of his hand channelling a blade of psionic compression through the air. It was elegant, well-timed — Neimar stepped through it unharmed, dispersing it with a casual gesture. Yet he noted the density. The human’s attacks now carried an incredible sharpness, not a blunt instrument anymore.

  He was nearly ready.

  One more layer, Neimar mused, and he will begin to perceive energy as form — not merely as pressure or movement. Then the first stage of the core can be formed.

  Raime leapt again, psychic propulsion dispersing in the ground beneath his feet. His movements had gained an almost artistic rhythm — a fusion of instinct and calculation. When Neimar struck back, a cascade of psychic distortions swept through the courtyard, distorting space. Raime countered not by blocking, but by flowing with it, his mind reshaping the pressure around him until it became part of his motion.

  His affinities are powerful, both mind and space. His natural understanding of them is remarkable, intuitive. A pity I can’t help him develop his most powerful one. He will have to find a different teacher.

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  They moved like storm and tide. The crystalline trees around them shimmered under each pulse of energy, leaves bending without breaking.

  After a final clash that rippled the air, Raime landed, panting lightly but no longer exhausted. His aura pulsed steadily, balanced, calm.

  Neimar let the silence stretch. The suns above were setting once more, painting the garden in molten hues.

  He looked at the young man standing before him — bruised, bare, hands marked by exertion, eyes alight with steady focus. Ten days ago, he had been raw willpower barely guided by instinct. Now, he was something more — not yet ready, but close.

  He could wipe the floor with most of the Tier I students I had in the past, how much room for growth will he have as soon as he awaken? He’s working with scraps of energy and still accomplishing so much, It was the right decision to mark him as an Ithurian when he crossed the gate.

  “Enough,” Neimar said quietly. His tone was not command but acknowledgment.

  Raime straightened, wiping the sweat from his face. “Did I pass?”

  A faint, almost imperceptible curve formed at the corner of Neimar’s mouth — the closest thing he ever showed to a full smile. “You survived my training, which is a rarer feat.”

  Raime smirked despite the fatigue. “So… I take that as a yes?”

  Neimar didn’t answer immediately. His gaze turned inward, through the lattice of Raime’s energy. The threads within him vibrated with steady rhythm, coalescing faintly around the center of his being.

  Yes. The pattern was forming. The mind had found its axis.

  Soon, Neimar thought, he will be ready to begin the weaving of the core.

  And for the first time in an age, the Sovereign felt something unfamiliar stir beneath the weight of his ancient calm — anticipation.

  Neimar’s gaze lingered on the fading afterimages of their clash — the ripples of psychic energy still dancing faintly across the marble floor.

  “You are nearly ready,” he said at last, his tone low, resonant. “But before we begin the weaving, you must make a choice. The foundation of your awakening cannot be decided by instinct alone.”

  Raime exhaled slowly, brushing a thumb across a faint cut on his palm. “The type of core,” he said quietly.

  “Indeed.”

  Between them, the air trembled, threads of light bending into countless possibilities — half-real visions of pathways that could be taken. Each one represented a philosophy of existence, a structure upon which to anchor power. Neimar raised a hand, and the mirages stabilized. Cores of different hues pulsed before them: luminous, shadowed, crystalline, spiralling like galaxies or burning like stars.

  “For ten days,” Neimar continued, “we have reviewed every major cultivation framework preserved within the Royal Archives. Thousands of paths — elemental, spiritual, conceptual, mechanical. You have the affinity and intellect to walk many of them. But you cannot walk all.”

  Raime’s eyes flickered across the floating visions. The pure mana core of the Aetherians. The lattice-like soul-forges of the Mind Weavers. The crystalline psionic matrices favored by the Sovan Ascetics. Each one had beauty and logic — each promised a different kind of transcendence.

  Yet none felt right.

  Neimar’s gaze softened. “Your nature complicates matters. You are human, but marked as Ithurian. You are an anomaly, born through a union of incompatible laws. No record in the archives mirrors your existence.”

  Raime gave a quiet nod. “So whatever I choose, it will differ from the standard.”

  “Precisely. You may follow a method, but it will bend around you. That is both gift and curse.”

  For a moment, silence fell between them — a silence filled with thought.

  Neimar’s mind wandered briefly, unbidden, toward the past. Starting with a soul core… I had dreamed of such a possibility in my first years. It could have saved me centuries — perhaps millennia of wasted cultivation. It could have saved my people…

  His expression hardened, suppressing the echo of old regret.

  He turned his focus back to the present. “Disciple,” Neimar said aloud, his voice cutting clean through the air. “Tell me, then. What is your decision?”

  Raime didn’t hesitate. He looked directly into the Sovereign’s eyes, his usual hint of humour gone, leaving only resolve.

  “I want to create a core based on both the path of the eidolons and the one of the psyons.”

  The air grew still.

  For the briefest moment, Neimar said nothing. He had expected it — perhaps even hoped for it — yet hearing the words still sent a faint thrill through his ageless composure.

  “A noetic core…” he murmured, the words carrying a weight of awe and memory. “Few dared even to try it. Fewer still succeed.”

  He began to circle Raime slowly, voice deepening as he spoke.

  “The noetic path is not just a technique. It is an act of fusion — the conscious binding of mind and soul into a singular, self-sustaining existence. Most psions cannot attempt it until the third or even fifth tier, when the mind has grown resilient enough to perceive its own root. And even then, they risk annihilation. I have heard about those who failed for attempting what you intend. And of those who succeeds… their tales are spoken to in the legends.”

  He paused before Raime, eyes burning faintly with psionic light. “The few who practice it are the mad… or the transcendent.”

  Raime listened, unmoving.

  Neimar continued. “To create a noetic core, you must weave your consciousness into the fabric of your soul and become it — not merely house it. The rewards, should you succeed, are unparalleled. Direct control over your soul. Near-immunity to illusion, possession, and corruption of mind. Perfect understanding of the self. And above all…”

  He hesitated — even for him, the next words carried unease. “…continuity of identity. It is said that a true noetic being can preserve the totality of their self through the cycle of death and rebirth. That the core becomes a mirror of eternity.”

  Raime tilted his head slightly. “You don’t believe it?”

  “I believe in results,” Neimar said. “And I have never seen proof. Reincarnation is theory, not fact. But if anyone were to discover the truth of it, it would be one who dares such paths.”

  He looked at Raime again, measuring the young man’s intent — and found no hesitation there. Only quiet determination.

  “I see… you wish to fuse mind and soul,” Neimar said slowly. “And afterward create a mana core, linking the two into a unified circuit.”

  Raime nodded. “That’s the plan. Mind over body, and soul. I thought long and hard about it, I want to create a system in which my mind is the fulcrum. Given my peculiarities and the need of starting to cultivate the soul for higher stages, I will empower my soul through the System, the soul will be fused to my mind, my will. So that will be empowered in turn. And my trait allow my mind to empower my body. The body will be able to follow thanks to a mana core, an engine that will be designed for that purpose only. One feeding the other.”

  A faint smile ghosted across Neimar’s lips — a rare, genuine thing. “Ambitious. Dangerous. ”

  He turned toward the horizon, where the last rays of the twin suns spilled across the crystalline towers. “It will not be easy. The noetic core will be incredibly hard to create, your souls state help but it won’t be enough. At the same time you’ll have to create the mana core, or your body will mutate trying to keep up. Waver, even slightly, and the structure will collapse. You will lose yourself — body first, soul second.”

  “I know,” Raime said simply.

  Of course he knew. He had spent the last days studying every text, every failed attempt, every tragic end. The process was madness dressed as revelation. But it also fit him — perfectly. A union of mind and soul. A reflection of what he already was: divided consciousness seeking singularity.

  Neimar’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment before he finally nodded. “Then so be it. Tomorrow, we begin preparation. You chose a perilous road, and despite the risks, I am confident in your success. Rest now, there will be much to do.”

  Raime inclined his head, his exhaustion now laced with quiet anticipation.

  As the Sovereign turned away, Raime’s thoughts lingered on the decision. He felt no fear, only the strange, electric calm of someone standing before the edge of something vast.

  A noetic core, he thought. A union of who I am, and what I might become.

  Raime stood there for a while, feeling the residual hum of the training ground settle into silence. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned toward his quarters.

  Tomorrow, he would begin to prepare for his awakening, it will take time, sweat and efforts, but he refused to take the easy path forward. If it wasn’t for Neimar, he would never have a chance at this. Still, the possibility of finally shaping his destiny, and get the strength he needed for the upcoming trials, was something he had wanted since he understood that the multiverse was merciless.

  Tier I… Finally, then out of the Rift. Wait for me guys, I’m coming back soon.