I didn't stop when I left the room.
Not because I was in a hurry to get away. Adrien wasn't the kind of person you "ran" from. But staying would've been pointless. The exercise was over, the interaction too. Hanging around would only give people more time to observe me.
And lately… I'd had enough of that already.
I walked through the corridor at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. It had become almost automatic over the years. When you spend seven years paying attention to every small detail, it stops feeling forced… or at least, it looks that way from the outside.
Adrien Moreau. Level 3.
On paper, nothing exceptional. There were others like him. But in reality, it wasn't that simple. Most Level 3 Mentalists were still experimenting, pushing too hard, correcting themselves afterward. He didn't do that. He adjusted instantly, like he already knew where the limit was before even getting close to it.
That kind of precision doesn't come from training alone.
I turned into the corridor leading to the cafeteria. The academy stretched around me like a fully structured city, every detail designed with purpose. Five sectors, five types of Imperiums. Everything separated, optimized, controlled.
Mixing them would've been inefficient.
Or worse.
I went down one level. The flow of students increased slightly—low conversations, smooth movements, nothing unusual. Still, something felt… off. Not obvious, just a subtle shift. Like the environment had adjusted itself without warning.
I passed by a glass panel and caught my reflection. Black hair brushing my shoulders, amber eyes, neutral features. Nothing that stood out.
That was the point.
It had always been.
Level 1. Always.
Seven years without real progression. In a system where even average students reach Level 2 eventually, that kind of stagnation doesn't go unnoticed forever. Not enough to raise alarms… but enough to keep people watching.
And apparently, that time had come.
I kept walking.
Then something changed.
Not suddenly. Just enough for my body to register it before my mind did.
Someone was approaching from the opposite direction.
I looked up—and almost stopped.
Not physically.
But internally.
Mikael Dusk.
I had never seen him this close before.
Someone like him wasn't supposed to just… appear in a random hallway like this. Not between classes. Not like it was normal.
And yet, here he was.
Tall, composed, his silhouette clean and precise, like the space around him adjusted to fit him instead of the other way around. His dark hair carried faint silver reflections under the artificial lights, and his eyes… they weren't cold in the usual sense.
They were controlled.
Like he was processing everything without effort—and without needing to show it.
He wasn't doing anything.
And still—
everything shifted around him.
Conversations didn't stop, but they softened. Movements didn't freeze, but they adjusted. No one stared directly, yet no one truly ignored him either.
That kind of presence…
you don't notice it consciously.
You just… react to it.
I kept walking, but my attention sharpened.
Level 4. Nineteen years old. Rank 1.
Across all years.
People said he had reached Level 4 earlier than expected, that his cognitive processing speed was beyond standard measurements. That he could anticipate decisions before they were even consciously formed.
Some said he could maintain multiple structured mental processes in parallel for hours without fatigue.
Others claimed he had already handled several Level 3 Mentalists at once… without ever actually "fighting."
Just overwhelming them.
He rarely participated in public evaluations.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he didn't need to.
Inside the academy, he had names.
The Silent Strategist.
The Architect.
Or simply—
Dusk.
Like he wasn't just a person… but a phenomenon.
We kept walking.
No hesitation. No deviation.
We were going to cross paths.
I wasn't even sure what unsettled me more—the fact that I was seeing him… or how normal it looked.
Then—
Contact.
Brief.
Mental.
Too precise to be accidental.
Not an intrusion.
Not an analysis.
Just… confirmation.
Like, for a fraction of a second, he simply checked that I was there.
I kept walking.
Didn't turn around.
But my mind was already processing it.
He noticed me.
And coming from someone like him…
that wasn't something I could ignore.
I reached the cafeteria shortly after. The space was large, structured, almost too clean. Even here, the arrangement of tables seemed designed to minimize interference between groups.
I grabbed a tray, sat somewhere neutral—not isolated, not exposed—and started eating without really thinking about it.
But my attention stayed active.
Level wasn't everything.
That much was obvious.
Adrien proved it.
Dusk confirmed it.
Stability. Precision. Control.
Those mattered more than raw level.
I let my gaze drift around. Nothing unusual. Disorganized mental flows, simple emotions—boredom, fatigue, irritation. Easy to read.
Then I felt it.
Adrien.
Not too close. Not directly in front of me. Just within range.
Deliberate positioning.
I kept eating.
Then—
his voice.
Not out loud.
Directly in my mind.
Clear. Structured. No distortion.
— You think too much.
I didn't look up.
No visible reaction.
He wasn't reading me. He didn't need to. He was projecting—cleanly, within regulation.
I answered quietly, barely above a whisper.
"Not enough."
A short pause.
— You adjusted your behavior the moment you left the room.
Another pause.
— It's consistent. But not natural.
I continued eating.
"You observe a lot."
— It's necessary.
I set my fork down slowly.
"Maybe."
— No.
A slight shift.
— You anticipate.
I raised my eyes toward him. This time, he was looking directly at me.
"And you?"
A faint smile.
— I verify.
Silence settled, but it wasn't empty. It had structure. Pressure. Not emotional—yet. Just logical.
— Someone who stays Level 1 for seven years… he continued calmly, …is either truly limited…
A pause.
— …or making sure to appear that way.
I held his gaze.
"So which one did you pick?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then—
— I don't need to pick.
A brief silence.
— I just wait to see which one remains consistent.
I stood up, picking up my tray.
"You're projecting."
— No.
A slight pause.
— I'm observing patterns.
I walked past him.
And right then—
he acted.
Not an attack.
Not control.
Just a subtle emotional impulse.
Precise.
Clean.
Perfectly timed.
Doubt.
Not strong enough to shake me.
But sharp enough to—
reach me.
I paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Nothing visible.
But internally—
it landed.
I turned my head slightly.
"Nicely done."
He didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
I resumed walking.
My pace was exactly the same as before.
Perfectly identical.
But something had changed.
Not in what I was doing.
In what I felt.
The doubt was still there.
Faint.
Almost insignificant.
But real.
And the problem wasn't that he created it.
The problem was—
I hadn't seen it coming.
I stepped out of the cafeteria. The corridor was quieter now. Almost empty.
I walked a few steps… then stopped.
Alone.
Finally.
A short breath escaped me, sharper than I intended.
Not uncontrolled.
But not perfectly controlled either.
I let that happen…
I looked at my reflection in a metallic surface nearby.
Everything looked the same.
Calm. Stable. Unchanged.
But I knew.
It wasn't my control that had been touched.
It was something deeper.
A certainty.
And now that it had shifted—even slightly—
I couldn't pretend it was still intact.
And for some reason…
that bothered me more than it should have.