I woke up before the alarm even rang. Not suddenly, not abruptly—just with my eyes open in the dark, as if my body had decided there was no point in sleeping any longer. I stayed there for a few seconds, motionless, staring at the ceiling.
The silence was absolute.
Too absolute.
I didn't sleep well…
It wasn't a complaint. Just a fact. My mind was still running, like it had never really shut down. Fragments of yesterday drifted back: the training room, the object lifting, that strange sensation… and above all, that lingering feeling that something had changed.
Not around me.
Inside me.
I ran a hand over my face before slowly sitting up. I need to stop thinking like this first thing in the morning. Easier said than done. I got up and went through my routine almost mechanically. Quick shower, cold water to fully wake up, simple clothes, the jacket I bought yesterday. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that would draw attention.
That had become a rule.
Stay neutral.
Visually… and socially.
When I stepped into the hallway, the academy was already alive. Groups were forming, conversations starting, glances being exchanged. Everything looked normal.
But for someone like me, it never really was.
Mentalists don't see the world the same way.
Not completely.
We don't constantly read thoughts—that's a fantasy. But we observe, we analyze, we connect. A posture, a slight delay in a reaction, a silence that lasts just a bit too long… everything becomes information.
And people know it.
Not always consciously.
But they feel it.
And that's enough to create distance.
In the Mentalist sector, that distance is even more noticeable. Conversations are quieter, more measured. Eyes linger longer, sharper. No one speaks without thinking—or at least, no one speaks without calculating a little first.
Trust doesn't really exist here.
It's replaced by fragile balances.
I walked into the classroom and took my usual seat at the back, slightly off to the side. Discreet enough to stay out of focus, but positioned well enough to see everything.
No one looked at me.
Perfect.
The class started without introduction.
Applied Cognitive Psychology.
Neural diagrams appeared in front of us—prefrontal cortex, hippocampus, amygdala. Flows animated between them, linking memory, emotion, and decision-making.
— A thought is a consequence, the instructor said calmly. Never an origin.
I watched the data for a few seconds. Nothing new, but never useless. Understanding how a thought forms already reduces the need to read it.
— If you understand the mechanism, you can anticipate the result.
We moved straight into practical cases. Behavioral profiles, histories, simulated reactions. Limited time, as always. I scanned the information quickly.
Social anxiety. Need for validation. Low resistance to pressure.
He'll respond.
Not immediately.
But he won't stay silent.
I submitted my answer without rushing. Around me, some were still hesitating, others had already answered too quickly. That's where the difference shows.
Not in speed.
In accuracy.
The next class was Advanced Cognitive Bias Theory. Always more unsettling than it looked.
— The human mind doesn't seek truth, the instructor explained. It seeks consistency with what it already believes.
Examples appeared: confirmation bias, halo effect, rationalization.
— If you want to influence someone, don't contradict them directly. Lead them to believe they're right.
I let out a quiet breath. It always feels wrong when you think about it. But it was real. And it was exactly why Mentalists were feared.
There had been cases.
Everyone knew them, even if no one talked about them openly.
High-level Mentalists manipulating individuals… then groups… then entire systems. Memories altered. Identities broken. Lives rewritten.
And ever since—
no one truly trusts Mentalists.
Normal humans avoid us.
Other Imperiums tolerate us.
But trust?
Rare.
And honestly…
I get it.
The next class, Cognitive Philosophy, pushed things even further.
— Reality is not what is, the instructor said. It's what is perceived.
Silence.
— And perception can be altered.
I lowered my gaze slightly. That's where it becomes dangerous. Because from that point on, there's no clear line anymore.
The last class of the morning was Behavioral Simulation. Real-time scenarios where every decision influenced the target's reaction. Adapt, adjust, anticipate.
I played my role like always.
Not too precise.
Not too weak.
Just enough.
Stay unnoticed.
During the break, I sat alone as usual. But this time, someone sat across from me without asking. A girl from my class. I looked up slightly.
— You always do that?
"What?"
— Observe without talking.
I shrugged lightly. "It's simpler."
— Or safer.
I paused for a second. "Both."
She studied me.
— People say you're useless.
Direct.
I exhaled quietly. "I know."
— Doesn't that bother you?
I thought for a moment. "It used to."
Pause.
"Now… I use it."
She frowned slightly. "You use it?"
"People who talk too much give away more information."
She went silent.
— You're weird.
I gave a faint smile. "I've heard that before."
She hesitated, then asked the obvious question.
— Are you really level 1?
"Yes."
She stared at me for a few seconds.
— You don't look like it.
I looked away slightly. If only you knew…
"Appearances can be misleading."
She stood up.
— We'll see.
I watched her leave without saying anything.
The rest of the day passed quickly. Classes, analysis, controlled interactions. But something had shifted. Subtly.
The looks.
More frequent.
More curious.
I left the building at the end of the day, hands in my pockets, not really paying attention to where I was going. And without realizing it, my thoughts drifted.
Not toward the academy.
Not toward the classes.
Toward something else.
Something older.
I remembered my mother.
Masha Højlünd.
Her voice. Her eyes. The way she always spoke calmly, even when she was tired. We lived in a large house. Too large for just the two of us. With staff, servants, long silent corridors.
Back then, I thought it was normal.
I remembered her sitting beside me, a book in her hands, explaining things I only half understood.
— "Look at, Ymir."
Always that.
— "You'll understand later."
My Mentalist abilities appeared early. Not suddenly, but gradually. An intuition that was too precise. A way of understanding people that didn't feel normal.
She was never surprised.
Not once.
My father… I have no memory of him. Not a single one. But she always spoke well of him. Always had an excuse.
— "He's busy."
— "He'll come back."
Over time… I stopped believing it.
But now, I understand something else.
If I inherited Controller abilities…
then that didn't come from her.
It came from him.
And that thought…
irritates me more than I want to admit.
I returned to my dorm without really noticing. I closed the door behind me and sat on the bed. My interface activated automatically, and a video caught my attention. News. Incident.
I played it.
Flames.
Screams.
An Elementalist.
He raised his hand… and the fire followed.
People collapsed.
Some were still burning.
I didn't stop it.
I just watched.
Then—
the memories came back.
All at once.
The heat.
The smell.
The fire.
Masha…
I saw her again. Standing in front of me. Not moving. As if she had already accepted it.
The house.
The voices.
Then nothing.
Just ashes.
A tear slid down my cheek. I didn't bother wiping it away. My hand slowly clenched.
One day… I'll kill them all.
The thought was clear. Cold. But not irrational. I didn't know exactly who yet. Or how many. Or how.
But I knew why.
And that was enough.
One last memory surfaced. Her. On her knees. Flames surrounding her. Her body already failing, but her eyes… calm. Fixed on me.
And this time—
I heard her.
Not with my ears.
Directly in my mind.
— Run, Ymir. Listen to me. Never show what you truly are. Not until you find your father.
I understood immediately. She wasn't talking about my Mentalist abilities. She was talking about the other part. The one no one must see. The one even I don't fully understand yet.
The Controller abilities.
The memory shattered.
I stayed still in the silence. My thoughts were clear now, too clear, and for the first time in a long time it wasn't the uncertainty that bothered me, it was what I was going to become.