The room had nothing in common with a normal classroom, and the longer I stood still, the heavier that feeling became. The dark walls absorbed sound, muted footsteps, and even breathing felt restrained, as if the space itself refused unnecessary movement. This wasn't a place meant for calm learning. It was a place designed to observe, measure… and confront.
At the center of the room, a slightly lowered circular area clearly marked the combat zone. The ground there was denser, made of a composite material built to absorb impact without nullifying it completely, hard enough to punish mistakes, but flexible enough to prevent serious injuries. Thin lines of light ran along the edges, defining the boundary not to cross, while invisible sensors were probably tracking every movement, every fluctuation in activity.
I took my place without saying a word, my gaze slowly sweeping across the other students. No one was really talking. A few quiet exchanges here and there, but nothing relaxed. Shoulders were tense, eyes sharper than usual. Everyone understood something was about to happen, even without being told.
When the instructor entered, silence settled almost instantly.
— Today, we stop theory.
His voice was calm, but it locked everyone's attention in place.
— You're going to fight.
No visible reaction, but internally, everything tightened. A dull pressure formed in my chest, not exactly fear, more like an uncomfortable anticipation. A projection appeared beside him and names started scrolling, one after another, without pause, without dramatics.
When my name appeared, I recognized it instantly. The one that followed confirmed what I already expected.
Elias Varn.
I looked up almost instinctively. He was already watching me, that calm expression on his face instantly irritating. It wasn't arrogance. It was worse. A quiet certainty, like he had already evaluated the outcome before either of us moved.
We stood up without a word. The others stepped back naturally, clearing enough space for the duel. I positioned myself in front of him, feet grounded, slightly offset, weight balanced so I could move without losing stability.
We stayed still for a few seconds, but I could already feel something shifting.
Contrary to what most people think, Mentalists aren't exempt from physical training or combat classes. We just approach fighting differently.
The pressure wasn't physical. It was mental. Subtle, diffuse, almost imperceptible at first. A presence that tested, probed, tried to understand before acting.
He's already started.
I deliberately slowed my breathing, trying to stabilize my rhythm to limit the information he could pick up.
Bad idea.
Too late.
I saw it in his eyes, in that barely noticeable micro-expression that told me he had already taken it into account.
— You adjust after the fact, he said calmly. Doesn't work on me.
I didn't respond. The simple act of trying to ignore him was already a reaction he could use. And I knew it. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. That was the problem.
I took a light step forward, testing his reaction.
He pivoted instantly, adjusting his angle with irritating precision. That wasn't raw reflex. That was anticipation—clean, controlled, calculated just enough to stay efficient without overcommitting.
I decided to break the rhythm.
No setup. No pattern. I threw a fast jab straight at him.
He tilted his head slightly, avoiding it by centimeters, then reset immediately. Too precise to be instinctive. He had seen the intent before the movement fully formed.
I didn't stop. Jab, cross, then a short hook to the body to force him to close up.
This time he blocked with his forearm, absorbing the impact properly, but I felt it.
A micro hesitation.
Tiny, but real.
I stepped back just enough to disrupt the flow, not giving him time to settle into his pace.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
— Not bad.
That's when I felt it change.
My thoughts didn't stop.
They shifted.
Slightly.
Like every decision took just a bit longer to form, like a delay had inserted itself between intention and action.
The influence was subtle… but effective.
I clenched my jaw slightly, aware that trying to control my mind would only make things worse. The more I tried to stabilize, the easier I became to read.
He stepped forward.
Not aggressively. Not suddenly. But every step reduced my space, and I felt myself retreating before even moving physically.
I attacked again. A stronger jab, followed by a cross.
He parried cleanly this time, no hesitation. His adaptation speed was… annoying.
I changed angle immediately. Left pivot, right hook to the head.
He dodged, but not as cleanly as before. I pushed forward, taking advantage of that slight imperfection. Combination, variation, a short uppercut attempt under his guard.
He stepped back, absorbing the pressure without panic.
My heart rate increased. My breathing grew heavier. Fatigue wasn't there yet, but the effort was building. Every movement demanded more focus than usual because of that constant mental interference.
I decided to close the distance.
Close combat.
Less room for anticipation.
I surged forward, driving a knee toward his abdomen.
He anticipated it, lifted his leg to block, then countered immediately with a straight punch.
I saw it coming.
But my body responded too slowly.
The impact knocked the air out of me for a fraction of a second, enough to break my rhythm. He followed with a jab, then a left hook. I raised my guard, but not fast enough to avoid it completely.
My head snapped slightly to the side, and a real pain settled in.
Dull, but undeniable.
I stepped back.
Bad position.
Very bad.
He accelerated.
Every movement became smoother, sharper. No wasted motion. Every strike had purpose. Every step was optimized. I tried a quick read, catching a hint of direction, a probable line, adjusting accordingly.
For a second… it worked.
I slipped a straight punch with a pivot, then delivered a low spinning kick to his supporting leg.
The impact destabilized him slightly.
Not enough to threaten him.
But enough to create an opening.
I went in immediately, chaining jab, cross, hook with more intensity.
But just as I thought I was regaining control, I saw his expression shift.
Subtly.
And I understood too late.
My thoughts blurred slightly. A hesitation. A brief confusion. Just enough to ruin my precision.
He exploited it instantly.
An uppercut.
Full impact.
My head snapped back, sharp pain spreading stronger than before. I lost balance and dropped to one knee, air refusing to return properly to my lungs.
I stayed down a second too long, trying to recover.
Mistake.
I stood up quickly, but my balance was worse. My footing less stable. Fatigue was settling in, not just physically, but neurologically. My brain was under constant strain, forced to compensate again and again.
He moved again.
A straight punch.
I partially blocked.
He followed with a side kick that hit clean, sending me backward hard. My back nearly touched the edge of the arena.
My breathing was heavier now.
Too heavy.
I'm getting dominated…
Obviously.
I wasn't his level.
But that didn't mean I had to completely submit.
I loosened my conscious control slightly. Not fully, but enough to stop overanalyzing everything.
I moved differently.
Less clean.
Less predictable.
I rushed him abruptly, throwing irregular jabs followed by a wide hook.
He blocked, but less comfortably.
I kept going, adding a misaligned uppercut that still forced him to step back slightly. I followed with a high spinning kick that he barely blocked, his balance wavering for a brief moment.
I felt the impact of my strikes.
But also my limits.
My movements were getting heavier. Less precise. My muscles still responded, but slower. Fatigue was setting in, steadily, inevitably.
And him…
He was waiting.
Still.
He didn't need to push.
Just wait for the mistake.
And it came.
As expected.
A simple shift. Perfect timing.
I saw the strike coming… but couldn't react properly.
Impact.
Then another.
Then another.
My body gave out.
I hit the ground this time without catching myself. The impact was rough, and I stayed there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavy, uneven.
Every breath burned.
Every movement cost effort.
I knew.
It was over.
I pushed myself up slowly, legs still unstable. He stood in front of me, calm, in control, like the fight had barely affected him.
— You get it? he asked.
I wiped the sweat off my face.
"…Yeah."
He waited.
I caught my breath before answering.
"I think too much… and not at the right time."
He nodded slightly.
— Exactly. But that's not even the worst part.
I looked up at him.
— You think well. Just… not for fighting.
I stayed silent.
Because it made sense.
And because I hated that it did.
The instructor ended the match, his voice cutting through the remaining tension.
We stepped back.
The fight was over.
But what stayed with me wasn't the pain.
Not even the fatigue.
It was the certainty that if I kept going like this…
I wouldn't get anywhere.