031 Problem Students - Part 1 - Merrick’s POV

  How long had it been since I started teaching here at ESPer Academy? Roughly five years… not that long, really.

  I’d come up through the same batch as Reina, though she’d been teaching for over a decade now. Still, my experience shouldn’t be underestimated. I’d earned my tenure with results, even if my teaching style wasn’t exactly traditional.

  The Pioneer Class, though… they were a different beast altogether.

  Greg Green. Karl Brandt. Elena Faust. Ronald Ardent. Matt Wentworth.

  Sigh.

  In a sense, every single one of them was a problem child. What was Reina even thinking, assembling a class like this? It was like putting a box of gunpowder next to an open flame and hoping nothing would explode.

  Speaking of problem children… Mark Valentine might have been the most problematic of them all. Not because of anything he’d done, necessarily—but because of his mother. Evelyn Valentine’s reputation was… complicated. And dangerous. A woman like that raising a boy like Mark? That was an equation waiting to unravel.

  I sighed internally and scolded myself. It wasn’t fair to judge the child by the parent. Mark had proven himself adaptable and strategic—his real weakness was that he was still playing catch-up against classmates born through privilege.

  And right now, I could see the difference.

  Peter swept his hand through the air, and a wave of frost rolled across the ground, creeping up the walls and fogging the air. The mist swirled unnaturally, lingering longer than it should. Cryokinesis with atmospheric manipulation. Clever. He was using the fog not just to obscure Mark’s movements, but to create a thermal gradient—if Mark’s body heat fluctuated or displaced the mist, Peter would sense it.

  Mark, of course, was already invisible. Cognitive invisibility was tricky—it didn’t make him physically vanish, but it disrupted perception. Iris couldn’t see him directly, but the disturbed fog made him easier to track.

  Iris flickered into existence above Peter’s shoulder and lashed out with a downward kick. Peter sidestepped, the ice beneath his feet shifting to push him aside. Iris vanished again in a shimmer of violet light, reappearing behind him. Peter twisted, sending a volley of icicles toward her midair.

  Iris vanished just before they struck, reappearing across the field with a sharp crack of displaced air.

  Peter was playing a shooting game—predicting Iris’s teleport patterns, laying down fire zones.

  Iris was playing minesweeper—darting through Peter’s attacks, trying to find a way through the danger zones without misstepping.

  And Mark… Mark was playing hide-and-seek.

  The fog shifted unnaturally—Peter’s eyes narrowed. A spear of ice shot toward an empty spot in the mist. Mark barely twisted aside in time, the spear grazing the edge of his sleeve.

  A flicker of distorted air—Mark was repositioning, using the fog and his cognitive invisibility to mask his movements. But Peter was adjusting fast.

  "You're cornering yourself," Peter said, tone cold as the frost beneath his feet.

  Iris reappeared behind Mark, her hand flashing toward his neck—Mark twisted aside, but her fingertips brushed his shoulder.

  "That was close," she whispered. “One more, I promise, I am going to get you, Valentine.”

  Peter’s eyes sharpened. He sent a spray of frost toward both of them. Iris vanished again, but Mark was forced to dive. He rolled across the slick ice, boots skidding as frost clung to his uniform. His breathing hitched.

  Iris reappeared, high above this time. A dozen feet in the air. Peter tracked her, eyes narrowing. His hand lifted—

  Mark's outline flickered. He surged forward, closing the distance—

  Ice erupted from the ground. Mark pivoted sharply, dropping into a slide as a spike of ice tore past his face. He twisted mid-slide, one hand skimming the frost as he redirected his momentum—

  Peter’s eyes widened. For a second, Mark's outline became sharp, distinct—

  “Second Perspective,” softly muttered Mark.

  A ripple of perception distortion. Peter’s next shot veered left as Mark curved toward his blind spot—

  Peter’s back tensed. He twisted, ice forming into jagged spears. Mark dropped under them—

  Iris reappeared just behind him—

  Mark turned at the last second—she grabbed his wrist.

  The fog curled tighter. Peter’s frost closed in.

  Three pieces, converging toward the center of the board.

  Interesting.

  Very interesting.

  Peter, the long-range sniper.

  Iris, the mobile striker.

  Mark, the elusive wildcard.

  My lips curled slightly.

  These kids have a whole future ahead of them.

  Honestly, watching Mark was challenging.

  My ESP, a variant telekinesis, allowed me a tactile sense of the battlefield. I could perceive objects, movements, even shifts in pressure and momentum as though they were brushing against my skin. That included Mark. His cognitive invisibility was nothing special against my ESP; I could still "feel" him through the disturbances he made in the environment.

  But that other thing…

  Second Perspective.

  Every time Mark used it, my sense of him warped. It was like the mental equivalent of feeling something solid dissolve under your fingertips. A distortion in perception itself. And it was getting stronger.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Peter’s frost spread across the ground in sharp veins of ice, Iris teleporting in and out of the fog with practiced ease—but Mark was adjusting to both of them. He was calculating. Adapting. And staying just ahead of their pace.

  The fifteen-minute timer finally ran out. The high-pitched chime echoed through the combat zone. The ice began to melt almost immediately, hissing as the ambient temperature returned to normal thanks to the training hall’s features. Peter lowered his hands, his breath fogging the air one last time before the chill faded. Iris materialized on the ground a few feet away, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Mark stood between them, breathing hard but steady, his eyes sharp and calculating.

  I tapped my tablet, tallying the final scores. The data was already compiled—hit ratios, evasion rates, strategic adjustments, and so on.

  Greg was at the top. That was expected. He understood the system better than anyone. Mirai followed him closely—her empathy and emotional reading giving her a tactical edge. Mark had just edged out Karl Brandt for third place, which was… impressive, considering how little formal training he had compared to the others.

  I wouldn’t think Evelyn had it in her to even be capable of giving formal training.

  But that wasn’t what I was judging here.

  I turned to the trio. "Mark wins this match."

  Iris’s head snapped toward me. "What?!"

  Peter’s gaze sharpened, but he remained silent. Mark blinked, shoulders tensing as if he hadn’t expected it either.

  Iris stepped forward, her tone sharp. "I landed more hits! Peter controlled the field! How does Mark win?"

  "Because he played the game better." I met her glare without blinking. "Mark didn’t just survive—he manipulated your patterns. He forced Peter to adjust his range, and he kept you both from overwhelming him. That’s strategy."

  Iris’s mouth opened as if to argue, but I cut her off with a slight lift of my hand. "I’ll send you the full evaluation privately, including your scores. You’ll find my decision justified."

  Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she stepped back. Peter didn’t even react. His eyes were already elsewhere, probably recalculating the whole fight in his head. Mark, for his part, just nodded slightly. Calculating as always.

  A hand shot up from the crowd. Hannah. "Professor Merrick!"

  I sighed. "Yes?"

  She stood, her expression tense. "What about Greg? He nearly killed Elena. Isn’t there going to be some kind of punishment for that much level of violence?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "Define ‘violence.’"

  Hannah hesitated. "He… manipulated a duel with John Craig. And Elena… She didn’t even see it coming. I can’t imagine suffering the way she did… ugh… cactus? Really?"

  Clint cut in from across the room. "Greg took care of Elena in a too violent manner. Doesn’t holding back necessary for strategy too? If you’re rewarding strategy, shouldn’t Greg be penalized for—"

  "For what?" I interrupted. My gaze swept over them. "Elena’s loss was her responsibility. This is a combat school, not a playground. If you make a mistake in the field, there isn’t a safety net waiting to catch you. Losing is a learning opportunity. And in the field, if you lose… you die."

  Silence.

  Anna’s voice cut through it. "But the thing with John… Greg did something shady. Everyone’s here is suspicious of him…"

  I shook my head. "It’s baseless suspicion, brought by a series of narratives that Greg introduced himself. Something he will have to answer to me eventually. But the way it is now, there is no evidence."

  Anna’s brows furrowed. "Doesn’t that make it more suspicious?"

  "It makes it unprovable." My tone sharpened slightly. "And until there’s proof, Greg’s tactics remain within the rules of engagement."

  I understood their frustration. Greg wasn’t just manipulative—he was dangerous. But there was a reason I let him get away with it. Strategy mattered more than brute force. In the real world, your ability to outthink your opponent mattered more than raw power. And Greg understood that better than anyone.

  I glanced at Mark. He looked bored.

  "That’s enough," I said, straightening. "Class dismissed. Go home."

  The students began to shuffle toward the exit, conversations already starting to buzz between them.

  "Mark. Mirai."

  They stopped at the door and turned toward me.

  "You’ll be working with Karl Brandt," I said. "You’re a team from now on."

  Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly. Mirai visibly tensed.

  "In future exercises, you’ll all have teams of your own." My gaze lingered on the others. "Adjust accordingly. Now, let’s bring this extra-curricular activity to a close. And don’t forget your essays, is that clear? Go. See you on Monday."

  No one even cared to listen to my words anymore... It seemed they've grown tired of hearing my voice, huh?

  I waited until the training hall was empty before moving. The sound of footsteps and scattered chatter faded down the corridor until the only thing left was the hum of the ventilation system.

  I yawned, stretching my arms behind my head as I stood. The day had been long. Longer than usual. I made my way down the hall, the rhythmic click of my heels echoing against the tile floor. I found my car parked at the edge of the faculty lot, unlocked it with a quiet beep, and slid into the driver’s seat.

  My thoughts drifted back to the Pioneer Class as I started the engine.

  Problematic children. All of them.

  Karl Brandt was too violent. His aggression wasn't the tactical kind—it was the sort that spiraled out of control the moment things stopped going his way. A dangerous flaw.

  Matt Wentworth was too scared of his own power. I’d seen it before—ESP as a burden, not a gift. Hesitation in battle was a death sentence.

  Greg Green…

  Too cruel.

  And not just toward his enemies. To himself. There was something self-destructive about the way he played the game. He never sought victory for its own sake—he sought to prove something. To someone. And it was going to get him killed.

  I sighed and rubbed my temple as I approached an intersection. The streetlights flickered above, the road damp from the earlier rain. I was about to turn when I noticed a figure hunched over on the pavement under the pale orange glow of a streetlight.

  Greg.

  He was on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his mouth onto the pavement. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling slightly.

  I rolled down the window. "Need a ride?"

  Greg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his usual smile twisting into something faintly bitter. He didn’t even look at me. "No thanks."

  "Get in the car, Greg."

  He shook his head, his messy green hair falling over his eyes. "Don’t mind me, Professor. I’m just… adjusting."

  Adjusting to what? Pushing his limits again, no doubt. Greg played his ESP like a game of chicken with his own mortality. And he wasn’t afraid to lose. If his classmates knew of this side of his, would they think differently of him?

  "Kids these days," a sickly sweet voice crooned from behind me, "no respect for their elders."

  My blood ran cold.

  I turned my head—just in time to see my passenger-side window shatter.

  Glass rained over the seat as a slender hand reached through the broken frame, undid the lock, and pushed the door open. The woman slid in with predatory grace, her silver hair cascading over one shoulder, crimson eyes glittering beneath the low streetlight.

  "Evelyn."

  She smiled, legs crossed, fingers resting lazily on the dashboard. "Merrick. Did you miss me?"

  My jaw tightened. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  She gave a soft hum, tilting her head. "Oh, nothing serious. Just dropping in on an old friend."

  "You broke into my car."

  "Mm." Her red eyes gleamed as her smile sharpened. "Habit."

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. "What do you want?"

  Her smile widened. "To hire you."

  I laughed once—sharp and humorless. "No."

  "You didn’t even hear the job."

  "I’m a professor now," I said flatly. "That life is behind me. I don’t kill anymore."

  Evelyn leaned toward me, her gaze half-lidded. "Pity. I was hoping to see Merrick the Magician in action again."

  I didn’t react. I had long since grown immune to Evelyn’s games.

  Her lips curled upward. "Maybe you just need the right incentive. I could offer you a warm meal. A cozy evening." Her eyes glittered. "Or maybe a little… personal compensation."

  I stared at her, unimpressed.

  "I’m not so easily flustered anymore," I said.

  Evelyn pouted, propping her chin on her hand. "Shame. I’d love to see that composure crack."

  My gaze sharpened. "You have thirty seconds to get out of my car."

  "Or what?"

  I smiled thinly. "Or I’ll fail your son in every subject he’s under me."

  Evelyn’s eyes widened in mock outrage. "Hey! That’s abuse of power!"

  "Is it?"

  Evelyn sighed dramatically, resting her head against the seat. "You’ve gotten boring, Merrick."

  "You’ve stayed exactly the same."

  She laughed softly. "And yet you’re still not immune, are you?"

  I reached across her and opened the passenger door. "Out."

  Evelyn’s smile sharpened as she slid gracefully from the car. Before she closed the door, she leaned down, silver hair falling like a curtain around her face.

  "Tell Mark to be careful, Merrick," she whispered. "They are already moving."

  I didn’t answer.

  She stood, giving me one last amused look before stepping back into the night. The door closed with a soft click.

  I sat there for a moment, hand resting on the wheel. My pulse had quickened, despite myself.

  Evelyn was dangerous. Still dangerous.

  And if she was moving, that meant trouble was already on its way.