Psylocke Vol 2 Ch 30: Uncertain Limits!

Night had fallen over the training compound, painting the skies in deep navy and scattering stars across the dark canvas like pinpricks of hope. The warm orange light of hanging lanterns flickered softly around the open courtyard, casting long, swaying shadows across the wooden table where Tristan now lay—face-down, arms sprawled, breathing like he'd just crawled out of a warzone.

Because, honestly? That's exactly what it felt like.

Another full day of running, dodging, being crushed, suffocated, flicked, stomped, licked, and exploded. Naomi's illusions were creative, he had to give her that.

Groaning, Tristan pushed himself up with all the enthusiasm of wet laundry. His shirt was clinging to him, half from sweat, half from lingering phantom ghost-spit. His eyes were bloodshot, but still held a dull ember of determination. He blinked at the table in front of him and sighed.

"Dinner," he mumbled. "Right."

Everyone else had already eaten—or maybe just didn't want to be around him. Honestly Tristan didn't care, he wanted to be as alone as possible.

Only Breonia sat nearby, casually munching through a steaming bowl of rice like she hadn't spent the last hour bench-pressing boulders or sparring with razor-limbed constructs. She looked up as he sat up straight and patted his chest.

Tristan reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver capsule wrapped in red tape. He stared at it like it was a sacred artifact.

"Alright," he whispered. "Do your thing."

He clicked the button on top and tossed it gently onto the table. With a small pop and a puff of pink smoke, a plate of grilled chicken and salad materialized with a sparkle and a heavenly scent.

He stared at it, eyes glassy.

"Compression capsules, what life savers," he muttered, clutching the fork like it owed him money. "Too bad they can't store anything super big. I would've brought my whole damn kitchen from home."

He took a huge bite of the chicken like he hadn't eaten in a week. Breonia watched with mild amusement.

"So," she said between bites of rice, "how's the training going?"

Tristan didn't even lift his head.

"Terrible. I'm dying. Every day. Emotionally, physically, spiritually... Naomi's creative. I think I got flash-fried by a laser made of guilt earlier."

"You must be making some progress," she said, tilting her bowl to get the last of the rice.

He paused, thinking. His mind flicked to the brief moment during the last illusion—the glowing blue light. It had flickered like a candle in the dark, distant, but somehow warm.

"I don't know," he muttered. "I keep seeing this light when I push my energy out. But I still don't think I'm cut out for this... Sensory Agent stuff."

Breonia didn't look surprised. She popped the last bite of rice into her mouth, chewed, then shrugged.

"Yeah. Wouldn't be surprised."

Tristan stopped mid-chew. "Gee, thanks for the support."

She gave him a side glance. "Just being honest. Most people aren't cut out to be Sensory Types. It's rare. Most psychics fall into the Attack category."

"Attack Types?" he asked, genuinely curious now.

Breonia nodded. "You know, the flashy ones. Stronger bodies, control over elements, physical enhancements. All the show-off stuff."

Tristan blinked. "Wait, so there's, like, types?"

"You didn't know that?" she said with a roll of her eyes. "Of course you didn't."

She set her bowl aside and leaned on the table.

"Look. Most psychic users are born with one, maybe two natural abilities. Usually physical. Attack Types use their power outward—force, energy blasts, elemental control. But Sensory Types? They turn that power inward. They can read minds, detect energy, manipulate perception. Hell, some can even access alternate planes of reality."

"Wow," Tristan said, both impressed and slightly horrified.

"Yeah. Wow," Breonia echoed, clearly less impressed.

She leaned back, crossing her arms. "To become a Sensory Agent, you have to have a sensory-type ability and fine-tuned control. Most people fail at the second part. It's not about power—it's about precision. Like... threading a needle in a tornado."

Tristan stared at the glowing remnants of his meal, poking at the lettuce with his fork. "So what's your ability?" he asked, suddenly realizing he'd never actually asked her before.

Breonia raised a brow. "I'm telekinetic. I can move things with my mind. Mostly use it in simple ways, like pushing and pulling things. Very Attack Type."

"Cool," Tristan said, genuinely impressed.

"Thanks." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "But don't stress about the training. Odds were already low for you."

That hit harder than he expected.

He didn't say anything, just looked down at his plate, fork idly poking at his chicken.

It was the fifth day. Five days of psychic hell loops, and he couldn't even confidently tell where the energy ball was, let alone touch it. Was he just wasting everyone's time? Maybe it was time to pack it in.

Maybe I should quit, he thought.

Across the table, Breonia narrowed her eyes slightly, her fork hovering mid-air. She could tell. The look in his eyes was easy to read.

He's close to breaking, she thought. So why keep pushing him? Why does Darcy want this so bad?

Breonia chewed on her thoughts as much as her food. Tristan had more potential than most recruits she'd seen in the last two years—maybe even more than herself—but this... this wasn't training. It was psychological warfare with a pretty face and big boots.

And he was cracking.

She watched him for a long moment as he stared into his plate like it held answers. She wanted to say something encouraging. But Breonia wasn't one for flowery speeches.

So instead, she stabbed her fork back into her rice and quietly muttered, "Tch. Idiot."