The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Troy sat in his wheelchair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest as he glanced around at the other survivors. The air was thick with tension, a mix of curiosity, apprehension, and the occasional glare directed his way.
Celia stood beside him, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. She had warned him to behave, but Troy wasn't sure if he could resist stirring the pot—just a little.
Madam Irina stepped forward, her presence commanding immediate attention. Her opaque sunglasses hid her eyes, but Troy could feel her gaze sweeping over the group.
"Welcome, all of you," she began, her voice calm and measured. "Today marks the beginning of your training. You are here because you have survived the impossible. But survival is only the first step. What comes next will determine whether you rise above your circumstances… or fall victim to them."
Troy raised an eyebrow. "So, no pressure, right?"
A few stifled chuckles broke the tension, but Celia elbowed him lightly. "Be serious," she muttered.
Irina's lips curved into a faint smile. "Humor is a valuable tool, Troy. But let us not forget the gravity of the situation. The serum you were given is both a gift and a curse. It has awakened something within you—a power that defies the natural order. But it is also unstable. Without proper control, it could consume you."
She paused, letting her words sink in. "Your first lesson will be simple: understanding your own limits. Each of you will be paired with an instructor who will guide you through the basics of your abilities. But before we begin, I want you to remember this: your power is an extension of yourself. It is not a weapon to be wielded lightly, nor a crutch to lean on. It is a part of you—and like any part of you, it requires care and discipline."
Troy leaned back in his wheelchair, his mind racing. "An extension of myself, huh?" He glanced down at his legs, still motionless but now tingling with a faint sensation he hadn't felt in years. If his power was an extension of himself, then maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to make them move again.
"Now then, shall we learn a bit of history? Esper history."
She let her words hang in the air before continuing.
"World War I was started by humans and ended with them. But World War II… that was different. That was when espers got involved."
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier. Even some of the seasoned students straightened up, their expressions more serious now.
"The war itself was already a nightmare, but the presence of espers made it something else entirely. Fear and death push humans beyond their limits, and for espers, those same emotions accelerate their growth. As the war raged, their powers escalated—abilities once considered rare and unpredictable became lethal weapons of mass destruction."
Troy listened intently. The way she spoke made it clear this wasn't just a lesson. This was a warning.
"Eventually, the war came to an end, and specialized esper units played a key role in that. Teams of highly trained espers from different nations came together, using their abilities to crush opposition and bring the war to a close."
Irina paused for a brief moment, letting that victory sink in. Then, she exhaled sharply, her gaze turning sharper.
"But that was where the real problem began."
She began pacing slowly in front of the students.
"After the war, espers were no longer seen as heroes. No longer seen as humans. They were outcasts. Some governments feared them, others saw them as weapons to be controlled. In some places, they were treated as abominations. The resentment grew. The hatred festered. And eventually, the espers had enough."
The room remained silent, everyone waiting for her next words.
"When you take a powerful group of individuals and push them to the brink, what happens?"
No one answered. They already knew.
"They rebel."
Irina's voice was low but unwavering.
"It started small. Isolated uprisings, rogue espers lashing out at governments that tried to control them. But soon, the conflict spread. Espers from different countries came together, unified not by nationality, but by their shared suffering. What began as scattered acts of defiance evolved into a full-scale war."
She stopped pacing and faced them fully.
"The Human-Esper War was unlike anything the world had ever seen. It was devastating—entire cities were wiped off the map. The war lasted years, and at its peak, an entire country was lost. Sunk beneath the ocean, erased from existence."
Some of the newer students swallowed hard.
"And it didn't stop there," she continued. "Espers ruled over humans, unstoppable. Governments collapsed. Societies crumbled. Humanity had no way to fight back.
Until—"
She turned toward the class, her next words spoken with deliberate weight.
"—a massacre changed everything."
Silence.
"A group of rogue espers, consumed by their power, butchered an entire village in Russia. Men, women, children—none were spared.
Irina's tone darkened. "And that… was the moment everything shifted. That was when he entered the war."
Her expression was unreadable. "Sergei Volkov."
---
The air smelled of damp earth and wheat, the faint scent of freshly turned soil mingling with the distant aroma of baked bread from the village ovens. The golden fields stretched as far as the eye could see, rolling under the afternoon sun like waves of amber. Birds chirped in the distance, oblivious to the dark clouds gathering at the horizon.
Sergei Volkov wiped the sweat from his brow, his weathered hands gripping the wooden plow tightly. The day had been long, his muscles aching from the labor, but there was a certain peace in the routine. He was a man of the land, content with the simple life of a farmer. His white hair, despite his youth, was tied back loosely, strands falling over his sharp, yet kind features. His beard, short and well-kept, gave him the look of an old soul—one who had seen too much too soon.
His blue eyes, deep as the Siberian winter, held an uncanny stillness. A stillness that had once been tested in war.
And would be tested again.
A low rumble broke the tranquility. Not thunder. Something worse.
The explosion came from the east, its force rattling the very bones of the earth. Birds scattered in a frenzy, the golden fields quivering as if in fear. Sergei's heart clenched. Smoke. Black, thick smoke, curling into the sky like the fingers of death itself.
The village.
He dropped the plow and ran. The wind howled past him, but his pulse was louder. His boots pounded against the dirt road, the scent of wheat replaced by something acrid—burning flesh, gunpowder, and the coppery tang of blood.
When he reached the village, the world stopped.
Bodies littered the streets—men, women, children—faces he had known his whole life. They were twisted in frozen agony, their flesh charred or torn apart by brutal force. The small church, where he had once married his beloved Anna, was a collapsed ruin, its bell now a melted husk. The market square, once filled with laughter and the scent of fresh bread, was now a graveyard of smoldering carts and shattered pottery.
And there, amidst the ruins, lay Anna.
Her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink, her delicate fingers clutching at her chest as if she had tried to hold onto life just a moment longer. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the dirt red. Her once-warm brown eyes, always so full of love, stared blankly at the sky.
Sergei's breath hitched. He fell to his knees beside her, trembling fingers brushing against her cooling cheek.
"Anna… lyubov moya… please…" His voice cracked, the words barely above a whisper.
No answer.
Only the crackling of fire.
A shadow fell over him. A laugh—cold, mocking.
Sergei's head snapped up, his grief replaced by something else. Something ancient. Something terrible.
Three figures stood before him, watching with amused expressions.
The woman in the center, clearly the leader, had short crimson hair that curled around her sharp, foxlike face. Flames danced along her fingertips, her amber eyes glowing like molten gold. She wore a black military coat, adorned with insignias of a rogue esper faction that had long forsaken humanity.
To her left stood a towering brute of a man, nearly seven feet tall, his skin dark gray and cracked like ancient stone. His bald head gleamed in the firelight, and his coal-black eyes held nothing but cruelty. His knuckles, scarred from countless battles, flexed in anticipation.
The third figure was barely visible—a wraith wrapped in a tattered cloak, his body shifting like smoke. His face was obscured by a mask, but his eyes, hollow and unnatural, burned with a violet glow.
The woman smirked, tilting her head. "Another one? Look at him—grieving, broken. Pathetic."
The stone-skinned man chuckled. "Let's make this quick."
Sergei rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The air around him grew heavy, a pressure building like the calm before a storm. His hands clenched at his sides, his body trembling—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
The wind stirred.
The flames flickered.
The rogue espers hesitated.
Then Sergei spoke, his voice hollow.
"You shouldn't have come here."
The storm answered his grief.
The sky, once clear, darkened in an instant, swirling clouds devouring the sunlight. The wind howled, kicking up ash and dust. The ground trembled beneath his feet, the pulse of the earth syncing with his rage.
The stone-skinned man sneered and charged. A single step—and lightning fell from the heavens.
It struck him dead center, the force so immense that his rock-like flesh cracked apart, glowing with molten energy before his entire body exploded into dust and scattered into the wind.
The fire-wielder cursed, throwing a massive wave of flames at Sergei. The inferno roared toward him, heat warping the air—
But it never touched him.
The flames split around Sergei as if bowing to something greater. The temperature in the village dropped, frost forming along the scorched buildings. His blue eyes glowed like ice, reflecting the fire wielder's growing terror.
She turned to run.
She never got the chance.
The ground beneath her feet cracked open, stone spears bursting upward with unrelenting force. One impaled her through the stomach, lifting her off the ground as she gasped, choking on blood. Another pierced her chest, then another, until she was nothing but a ragged corpse draped over jagged rock.
The wraith tried to flee, vanishing into the shadows—
Sergei raised a hand.
The very air refused to let the rogue go.
The wind twisted, forming a vortex that pulled the shadowed esper into the sky. He screamed, his form flickering as he fought against the force. But it was useless.
Lightning struck once.
Twice.
A third time.
Each bolt burned away a piece of the wraith until nothing remained.
The storm raged for hours, mourning with Sergei. When it finally calmed, he stood alone. A man who had lost everything.
A man who had become something unstoppable.
Sergei's legend did not end with vengeance. It had only begun.
The Human-Esper War had already ravaged the world for a decade. What started as an alliance between humans and espers had shattered when rogue factions sought dominion over the powerless. Nations fell, cities crumbled, and armies—both human and esper—were caught in a seemingly endless cycle of destruction.
Until Sergei Volkov entered the battlefield.
He was no longer just a man. He was a storm given flesh.
At the Siege of Esper Island, where the rogue espers had fortified themselves with barriers that no human weapon could breach, Sergei led the final charge.
The sky wept with his fury. Lightning rained down like the wrath of the gods, reducing entire fortresses to rubble. The very earth rose at his command, swallowing enemies whole. Tornadoes howled, sweeping the battlefield clean of opposition.
By the time the battle ended, the island had vanished beneath the ocean, swallowed by the very elements he commanded. The war was over.
And Sergei Volkov, the Stormbringer, was now a legend.
The holographic display faded, and silence engulfed the room. The survivors sat motionless, eyes wide, breaths unsteady.
Madam Irina stood tall, adjusting her sunglasses.
"And That same man created bastion, to protect humans and esper's alike," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, " the power of an esper who embraces their true self is dangerous, although Sergei was a special case"
She turned to Troy, her gaze piercing.
"So, What will you become?"
Madam Irina sat back in her chair, a rare moment of stillness crossing her usually lively demeanor. She had just finished recounting the legend of Sergei Volkov, the Stormbringer, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though she was lost in thought.