027 Functioning Psychopaths - Part 1 - Mark’s POV

  Professor Merrick stood at the front of the training hall, arms crossed behind his back, his gaze sweeping across the css with that usual detached sharpness.

  "Alright," Merrick said. His tone was mild, but there was an underlying weight to it — the kind that made people sit up straighter without even realizing it. "Let’s begin with a headcount. I want the winners of the sparring matches to confirm they’re here."

  I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching as he started the roll call.

  "Valeska."

  "Here," Mirai said, her voice calm and steady.

  "Morse."

  "Present." Gina Morse — tall, sharp-eyed, and built like a track star — raised a hand.

  "Core."

  "Here!" Fiona Core practically bounced in pce. Small, fast, and lethal — one of those students you didn’t want to underestimate.

  "Valentine."

  "Here." I lifted a hand.

  "Mosley."

  "Still alive." Peter Mosley, dark-haired and quiet, gave a small nod from the back of the room.

  "Touch."

  "Here," Iris Touch said. She sat with her legs crossed, looking effortlessly bored, like this was all beneath her.

  Merrick’s gaze shifted toward the side of the room. "Faust."

  Elena Faust raised her hand with smooth elegance. "Here."

  "Brandt."

  Karl didn’t bother looking up. He just raised his hand, scowling as usual.

  Merrick paused. His eyes swept the room.

  "Craig."

  Silence.

  "John Craig?" Merrick repeated.

  Still nothing.

  I frowned. John wasn’t exactly the type to draw attention, but he was usually on time. Ditching css wasn’t like him.

  Merrick’s expression didn’t change. "Students who lose their matches are under no obligation to stay. However…" His gaze sharpened. "Those with matches remaining are expected to be present. So I’ll ask — where is Craig?"

  The css remained silent.

  Then Greg Green raised his hand, his grin practically splitting his face. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with unhinged excitement.

  "I sent him to the infirmary," Greg said cheerfully.

  The room went still.

  Merrick’s eyes narrowed. "Expin."

  Greg’s grin widened. "Well, you see—"

  "Summarize."

  Greg ughed. "He challenged me to a warm-up round. It got a little… intense."

  "Intense how?"

  Greg’s eyes practically gleamed. "He’s alive."

  Mirai shifted beside me, her brows knitting together.

  Merrick’s gaze didn’t waver. "And the extent of his injuries?"

  Greg shrugged. "He’ll walk it off. Probably."

  Karl snorted.

  Merrick considered Greg for a moment, then said, "Noted."

  That was it. No follow-up. No lecture.

  Greg sat back, still grinning. Mirai shot me a look. I lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

  "Now," Merrick said, voice cool again. "Since we have an empty slot, the matches will either be adjusted accordingly or someone else fills up the spot. I’d rather we have nine contenders though, because I’d like to see how you would handle a three-way fight.”

  "Greg sent John to the infirmary?""What the hell happened?""Did Craig even have a chance?"”Of course he did, he won his match, remember?”"Nah, I'd argue John's dumb for picking a fight.""You don't know that... Maybe he was coerced?""By Greg? Greg seems like a nice guy."”How did Greg do it? It sounds too convenient.”

  Greg, meanwhile, stretched his arms behind his head, looking supremely satisfied.

  I gnced at Mirai. She looked troubled.

  I couldn’t bme her. John was one of the more banced students in css. If Greg could send him to the infirmary just for a warm-up, it said a lot about what Greg could actually do.

  There’s something people don’t tell you about ESPers — something they don’t teach you in textbooks or orientation sessions.

  ESPers were, at their core, functioning psychopaths.

  Oh, they weren’t necessarily murderers or criminals — at least not openly — but the wiring of their brains was fundamentally different from an average human’s. ESP didn’t just give you supernatural powers. It altered how you processed the world. Emotional control, impulse management, empathy — all of it was scrambled and rewritten. That was why ESPers acted so differently, why some of them were hyper-aggressive, while others were disturbingly calm in situations that would make a normal person panic.

  It also expined why eccentricity and violence were so common among them.

  So when Greg confessed to fighting John and sending him to the infirmary, I wasn’t even surprised.

  Greg stood in the center of the room, practically glowing under the weight of everyone’s attention. His grin was sharp, bright — almost too bright.

  "Yeah, I fought John," Greg said, raising his hand like this was some kind of school assembly. "It was a proper duel under the versus system. Honestly, I want to take his pce for the following matches…"

  The room rippled with disbelief.

  "The versus system?" Sarah said, her brow furrowing. "You’re saying it was sanctioned?"

  Greg’s grin widened. "That’s right."

  Hannah looked confused. "What even is a versus system? Why was everyone looking so surprised?"

  "It's suspicious, that's why," Peter narrowed his eyes. "John’s not an idiot. Why would he waste his strength on a warm-up match before the official rounds?"

  "Yeah," Fiona chimed in, arms crossed. "No way John would throw away his chances like that."

  Greg spread his hands innocently. "Who knows? Maybe he thought he could win and bully me. Maybe he wanted to vent. Or maybe he underestimated me. Either way, it was a legitimate duel. Combat Zone rules apply. You’re allowed to challenge anyone outside of formal matches — win or lose."

  A low murmur of protest swept through the room.

  "That’s not the point," Gina said, eyes narrowing. "It’s suspicious that John would take that risk against you of all people. Moreover, you lost to me, remember? I don't think I'd lose to John, but I don't think it would be so easy."

  "Wow, so confident," Greg tilted his head. "The point is... John challenged me. I accepted. He lost. If he wasn’t prepared for the consequences, that’s not my problem. Stop defending him. I thought, we're buddies, Gina."

  "This isn't looking good on you, Greg," Lo scowled, anger coloring her eyes. "You’re saying John was that reckless? It’s suspicious no matter how you spin it."

  Greg’s eyes flicked toward her, and his grin sharpened. "Reckless or not, the match was valid."

  "And now you’re proposing to take his pce," Merrick’s voice cut through the room like a knife.

  "Yep," Greg turned toward him. "So what is it gonna be, prof?"

  A fresh wave of disbelief followed that statement.

  "You can’t do that!" Clint said, gring at him. "John earned his spot. You lost your match. Why should you get another shot?"

  Greg’s grin widened. "Because I followed the rules. Professor Merrick wants his data. You think he’s going to waste a slot because someone got injured? Someone needs to fill it. Why not me?"

  "Because it’s dirty," Peter said. "You knocked him out of the tournament without even having to win a formal match."

  "And?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "I’m pying the game. Is it my fault you didn’t think of it first? Ah, you won your match, didn't you? No wonder you look down on the rest of us so much..."

  "John is my friend—"

  "This is getting nowhere," interrupted Elena, "Professor Merrick, please handle the issue at hand already, so that we may proceed with the test."

  Merrick’s gaze lingered on Greg for a long moment. Then, to the surprise of absolutely no one who understood how this school worked, he smiled faintly.

  "Impressive."

  Fiona’s eyes widened. "You’re rewarding this?"

  “It’s a strategy that works,” Merrick’s expression didn’t change. "Greg followed the rules of engagement. He exploited a strategic loophole. And he secured the moral high ground in the process. I hoped none of you forgot... that what I am looking for is strategy. This applies."

  "Moral high ground?!" Lo snapped.

  "If John challenged him willingly and under the rules of the Combat Zone, Greg is within his rights to accept and take his pce upon victory," Merrick said. "He acted within the system. Not liking the outcome doesn’t make it invalid. It was realistic and actionable."

  That shut the room up fast.

  Greg’s grin stretched even wider, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement. "Thanks, Professor."

  Merrick’s gaze sharpened. "Don’t misunderstand. You’ve only positioned yourself better. It remains to be seen whether you can maintain that position."

  Greg’s eyes gleamed. "Looking forward to it."

  I leaned back, arms crossed, watching Greg bask in his victory.

  Mirai’s expression remained troubled. "This doesn’t feel right," she murmured.

  "Of course it doesn’t," I said. "That’s how the game works."

  "Still…" She gnced at Greg. "It’s hard not to feel like he cheated."

  "He didn’t," I said. "That’s the problem."

  Greg caught me looking and shot me a wink.

  I scowled.

  ESPers weren’t normal. And Greg had just proven he understood that better than anyone else.

  Professor Merrick’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the chatter that had erupted after Greg’s little stunt. The murmurs of disbelief and thinly veiled hostility were growing louder by the second.

  "Greg." Merrick’s tone was ft, controlled — which somehow made it worse.

  Greg smiled brightly, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his uniform jacket. His golden hair practically glowed under the cssroom lights.

  Merrick’s eyes narrowed. "I hope you understand the long-term consequences of your strategy."

  Greg tilted his head. "Oh? Consequences?"

  Merrick’s voice dropped, gaining an edge. "You may have followed the rules, but you’ve also secured the resentment of your future comrades." His gaze swept across the room. "Your cssmates are looking at you right now and wondering if they can trust you — wondering if you’ll stab them in the back the next time you see an opening. They have no proof whether you’ve done something wrong or not, but that doesn’t mean they don’t suspect you. And clearly, they do."

  "I don't really care about what they think of me," Greg’s smile sharpened. "Ironically enough, I understand their feelings perfectly."

  Merrick’s eyes narrowed further.

  Greg’s grin widened. "And that’s why I loved taking advantage of them. These feelings so... malleable. They are a delicacy, I am telling you."

  A wave of fiery discontent surged through the room.

  "You arrogant—!" Lo’s chair scraped back as she stood up, gring daggers at Greg. "That kind of arrogance is going to get you killed!"

  Anna booed loudly from the back. "Sit down, Greg! I thought you were a chill guy!"

  Peter scoffed. "There’s no way this stands. The st spot should go to Tom Wick. He’s the one John fought st. He deserves it more than Greg."

  Greg’s eyes glinted with amusement. "Oh? Then how about a match?"

  Peter’s mouth twitched. "What?"

  Greg’s grin widened. "A match between me and Tom. If he wins, he takes the spot. Fair and square."

  The room dissolved into noise. Protests. Arguments.

  "That’s ridiculous!" Fiona’s voice cut above the others.

  "You already had your chance!" Gina added.

  "John’s the one who got cheated here!" Peter growled.

  "SHUT UP."

  Merrick’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the chaos like a guillotine bde.

  Silence crashed down over the room.

  Merrick’s eyes were hard. His hands were behind his back, his stance sharp and controlled. "Greg did not break any rules."

  "He abused the system!" Peter said.

  "And the system allows for that," Merrick replied coldly. He pulled out his tablet, his thumb flicking across the screen as he scanned something. Probably the records of Greg’s and John’s fight during recess. If it was sanctioned, there were probably video records of it.

  "Under the versus system," Merrick said, not bothering to look up, "challenging a fellow student outside of formal matches is permitted. If the challenged party accepts and loses, the challenger has the right to cim any benefits tied to that outcome."

  "That’s—!"

  Merrick’s gaze snapped upward, his expression dark. "Did John accept the challenge?"

  Greg smiled. "He did."

  "Did John lose?"

  "Clearly."

  Merrick’s eyes lingered on Greg for a long, heavy moment. Then he turned toward Tom Wick.

  Tom was sitting toward the back, arms crossed. His pink hair hung slightly over his eyes, obscuring his expression.

  "Tom Wick." Merrick’s tone was clipped. "Do you wish to stake a cim to the st spot and challenge Greg?"

  Tom’s gaze slid toward Greg.

  "Hey, Pete," Greg’s smile hadn’t budged. "He's gonna say no, ya know? Wanna bet on it? So? Anyone? Clint?"

  "Shut up, Greg," piped Clint.

  "No thanks." Tom shook his head. "I’d rather not fight Greg."

  A flicker of disappointment fshed through Greg’s eyes — or maybe amusement. Hard to tell with him.

  Merrick gave a short nod. "Acknowledged." He turned back toward the rest of the room. "Then the decision stands. Greg Green will repce John Craig’s position in this sparring tournament."

  Outrage bubbled beneath the surface, but Merrick’s tone left no room for argument.

  Greg’s grin widened. He raised two fingers in a casual victory sign. "Appreciate it, Professor."

  The tension from Greg’s little stunt hadn’t fully dissipated, but Merrick was already moving on — as if Greg’s manipution was a footnote, not a problem.

  "Settle down," Merrick said. His tone was crisp and low, but it had the weight of authority behind it. "I’m moving forward with the next phase of the tournament."

  A ripple of confusion passed through the room. A few students shifted in their seats. Peter’s hand shot up. "Wait — phase?"

  Merrick’s gaze slid toward him. "Yes, Mosley. Phase."

  He tapped the screen of his tablet, and a projection fred to life above his head. A rge grid appeared, dividing itself into sets of three. Names filled the slots. My name appeared next to Peter and Iris.

  Three-way matches.

  "From this point onward," Merrick said, "you will no longer be participating in one-on-one matches." His gaze swept across the room. "The next stage of the tournament will be conducted as three-way matches."

  "What?" Gina blurted out.

  Merrick’s eyes narrowed. "Did I stutter?"

  The room went still.

  "Why three-way matches?" Fiona asked.

  "Because I need data. Do I have to keep repeating myself? Pay attention." Merrick’s tone was ft and clinical. "One-on-one matches test individual combat ability. But real combat — especially the kind you’ll encounter as ESPers — is rarely clean. You won’t always face a single opponent. You’ll need to bance attack and defense. Gauge shifting alliances. Take advantage of openings without overcommitting."

  He flicked his finger, and the grid rearranged itself.

  "Three-way matches will test your ability to adapt. If you focus too much on one opponent, you’ll leave yourself open to the other. If you py too defensively, you’ll be overwhelmed. If you overextend, you’ll be punished."

  A quiet murmur spread across the room. This was going to be messy.

  Merrick’s gaze sharpened. "The objective is simple: survival. If you eliminate both of your opponents, you win. If time runs out, the match will be decided based on combat effectiveness — points awarded for offensive and defensive performance."

  Someone raised their hand. "What’s the time limit?"

  "Fifteen minutes."

  Gina frowned. "So… you want us to py offense and defense at the same time?"

  "Precisely." Merrick’s expression was unreadable. "Consider this an advanced test. Some of you will adapt. Some of you will crumble."

  His gaze darkened. "But I will know exactly where you stand by the end of it."

  Merrick’s eyes returned to his tablet, controlling the screen just behind him. "The matches are as follows:"

  The grid expanded, names filling the slots.

  "Match One: Mirai Valeska. Gina Morse. Fiona Core."

  Mirai sat up straighter. Gina’s brow furrowed in concentration, while Fiona crossed her arms, her mouth curling into a faint smirk.

  "Match Two: Karl Brandt. Greg Green. Elena Faust."

  Karl’s scowl deepened. Greg’s expression didn’t shift, but I caught the dangerous gleam in his eyes. Elena simply tilted her head, her eyes half-lidded with quiet amusement.

  "Match Three: Mark Valentine. Peter Mosley. Iris Touch."

  "Guess we’ll see how you measure up, Valentine." Peter turned toward me, his mouth already curling into a smirk. "I'm gonna win this match and then I'll teach that bastard Greg a lesson.

  Iris’s face remained impassive, but her eyes sharpened beneath her gsses. “No hard feelings, but I am going to crush you both.”

  “My feelings are already hurt,” I quipped back. “Just don’t die on me, okay?”

  Anna whistled. "Wow, I didn't know you have it in you, Mark."