Chapter 40: The Silence of Unraised Standards
The past two and a half weeks had stretched out like an endless, soul-sucking void of pure agony, a merciless test of patience and bodily endurance. My routine—once a finely tuned rhythm of meditative psionic energy siphoning—had been cruelly ripped apart by the enforced necessity to replenish my reserves passively. The effect? A relentless migraine that clawed at my temples with the subtlety of a drunken god smashing its fists against my skull. It was like trying to tune a celestial harp while someone yanked the strings every few seconds.
I was trapped in a hellish cycle: pour every last shred of my being into a single, scorching psionic bullet, then collapse into a waiting game, watching the fragile reservoir of power fill at a snail's pace, before launching into the inferno again. Over and over, a Sisyphean dance of energy expenditure and pitiful recovery, punctuated only by the barest necessities—eating, sleeping, and the occasional stolen respite.
Negotiation skills became my secret weapon. By leveraging "intimate time" with Crystal and Kimchi—subtle, light touches that barely grazed the edge of 'trouser dancing' territory—I managed to bribe a precious few hours of rest every few days. It was a delicate balance, one part desperation, two parts guilt, and a dash of ruthless self-preservation. To their credit, if I'd asked them to halt this relentless training spree, they would have stopped without hesitation. But this torture was self-inflicted, a beast I wrestled with willingly, though I hated every moment of it in equal measure. Somewhere beneath the layers of self-loathing, I recognized the twisted thrill of progress.
And progress there was—astoundingly fast. What used to take months of grueling repetition, the painstaking reduction of time to manifest a full psionic shot, suddenly compressed into a fortnight of accelerated growth. The minutes I once burned now shrank to mere seconds, the power behind each shot subtly yet noticeably increased.
I suspected the secret lay buried somewhere in the dark depths of my Mindspace. That forbidden zone, where Crystal's cryptic forces meddled in ways I could neither observe nor influence. They still refused to let me enter, shrouding their machinations in mystery and silence. Yet, according to Crystal, this enigmatic process would culminate today—on the cusp of our return home. Their hush-hush attitude irked me, but I loved them, so I swallowed my frustration like a bitter pill and accepted the silence.
Across the room, Crystal stood, a willing and ever-patient target for my increasingly potent volleys. The past weeks had seen her embody the role of target with surprising grace, her lithe form standing firm as I charged, aimed, and fired. Despite the gradual escalation of my power, my psionic blasts still barely registered against her divine frame—each shot felt like a snotty squirt gun blast to a god.
I drew a slow, deep breath, channeling ambient energies like a dark conduit, infusing my own essence into the fragile orb of power forming in my palm. My stance locked: back rigid as a steel rod, right arm extended in perfect alignment, left arm cocked behind me to counterbalance the weight of raw energy. Thirty agonizing seconds passed, the air thick with the scent of ozone and burning psychic heat as my arm seared under the strain of containment.
I could feel this was going to be the strongest shot yet—a crescendo of effort and will. And then, with a sharp snap in the muscles, I unleashed it.
Crystal absorbed the blast without a flicker of pain, as always, but this time, a triumphant smile lit her face—a spark of joy at the milestone. "Congratulations, my Irvine. Your progress astounds me. It took my body a full extra microsecond to absorb the energy behind that psionic bullet!" Her voice danced with excitement and pride.
I blinked in amazement. "Holy macaroni, really?"
One microsecond. Most would scoff at such a fleeting sliver of time—barely a blink. But in the realm of living deities, a microsecond is an eternity, a cosmic chasm. Each nano fraction of delay in absorption is a resounding 'hell yea' in psionic warfare. To have shaved off a whole microsecond was a victory worthy of celebration. My mood soared like a kite caught in a cosmic wind.
At that moment, Kimchi strode in, twin swords gleaming in her hands. She instantly sensed my elation through our open psychic link and asked, "Did something good happen?"
"Yeah. I managed to make Crystal's absorption take an extra microsecond. It's a huge leap."
Kimchi's eyes widened, her respect for the feat instantly evident. She crossed the room and pressed a quick celebratory kiss against my lips, much to Crystal's playful chagrin.
Before the moment could deepen into anything steamier, Crystal broke in with a knowing smile, "I summoned Kimchi here because we'll be home in forty-five minutes, and I want your psionic energy fully restored when we arrive. To keep your momentum, you may spar with her."
I didn't bother questioning the need for a full energy reserve—I already knew the answer would be buried in cryptic bullshit. Instead, I extended my hand, and within a heartbeat, a sword, impatient and sharp, zipped through the air into my grasp.
"Woah, someone missed me during training, huh? Ready to spar with Kimchi again?" Kiya quipped with a gleam of rivalry, jolting my arm forward as if eager to stab her bitter enemy.
"I'll take that as a yes. Let's get sweaty, dear," I said to Kimchi, who suppressed a blush and immediately snapped into sparring mode.
Forty grueling minutes later, I lay sprawled on my back, drenched in sweat, lungs rattling like an ancient bellows. Since I had severed her hand weeks ago, Kimchi's ferocity had skyrocketed. Her attacks blurred into a maddening storm, multiple limbs flickering like spectral arms, each strike a blur I could barely track or counter.
I might as well have been fighting a hydra with twenty blades instead of one fierce swordswoman.
Just when I thought I'd collapse under the relentless barrage, a warrior-caste—one of my loyal variants—entered the room, holding a basket gently in her maw. She placed it before me, revealing a treasure trove of cold beers. "Oh, I love you," I murmured, uncapping the first bottle and draining it like nectar from the gods, the cold fire soothing my ravaged throat.
The warrior, unnoticed by me in my bliss, accidentally released her mating pheromones—a faint, hypnotic orange cloud that drifted lazily in the air. Kimchi's eyes snapped open with jealous fury, and she chased the hapless warrior from the room, growling warnings.
After the fourth beer, I was fully recharged. "I don't know what the Ker'mins brew in their beer, but hooey, it's amazing," I said, hoisting myself to my feet.
"And thank you, littl—" The warrior had vanished. "Huh. They usually wait for head pats before leaving. Must've been called away."
Then the unmistakable aroma of buttery popcorn filled the room, tinged with a faint orange haze near the exit.
"Or it got chased off by a jealous creature named Kimchi," I chuckled, turning to my unimpressed sparring partner.
"Kimchi, you know these warriors aren't that smart. All they want are head pats and scritches. You don't need to get jealous just because I say they do a good job," I teased.
Kimchi's reply was a flimsy excuse, her voice laced with obvious jealousy: "It let off mating pheromones. You know how unpredictable they get. I was just protecting you."
I shrugged off the drama and headed for a quick 'shower'—really a squadron of special drones cleaning the epidermis like high-tech skin parasites—then slipped into fresh clothes just as the ship detached from the Psionic tendril.
At a translucent viewport, the distant orb of home shimmered—a vast, barren rock I might only partly claim as Earthborn, with my soul tied to that ancient origin, but my body forged in the crucible of Apollo-Minor. This colossal wasteland was still mine, my anchor in the madness.
It didn't take long to arrive in orbit. I'd already boarded a void-swimmer for descent. Crystal and Kimchi busied themselves with their own preparations. Crystal, especially, was ramping her powers to eleven for her role inside this system, bracing herself for the challenges their hive would pose.
I was alone for ten minutes of precious silence before the swimmer sealed up. My warrior variants, ghosts from the initial invasion, emerged from hidden compartments and boarded alongside freethinkers and a smattering of agitators.
Surprisingly, Kimchi didn't join me on the descent. Her clinginess was legendary, so I expected her to come along. But no—she stayed behind.
The drop to the surface lasted five minutes. My nerves twitched as the cryptic mysteries of my Mindspace loomed, threatening to burst free now that we'd landed.
"I hope everything will be okay," I muttered aloud, my voice low and steady, deliberately raising no flags, sending no signals, keeping the silence sacred.