"Learn what? Forget it — this esper is going to die here today anyway."
An uninvited guest had arrived.
The voice did not belong to either Misaki or Makoto.
Its source was a man clad head-to-toe in bright crimson knight's armor — though "armor" was perhaps a generous term.
His outfit differed greatly from anything a real knight would wear.
From his feet up to his knees, his elbows, shoulders, wrists, waist, back, and chest… his entire body bristled with over fifty small wheel assemblies, each resembling the wheels of an inline skate.
And as if that weren't enough, strapped to his back were two ultra-compact jet engines — each about twenty centimeters in diameter and fifty centimeters long.
His face was hidden from view, but his posture was clear enough: he was leaning forward in a speed skater's stance, charging toward the two of them at breakneck pace.
"Looks like more troublemakers."
Misaki had already risen to her feet the instant the crimson figure's voice rang out, sensing the high-speed intrusion before most would have even noticed.
She shot Makoto a sidelong glance, and the item she'd already tucked away in her handbag — she now pulled out again, holding it firmly in her grip.
The remote was her weapon.
Only with it in hand did she feel truly safe.
"Even among troublemakers, there are big differences. Besides, we're just here to share a little warmth — not stirring up trouble."
Makoto had realized what was happening only a fraction of a second later than Misaki, but her look made him purse his lips in faint annoyance.
Still, the moment his eyes locked onto the crimson figure — now less than fifty meters away — his brow furrowed deeply.
"Red armor… this outfit…"
Muttering as if to himself, Makoto sorted through the mental file of information his subordinates had gathered for him.
Bit by bit, the incoming attackers matched a certain profile.
"You're 'Deadlock,' aren't you?"
"So you've heard of us?"
The grating screech of wheels tearing across pavement echoed from all directions — front, back, left, and right.
More figures appeared, each in crimson knight gear with a full-face helmet.
Judging from their silhouettes, there were both men and women among them, and the range of heights and shoulder widths suggested a wide spread of ages.
Now, the group calling themselves "Deadlock" had completely surrounded Shokuhou Misaki and Harumura Makoto.
"You do look a little familiar yourself," the lead man said.
His tone was hard to read through the helmet, but Makoto's expression had already hardened into something grim.
"Deadlock is a skill-out armed group formed about six months ago. Their main objective—is attacking espers, right? People like this can only vent their frustration by lashing out at those they can't compare to."
Misaki's icy voice cut him off before he could finish.
She didn't know the specifics of this skill-out gang — truthfully, she didn't care.
To her, all such groups were nothing but society's refuse: people who blamed others' talent for their own shortcomings, wasting their lives wallowing in resentment.
And how did she know their purpose?
Because almost all skill-out armed groups shared the same pathetic goal — to attack espers, prove they weren't inferior, and patch up their fragile egos.
The atmosphere shifted.
The tension that had already been heavy now took on a sharper, almost lethal edge at her blunt use of the word "useless."
"They're not all the same," Makoto said quietly, stepping half a pace forward to put himself between Misaki and the oncoming threat.
"This group has about thirty members. They've only been around for half a year, but their success rate in attacking espers is shockingly high. So far, at least fifteen strong espers have been taken down — three dead, twelve severely injured. As for whether they've managed to harm any high-level espers… that's still unclear."
"Well, you certainly know a lot about us," the leader said, openly surprised.
Misaki's brows drew together slightly.
Makoto wouldn't bother saying things without a reason — and she could already grasp the meaning behind his words.
There was something strange about Deadlock.
And the strange part… was their success rate.
It was well-known what skill-out armed groups were like: gangs of esper-hating non-espers who refused to let any esper join their ranks.
Some were so strict they wouldn't even tolerate Level 1s, let alone Level 2s.
Only completely powerless people could be members.
And the power gap between a normal human and a strong esper… went without saying.
In pure combat potential, a strong esper could easily defeat thirty times their number in ordinary humans.
Which was why most powerless groups only ever managed to successfully attack Level 2s or below.
The rare times they took down a strong esper, it was usually a mentally unsteady girl who panicked when surrounded, her fear breaking her concentration and causing her ability to fail.
Besides, such gangs tended to lurk in the city's outer, abandoned districts.
Well-behaved students rarely wandered into those areas, which only lowered the odds of encountering strong espers even further.
In other words — Deadlock's record made no sense.
"…Your intel's a little outdated," the leader said suddenly.
"The strong espers count is about right, but we've also taken down three high-level espers now. They just got lucky — Anti-Skill showed up in time, so they kept their lives."
The moment his words ended, every member's weapon roared to life. The pneumatic drivers in their hands screamed with deafening force.
"And now… our target is to wipe out the parasites infecting this city."
It was unclear whether the leader's helmet had any anti-psychic protection, but his provocative gesture — leveling his weapon directly at Shokuhou Misaki and Harumura Makoto — left no doubt about his intent.
"Kill the espers."
The cacophony of weapons being readied ripped through the warm summer night, shattering it completely.
A cage woven from pure human malice descended over Misaki and Makoto, as though some sinister ritual were about to begin.
"Kill the espers who stole everything from us."