I stared at the file transmitted to my terminal for a long time.
It wasn't because the contents were difficult to process.
There was no complexity in the data itself. No dense theoretical models. No layered projections or overlapping parameters that demanded careful unpacking.
If anything, the problem was the opposite.
It was too simple.
So simple that it felt out of place.
This wasn't the kind of document prepared for internal analysts, or even for mid-level operational review. It read more like a safety-approved excerpt—compressed, sanitized, stripped down to the bare minimum.
A version meant to be seen.
Not understood.
The source wasn't official.
There was no meeting tag. No distribution marker. No circulation record.
It hadn't come through the standard channels at all.
It had been pulled in.
Hacked.
And whoever had done it wasn't careless.
The access level embedded in the data packet wasn't low. It wasn't something that should ever appear on a student terminal—let alone mine.
Yet the information itself was unnervingly clean.
Age.
Ability record.
Behavioral trajectory.
Each section neatly compartmentalized, formatted with sterile precision. No marginal notes. No conflicting assessments. No lingering ambiguity.
And then there were the evaluation tags.
Several segments, uniformly labeled, all bearing the same conclusion—
"Dangerous but unstable."
I let out a quiet scoff before I could stop myself.
"…Hah?"
The sound escaped without intent, more reflex than reaction.
My eyes drifted down and settled on the ability description.
Sound.
Shouting.
Burst-type.
The keywords were arranged with mechanical neatness, like phrases lifted directly from an evaluation template and dropped into place without modification. There were no deviations in terminology, no contextual clarifications, no situational notes.
It was textbook.
Which, in this case, made it suspicious.
"He's just a kid who can yell loudly, isn't he?"
I rested my chin against my palm, elbow propped casually on the desk. The words came out flat, lacking even deliberate disdain.
There wasn't much emotion behind them.
More observation than judgment.
"Does this really justify this level of attention?"
The file was clean.
But not the kind of clean that comes from careful curation or professional diligence.
This was a different kind of clean.
It felt scraped.
As if someone had stood upstream in the flow of information, removing everything that might spark association, trimming away context, deleting connective tissue—until only the safest, most harmless-looking layer remained.
The version easiest to underestimate.
I scrolled down.
Next page.
And stopped.
There was no tactical assessment.
No speculation regarding ability limits.
No projections, no probability trees, no suggested countermeasures.
Even the "recommended observation period" was missing.
The space where that line should have been wasn't filled with text.
It was empty.
A clean, intentional blank.
It stood out more than any warning label could have.
Like something had been cut cleanly out of the middle.
No error markers.
No corruption artifacts.
No trace of deletion.
Just absence.
I narrowed my eyes slightly, my gaze lingering on that empty line longer than necessary.
"This isn't right…"
The words came out low, barely audible even to me.
Lucian doesn't do meaningless things.
That was something I understood with absolute certainty.
If this individual were truly insignificant, the file wouldn't exist at all. There would be no reason to compile it, no justification for organizing it—much less allowing it to reach a layer I could access.
If he allowed this—
Then this was only the surface.
Whatever truly mattered hadn't been revealed yet.
And if it hadn't been revealed, that meant it wasn't time.
"Then… I'll wait."
I closed the interface and pushed the terminal aside.
The movement was casual, unhurried.
Like returning a chess piece to the box—not discarded, just temporarily unnecessary.
Several days later.
I was sitting in class.
The lecture hall was quiet in the way academic spaces often were—controlled, restrained, subdued by routine.
At the front of the room, the professor moved through a theoretical model with steady cadence. His voice was calm, precise, each sentence measured. Formulas appeared on the board in clean succession. Diagrams followed. Logical derivations unfolded step by step.
Technically sound.
Utterly dull.
I supported my face with one hand, elbow resting against the desk, gaze drifting toward the window.
Outside, clouds slid across the sky at a glacial pace.
Slow.
Stretched.
Like a looping background animation someone had forgotten to speed up.
Then—
Something shifted.
It wasn't sudden.
And it wasn't localized.
The disturbance rippled outward, spreading from the front rows toward the back like concentric waves.
Whispers layered over one another.
Carefully restrained, deliberately quiet.
But unmistakably charged.
"Did you see it?"
"See what?"
"The Freetown stream."
"Freetown? Isn't that the ability-user zone?"
My fingers paused against my cheek.
"Stream?"
The word hovered briefly in my mind.
It didn't immediately trigger concern.
But it didn't pass unnoticed either.
"Send me the link."
Screens lit up around the room.
Phones. Terminals. Even a shared projection interface near the center flickered to life.
The ambient glow shifted.
The professor's voice thinned into background noise, fragmented by divided attention.
I didn't rush to join them.
Instead, I reached into my bag and took out my VR headset.
A livestream from Freetown.
The thought crossed my mind again.
Still faint.
Still not urgent.
The lenses clicked into place.
The world dissolved.
And reassembled.
Dungeon entrance.
Dim lighting.
A slightly low camera angle.
Subtle shake in the feed—handheld, or mounted without stabilization.
Not official footage.
Not promotional material.
At the center of the frame stood a man.
At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about him.
Plain clothing.
No visible family crest.
No team insignia.
No exaggerated weapon design.
His stance looked relaxed.
Almost loose.
But his center of gravity was solid.
Balanced.
"…That's it?"
The thought surfaced automatically, without conscious evaluation.
First stage.
Cleared.
No hesitation.
No excess movement.
Second stage.
Advance.
The pace wasn't aggressive.
It wasn't rushed.
But it was steady in a way that felt deliberate.
As if speed itself were being held back.
Or as if speed simply wasn't necessary.
My brow creased slightly.
"No way…"
There was no wasted effort.
Each movement served a purpose.
No flourish.
No emotional leakage.
No sign of performance.
It looked like execution.
Like someone walking along a path that had already been calculated, tested, and confirmed.
Second stage cleared.
Only then did I realize I was standing.
I hadn't consciously decided to get up.
My body had reacted first.
I moderated my pace, forcing my movements to remain unremarkable.
Normal.
While the rest of the class remained absorbed in murmured commentary, I had already left my seat.
The hallway was empty.
The corner passed without incident.
The stairwell echoed softly beneath my steps.
I stopped where no one else was present.
Checked the angles.
Confirmed blind spots.
No direct camera coverage.
Satisfied—
I moved.
The world fell away.
Wind stretched into a thin line of pressure.
Space folded inward.
Distance collapsed into irrelevance.
When I stopped again, my breathing hadn't changed.
The livestream reconnected.
Deeper in the dungeon.
A centaur-type combat robot entered the frame.
My pupils tightened involuntarily.
This wasn't a demonstration unit.
Not a test platform.
This was a combat-grade configuration.
Built for lethality.
The next moment—
A strike.
Not brute force.
Not reckless impact.
It was structural.
Targeted.
Joints failed.
Balance collapsed.
The dismantling was precise, efficient.
Clean.
The machine went down.
The stream ended.
Abruptly.
As if someone had cut the feed at the source.
I stood still for several seconds.
Then I smiled.
"So that's it."
There was no mockery in the expression.
No sense of triumph.
Just recognition.
Like a long-misaligned piece finally snapping into place.
I didn't hesitate.
I accessed the surveillance network directly.
Permissions peeled back layer by layer.
Firewalls yielded.
Data unfolded across my visual field.
As expected.
The livestream had only been an appetizer.
The real footage was buried deeper.
Authorization cleared without fanfare.
No alert.
No sound.
Just a faint flicker—like a nerve twitch behind my eyes.
The image refreshed.
No filters.
No delay smoothing.
No aesthetic framing.
Raw surveillance.
The kind designed for one purpose only—
Confirmation.
Alarms echoed in the feed.
Low.
Repetitive.
Emotionless.
[Warning.]
[Target continues forward. Classified as hostile.]
[Extermination mode activated.]
Seven didn't stop.
He didn't look up.
He didn't adjust his pace.
He crossed the irreversible threshold without hesitation.
The feed advanced through node switching.
Frontline units appeared.
Shield-type constructs.
Heavy.
Cylindrical.
Layered composite armor.
Conservative angles.
No visual aggression.
Just mass.
Weight.
Persistence.
Their treads engaged.
Slow.
Steady.
Unyielding.
I recognized the design immediately.
Not built to advance quickly.
Built so that nothing could force it back.
"…This really is extermination mode."
The realization settled heavily.
Second-row units deployed.
Minigun arrays.
Pre-warmed.
Ready.
This wasn't suppression.
It was erasure.
Seven moved.
Contact.
Measured strikes.
Cracks formed.
Structure failed.
Space tore.
Psychokinesis flared.
The rear line collapsed before deployment completed.
And then—
The feed cut.
Authorization revoked.
The screen darkened.
Silence.
I remained still.
Then, quietly—
I smiled again.
Not from excitement.
Not from victory.
But certainty.
"So that's it."
Not to the screen.
To myself.
"Freetown was never naïve."
True power doesn't perform.
It doesn't explain.
It simply exists—
Where explanation is unnecessary.