Seven sat beside a fractured metal beam, chewing slowly as he swallowed the last piece of bread.
The crumbs were dry, coarse, leaving a rough scrape in his throat. He took a mouthful of water, letting it wash the sensation down, then swallowed again. The echo of it faded into the hollow space around him.
Not far away, Serpent Locking Moon rested on the ground.
Calling it a blade no longer felt precise.
It was closer to a restructured mass of forged matter.
The crescent outline was broad and heavy, its edges blunt, almost indifferent to the concept of sharpness. The surface carried a dark, heat-stained sheen. Residual warmth bled from the metal in slow waves, distorting the air above it. The space around the weapon bent subtly, as though density itself had been rewritten there.
Seven did not move toward it.
He knew exactly how hot it still was.
He also knew he could ignore that fact entirely if he wished.
But there was no reason to.
Waiting was not wasted time.
Waiting was part of control.
He pushed himself upright against a steel pillar, rolling his wrist once. The metal glove produced a faint, restrained scrape—quiet, but clean enough to stand out in the stillness.
Only after a few seconds did he step forward.
His gloved hand closed around the handle.
The heat that seeped through the insulation was not sharp. It was heavy. Solid. Like something unfinished settling back into reality.
Seven lifted Serpent Locking Moon with one hand.
The weapon dipped naturally, its inertia unmistakable.
This was not designed for finesse.
Nor was it meant to cut.
It existed to collide.
He turned and walked toward the next sector.
Footsteps rang against the metal floor, measured and even. As he advanced, the ambient temperature dropped. Emergency lighting gave way to evenly spaced white luminance, lines of illumination reinforcing the geometry of the space.
Zone transition completed.
The alert system engaged without ceremony.
No warning announcements.
No escalating sirens.
Just the deep vibration of machinery coming online.
The floor trembled.
A shield-type unit emerged at the far end of the corridor.
Then another.
Then a third.
Thick alloy shields rose in unison, sealing off frontal angles with mechanical precision. Their advance was synchronized, deliberate. This was not a skirmish formation.
It was suppression through mass.
Seven did not slow.
He adjusted his stride. His center of gravity lowered, and the next step carried him forward at speed.
Acceleration.
Serpent Locking Moon dragged along his side. The lower curve skimmed the floor, scattering a trail of sparks that snapped and vanished behind him.
The first unit crossed into range.
Seven did not lift the weapon.
He let momentum carry through his body and swung at the instant of contact.
Not a cut.
A strike.
The wide face of the crescent smashed into the shield.
The impact did not screech or ring.
It detonated.
A low, concussive sound rippled through the corridor as the unit was thrown backward, its structure failing wholesale. It slammed into the machines behind it, mass collapsing into mass. Balance failed. Systems overloaded. Metal ground against metal as the formation folded inward.
Seven kept moving.
The second swing followed without pause.
This time, he rotated with the rebound force, letting the weight of the weapon complete the arc. The crescent traced a brutal curve, slamming into exposed connection points rather than reinforced faces.
Structural integrity collapsed.
Units were hurled sideways, bodies smashing into the walls. Armor fractured. Components tore free and scattered across the floor.
Seven's other hand rose.
Short, sharp sounds cut through the air.
Throwing knives.
They did not seek destruction—only certainty. Each blade struck a joint, a sensor cluster, a mobility axis. Anything still capable of movement was denied the option.
The corridor fell silent.
Seven did not look back.
He crossed the threshold into the next gate as it opened.
The space beyond expanded abruptly.
This was not a mechanical kill zone.
The lights activated, and the answer was already waiting.
An organized formation.
Azure combat suits stood in precise ranks, armor reflecting a controlled, restrained glow. Assist structures along joints and torsos were fully deployed. Three lines. Distances measured down to the smallest margin.
At the center stood the captain.
A raised hand.
The formation responded instantly.
The vanguard advanced.
Footsteps struck the floor in perfect unison.
The middle line adjusted.
The rear line stepped back, firearms lifting.
The motion was seamless, drilled beyond habit.
Hilts were drawn.
Not metal.
Something sharper.
The air itself parted.
Ability-formed blades manifested—some solid and dense, others elongated and segmented, shaped not for impact but for area denial. The captain's blade was the most stable, its outline crisp, its density oppressive.
The middle line's weapons spread wider, their forms designed to reshape space itself.
Targeting systems locked in the rear.
Annihilation posture.
Seven remained still.
He did not rush.
He observed.
The cadence of the vanguard's steps.
The oscillation pattern of the middle line's blades.
The alignment of firing lanes behind them.
All of it formed a rhythm.
And rhythms could be broken.
He moved.
Not forward.
Sideways.
His body slipped between the shifting boundaries of manifested energy, motion fluid and exact. Bullets tore past where he had been, trajectories nudged aside as Serpent Locking Moon caught them at the edge of its mass and deflected them into the floor.
The crescent swung again.
Not a slash.
Pressure.
The weapon collided with the boundary of an ability blade. Energy screamed against density. The sound was ugly, teeth-grinding. The vanguard formation buckled—only for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Seven was already inside their timing.
The middle line reacted.
Several blades snapped inward, then lashed outward together.
Their target was not Seven.
It was the weapon.
Whip-like constructs wrapped around Serpent Locking Moon, locking the midsection and handle, energy constricting with purpose.
Seven stopped.
He looked at the bindings.
Calm.
"If you want it…"
His hand opened.
"…take it."
The weapon left his grip, thrown sideways as the formation tightened around it.
The moment passed.
And the field held its breath.