Serpent Locking Moon Blade carved a thread of cold light through the air in Seven's hand.
There was no testing strike. No preliminary shift of weight. No warning.
The crescent edge moved, and space answered.
The blade did not whistle.
It hummed.
A low, tightened vibration—like something vast being compressed beyond its natural tolerance. The air along its path seemed to tense, stretch thin, and then split apart under invisible pressure.
Across from him, Dawolf did not yield an inch.
He stood planted, feet spread wide against the concrete floor, knees bent, center of gravity dropped with deliberate intent. The posture was not elegant. It was practical. Built for impact.
His physique alone altered the atmosphere of the room.
Shoulders broad enough to eclipse light. Arms layered with dense, sculpted muscle, veins coiling beneath skin like live cables. Chest thick and elevated, tapering into a waist hardened by years of controlled strain. Every line of him spoke of repetition, iron, discipline. Not ornamental muscle—functional mass. The kind shaped under barbells, not mirrors.
And the barbell in his hand was not symmetrical.
One end bore a stack of heavy metal plates—thick, industrial slabs pressed tight against each other. The opposite end was bare steel, gripped in one enormous hand.
The imbalance should have made it awkward.
It did not.
The weight concentrated on one side turned it into something crude and violent—a bludgeon forged by practicality rather than design. Less a gym instrument, more a battlefield hammer.
Seven closed the distance.
Dawolf swung.
The first clash occurred halfway between them.
There was no feint. No layered trick.
Only force.
Blade and metal collided head-on.
The sound did not resemble a simple impact.
It erupted.
As if two furnace-heated slabs of iron had been smashed together at full strength.
The explosion of noise battered the enclosed space. The walls shuddered. Fine cracks in the ceiling released trembling lines of dust that drifted downward like gray snowfall.
A visible shockwave pulsed outward from the collision point.
The air was not displaced gently—it was driven away, forming a brief, expanding ring that rippled across the room's interior.
The stuffed spider camera, positioned high above, was caught in the aftermath.
The pressure wave struck its lightweight body.
It spun violently, orientation lost, limbs tumbling. The visual feed twisted in sharp angles—ceiling, wall, floor, streaks of light smearing into distorted bands as centrifugal force dragged the frame off balance.
Far from the battlefield, Lucy reacted instantly.
No words.
No hesitation.
Her fingers moved across the control interface with practiced efficiency.
The stuffed spider fired a thread.
A filament of synthetic silk shot outward, thin but engineered for tensile strength. It adhered precisely to a ceiling beam.
The line snapped tight.
Momentum was cut mid-fall.
The small body jerked once under strain, swaying in a tight arc before stabilizing.
The camera steadied.
Focus returned.
Below, Seven had taken half a step back.
Not flung.
Not overpowered.
He had redirected the impact through his body and into the ground.
His heel dragged against concrete, carving a shallow groove. The floor beneath him emitted a restrained cracking sound—fine fractures spiderwebbing outward before stopping.
He raised his gaze.
It rested on Dawolf only briefly.
As if verifying a conclusion already reached.
Then he spoke.
"Alma?"
His voice was even. Almost conversational.
"Overprotective father?"
Dawolf's expression altered.
The shift lasted less than a heartbeat.
Then fury detonated.
"What?!"
The muscles along his neck flexed sharply. Thick cords tightened beneath flushed skin.
"How do you know my daughter's name?!"
His breathing deepened, each inhale heavier than the last.
The hand gripping the barbell constricted further. Metal groaned faintly under pressure as his knuckles blanched white.
"Oh—"
The anger twisted, curdling into suspicion.
"So you're here because of her too?!"
His tone dropped lower, rougher.
"I'm not handing my daughter over to some unidentified bastard like you!"
There was no one else in the room to hear it.
The stuffed spider camera did not transmit sound.
It only observed.
Lucy, seated far away, leaned slightly closer to the screen.
Her lips curved faintly.
No one present knew they were being watched.
"Relax," she murmured under her breath.
"Like your daughter's the center of the universe."
Her eyes narrowed slightly as Dawolf's body shifted again.
Muscle fibers flexed under skin, expanding, tightening. Shoulders rolled back. Back muscles fanned outward like armored plates aligning into position. Arms thickened under tension, veins surfacing more prominently as blood surged.
He was built like a competitive bodybuilder—but this was no stage display. The muscle density was not for aesthetics. It was weaponized.
"Still…"
Lucy tilted her head slightly, eyes half-lidded in recollection.
"As someone who's bathed with Alma before…"
A faint smirk touched her lips.
"She's got it."
She raised her thumb toward the screen in exaggerated approval.
The battlefield remained unaware of the commentary.
Dawolf moved.
This time without restraint.
The one-sided barbell was swung in a massive arc. The trajectory was wide, dramatic—yet controlled with terrifying precision. There was no wobble despite the asymmetrical weight. The stacked plates rotated with accelerating momentum, air parting before them.
The sound was a low, violent rush.
Like a metal comet being hurled through atmosphere.
Seven did not retreat.
His stance shifted subtly.
One foot adjusted.
His center lowered by a fraction.
Not defensive.
Advancing.
The air around him altered.
Not wind—
Compression.
Layer upon layer of pressure built outward from his position. Invisible currents overlapped and folded into each other, forming faint distortions that shimmered against the backdrop of the room. The space before him rippled as if brushed by transparent waves.
Serpent Locking Moon Blade cut horizontally.
The second collision struck harder.
The sound was deeper this time.
Not explosive.
Crushing.
As if the entire structure had been momentarily pressed down by an unseen hand.
The floor tremored.
Seven's body slid backward half a step under the transmitted force. The rubber soles of his shoes screeched sharply across concrete.
Dawolf halted as well.
Not because he was repelled—
but because his force had been absorbed.
Fully received.
Lucy's eyes flicked across the incoming data metrics on her interface.
A faint nod.
"Layered it."
"Psychokinesis on top."
Below, blade and metal remained locked.
Serpent Locking Moon's edge bit into the outer rim of the stacked plates. The contact point vibrated intensely, sending rapid oscillations through steel and bone alike.
Arms trembled under the strain.
Shoulder joints bore sustained pressure.
Muscles shuddered—not from weakness, but from enduring continuous counterforce.
Neither yielded.
Neither disengaged.
There was no footwork dance.
No ornamental flourish.
Only sustained confrontation.
Like two industrial machines pressing against each other on opposing rails, gears grinding, torque escalating.
Each incremental push demanded redistribution of force.
Seven's blade hummed, a persistent vibration resonating through the crescent form.
The barbell's plates began to tilt under mounting stress, edges warping microscopically where steel met sharpened arc.
Simultaneously—
They exerted.
The metal roared again.
Impact.
Not separation.
Impact.
Again.
And again.
The rhythm resembled forging.
Hammer striking heated iron repeatedly, each blow testing structural integrity.
Sparks burst at the contact line—brief flares of orange light that died the instant they were born.
Air was compressed and expelled in rapid cycles.
Pressure built.
Released.
Built again.
The room's temperature seemed to climb under the relentless exchange, heat radiating from friction and muscle alike.
Dawolf's frame swelled under exertion.
Back muscles contracted and expanded in visible waves. Sweat formed quickly along his shoulders, tracing lines through carved definition. Veins pulsed at his forearms, thick as cables under strain.
Seven's expression did not change.
His breathing remained controlled.
His grip unwavering.
Dozens of exchanges passed in rapid succession.
Each collision delivered at near-identical intensity.
Concrete beneath them fractured further with each transmission of force. Fine debris skittered outward across the floor, pushed by shockwaves that rolled low and tight along the ground.
Above, the stuffed spider camera hung suspended from its silk line.
It did not shake now.
It simply recorded.
Blade.
Metal.
Force.
Counterforce.
The confined space amplified everything.
No wasted motion.
No retreat.
No unnecessary speech.
Only strength—
tested,
met,
and proven,
again and again within the narrow boundaries of steel and concrete.