Seven walked an entire circuit of the town.
Not as a detour.
Not without purpose.
His steps were even, almost without pause. His stride was controlled within a range that wouldn't attract attention—neither like a patrol nor a casual stroll. He didn't avoid crowds, nor did he try to blend in. He simply moved along the natural extensions of the streets, as if following the grain that already existed within the city.
He was testing.
Testing the shape the town took after being "read."
Before, when he walked here, he saw a flat surface devoid of emotion.
A street was a street.
People were moving objects.
Sound was just vibration in the air.
Everything existed on the same layer—no weight, no priority. The calls of vendors and the sound of footsteps held no difference. Expressions on faces were no more significant than cracks in a wall—only a difference in material. The world had been static, something to navigate through routes, obstructions, and speed.
Now, it wasn't.
The change wasn't obvious.
The streets were still the same—uneven, dust lodged between stone slabs.
People were still the same—ordinary clothes, casual expressions, repetitive motions.
But hierarchy had appeared.
Seven did not deliberately activate his ability.
He did not keep his eyes closed.
The state was not something that required effort—it felt embedded. No command needed. As long as one condition was met, it functioned naturally.
Only one condition—
The presence of "people."
Information did not flood in.
There was no torrent.
No pressure.
It was closer to dripping.
Discontinuous, yet impossible to ignore.
A woman carrying a basket passed by him.
Her steps were quick. Fresh vegetables lay inside, leaves still wet. Her gaze didn't fall on Seven—just skimmed briefly over the road ahead.
What Seven received was not her face, nor her voice.
But a fragment:
"It needs to be cheaper today."
No target.
Not directed at him.
Not even at a specific person.
It was directed at life.
Seven did not slow down. He passed her, the information falling into his awareness like a drop of water, then vanishing without residue.
A man leaning against a wall, smoking, glanced at him.
The glance was quick, habitual. His shoulder rested against the wall. Ash fell, crushed under his shoe.
His thought was shallow:
"Another drifter."
No malice.
No extension.
Just a label.
Like sorting an object into an existing category.
Seven kept walking.
He began to realize something—
Most people's thoughts were closed.
Not because they were defending themselves.
But because they never projected outward.
Their mental structures were simple.
Current task.
Short-term concern.
Repeated paths.
Like a track walked countless times, edges worn smooth. Only when something went wrong—an error, a deviation, a sudden disruption—would a ripple briefly appear.
Most of the time, it was quiet.
Seven started to observe that quiet.
He found that the more skilled a person was, the harder they were to read.
Not because his ability failed.
But because the content was too singular—almost no informational density.
Those who truly carried "information" were rare.
Seven began to approach those nodes deliberately.
Not to interact.
Just to enter within three meters.
A middle-aged man stood at the entrance of a liquor shop, settling a bill.
His movements hesitated slightly. His fingers repeatedly checked the coins in his pocket. The shop owner behind the counter was used to this kind of delay, eyes resting on the ledger without urging him on.
As Seven passed, he caught something more complex.
Not a single sentence.
But several thoughts, placed side by side:
"Next month's payment…"
"If only that kid awakens…"
"Is the Academy still taking people?"
They did not appear sequentially.
They were like items in a drawer, touched one after another in a short span.
Seven's step slowed, just slightly.
Ability Academy.
Not the first time it had appeared.
The term did not feel like rumor.
More like a "validated option."
It did not dominate thought.
Was not dwelled upon.
But when pressure surfaced, it was naturally retrieved.
Like a backup route long memorized.
Seven continued collecting.
An old man repairing shoe soles.
A young guard watching a warehouse.
A man maintaining order at a street corner.
Their lives were unrelated.
Different ages.
Different identities.
Different positions.
Yet when the concept of the "Ability Academy" surfaced, their thoughts shared the same characteristic:
Certainty.
Not fantasy.
Not legend.
Not hearsay.
Something acknowledged.
"A vehicle comes to pick them up."
"No cost."
"Food and lodging included."
"A contract is signed."
These weren't spoken.
They were thought.
Seven stopped in the shadow of a narrow street.
Sunlight was cut into irregular shapes by high walls, falling onto the ground. Dust drifted slowly in the air. Distant sounds faded into a dull background.
He closed his eyes.
Within three meters, two figures entered his perception.
They were speaking quietly, voices low, fragmented, mundane.
Seven did not listen.
What mattered was the core thought of one of them:
"If I had awakened when I was young…"
"At this age, I don't even qualify."
No emotional connection between the two.
No jealousy.
No resentment.
Just fact.
Like stating a rule.
Seven opened his eyes.
For the first time, he understood clearly—
This was not escape.
The Ability Academy was not a refuge.
Not salvation.
It was an officially recognized channel.
Different from the cabin.
Different from the forest.
Different from Rat's bakery.
Those depended on individuals.
On goodwill.
On chance.
This did not.
It was a permitted line.
Seven began to investigate more actively.
Not by asking.
By approaching those who might know.
He did not attempt to assemble a complete story—only accepted fragments.
Broken.
Yet highly consistent.
The Ability Academy was full-time.
There were dormitories.
No cost upon entry.
Children who signed contracts would instead send money back to their original institutions.
Orphanages.
Churches.
Official bodies.
Between them existed a default transfer mechanism.
Not public.
But not hidden.
Seven arranged the information in his mind.
Not with emotion.
With structure.
He realized something—
This was an outlet prepared for the "excess."
Ability users were excess.
Surplus.
Unstable.
To gather them, train them, manage them, and move them into another system—
That was the most efficient solution.
Seven did not resist.
He didn't need emotional approval.
Only feasibility.
And this path was the only one that—
Did not rely on individuals.
Did not create debt.
Did not require escape.
A vehicle passed slowly by the street entrance.
Not there to pick anyone up.
Just passing.
The wheels rolled over stone, the sound stretched long.
When Seven read the driver's thought, he caught a brief fragment:
"One more trip this month."
That was enough.
Seven stood still.
He didn't need more evidence.
Nor guarantees.
The direction was clear.
He knew his next step.
Not the Academy.
The orphanage.
Not because of emotion.
Because of process.
Recommendation.
Verification.
Contract.
That was the only way to make this path valid.
Seven turned and left the center of town.
This time, his steps were steady.
Not because it was safe.
But because—
For the first time, the world had given him a clear destination.