The ground was concrete—wide and level.
Footsteps stretched across it. Even the faintest friction could echo.
77 lay on the floor.
His body was tilted to one side, shoulder pressed against the concrete. His breathing wasn't rapid, but it was clearly heavier than usual. His chest rose and fell slowly. The wound on his forehead was still bleeding. Blood ran down along his brow ridge—a thin line—sliding past the corner of his eye, then trailing down the side of his face. A few drops fell onto the ground, stark against the gray surface.
His fingers were slightly curled.
As if he had only just been clenching a fist.
Seven stood in front of him.
His feet were planted firmly. His body upright. His back positioned between 77 and No. 33. The three of them formed a straight line.
Seven didn't look at No. 33 immediately.
He lowered his gaze first, glancing at 77.
77's lips moved.
As if he wanted to say something.
Seven lifted his head.
No. 33 stood a few meters away.
His body leaned slightly forward. His arms hung naturally at his sides. His shoulders looked relaxed, but the angle of his feet was solid. His center of gravity was pressed low.
The air between them stilled for a moment.
There was no wind inside the old school building.
Light fell across both of them, stretching their shadows long across the ground.
Seven spoke.
"I told you not to face him alone. And you still didn't listen."
His voice wasn't loud.
But in the empty space, it carried clearly.
77's lips moved again.
"An—"
The word didn't finish.
His head tilted slightly to one side. The strength that had barely been holding him up suddenly gave way. His body went slack.
He passed out.
Seven glanced at him.
His expression didn't change.
Then he shifted his gaze back to No. 33.
Their eyes met.
The air went still.
"Can you stop?" Seven said. "You're not going to beat me."
No. 33's lips slowly curved upward.
It wasn't a relaxed smile.
It was colder. Sharper.
"You won't know unless I try."
The moment the words fell—
His foot moved.
The sole struck the ground. A faint scraping sound.
His body launched forward like a compressed spring.
The distance between them shrank instantly.
His right fist rose.
The shoulder drove first.
The arm snapped out after.
A short, direct punch from the side of his body—no wasted motion. The fist cut through the air with a sharp burst.
Straight toward Seven's face.
Seven moved.
Barely.
His head tilted slightly to the side.
The fist brushed past his face.
The air it carried stirred the hair on his forehead.
No. 33 didn't stop.
The moment the punch missed, his footwork closed in.
His left fist shot up from the other side.
A straight strike toward Seven's jaw.
Seven's heel slid half a step back.
His body leaned away.
The fist passed in front of him.
No. 33 pressed forward again.
His steps didn't pause. His shoulder drove in. His right fist came up again—this time lower, driving from the side toward Seven's abdomen.
Seven's body turned slightly aside.
The fist grazed his clothes.
The fabric lifted slightly from the force.
No. 33 was already inside his range.
His shoulder nearly collided with Seven's chest. His knee lifted slightly, preparing to strike.
Seven's foot slid to the side.
A faint scrape from his sole against the ground.
Half a step of distance reopened between them.
No. 33 didn't stop.
Another punch.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Three strikes in succession.
Clean movements. Steady rhythm.
Three sharp bursts cut through the air.
Seven's movements stayed minimal.
A slight tilt of the head.
A shift of the body.
A half-step back.
Every punch missed.
No. 33 paused for a moment.
His brow tightened.
He reset his stance.
Seven stood where he was.
Calm.
"As expected," Seven said, "you've had training."
His voice remained even.
At the same time, his body continued subtle motion.
Every time No. 33's shoulder began to drive—
Seven's foot moved first.
As if he was avoiding the attack trajectory in advance.
No. 33 attacked again.
This time, faster.
His foot drove into the ground.
His body closed in once more.
Punches came from different angles.
Seven continued to evade.
Their footwork traced back and forth across the concrete. Dust was shaken loose. Fine particles drifted in the light.
Breathing grew louder.
No. 33's attack rhythm accelerated.
His fists nearly formed a continuous stream.
The air filled with repeated bursts of displaced wind.
Seven's movements remained minimal.
Tilt.
Shift.
Half-step back.
His soles slid repeatedly across the ground, producing a faint, continuous friction.
No. 33's breathing grew heavier.
His chest rose sharply.
He suddenly stopped.
"Tch."
Low.
"Annoying."
His gaze fixed on Seven.
"If I use my ability—"
He paused.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You can use yours too, right?"
A question.
Or something closer to a thought spoken aloud.
The next instant—
His foot drove down again.
His body burst forward.
Faster than before.
The distance collapsed almost instantly.
His fist rose from below.
Arm bent.
Driving upward—
Aimed at Seven's stomach.
This time—
Seven didn't fully dodge.
His body shifted slightly to the side.
At the same time, his right hand moved forward.
Fist clenched.
Arm driving in.
At point-blank range—
Seven's punch arrived first.
Thud.
A heavy, dull impact.
His fist struck solidly into No. 33's abdomen.
No. 33's body folded instantly.
His abdominal muscles seized tight.
Air was forced from his throat.
A short, crushed sound.
His steps staggered back.
His body rolled with the motion.
Shoulder hit the ground first.
His back slid against the concrete.
Dust burst upward.
His body flipped once.
When he landed, one knee hit the ground.
One hand braced against the floor.
The other clutched his abdomen tightly.
His breathing turned rough.
Air dragged into his lungs in heavy pulls.
His chest heaved violently.
For a few seconds—
The old school building held nothing but breathing.
And the faint hum of distant lights.
Dust slowly settled.
No. 33's shoulders gradually steadied.
His abdomen remained tense.
He slowly straightened.
His feet planted firmly again.
Then he lifted his head.
His gaze locked onto Seven once more.
Seven stood where he was.
Almost unmoving.
Like a wall.
No. 33 slowly rose to his feet.
He exhaled.
The pain in his abdomen remained.
But his steps were already moving again.
He took one step forward.
Then burst ahead once more.
The fight continued.
This time—
Seven didn't just evade.
As No. 33 closed in again—
Seven's leg lifted.
Knee forward.
Lower leg snapped out.
A straight kick.
Clean.
Power driven from the waist.
The sole struck directly into No. 33's abdomen.
Thud.
A heavier impact.
No. 33's body lifted off the ground.
His feet left the concrete.
His body flew backward.
Spinning once in the air—
A backward flip.
Then he landed.
One knee to the ground.
One hand bracing.
Dust burst up again.
His head lowered for a moment.
A few seconds later—
It lifted again.
His eyes locked onto Seven.
Objectively—
The difference in their physiques was obvious.
Seven's shoulders were broader.
His body taller.
His strength more pronounced.
But his movements weren't heavy.
Not slow in the slightest.
In No. 33's view—
Seven stood like a wall.
A wall that could move.
The air fell silent again.
Their breathing echoed across the open space.
No. 33 slowly stood.
His steps moved forward again.
The fight continued.