Just like that, a year passed.
No waves.
No celebration.
No one recorded the growth curve of a thirteen-year-old boy.
Time simply moved on, quietly.
The mats in the training field were soaked with sweat, again and again, then dried by air.
Rows of test data were updated one after another.
On the system interface, the classification bars for Enhancement and Perception swayed back and forth.
Like a pointer that could never settle.
When the promotion exam period arrived,
the academy tightened.
Footsteps in the corridors grew sharper than usual.
The lights in the offices felt colder than before.
Lines of names scrolled across electronic screens.
Seven stood outside a door.
He knocked.
"Come in."
He pushed it open.
The office was tidy to the point of intention.
A structural diagram of abilities hung on the wall.
Files on the shelves were arranged by number.
A faint scent of disinfectant lingered in the air.
Mr. Green looked up.
"Oh, Seven. What is it?"
Seven stood straight.
"The promotion exam is in a few days. But the test items don't fit my ability."
Green raised a brow.
"Oh? Is that so?"
Seven's tone remained steady.
"In ability training, I keep fluctuating between Enhancement and Perception."
Green took out a notebook.
Flipped a page.
A digital panel unfolded.
Rows of data appeared.
Peak strength fluctuations: three times above the average of his age group.
Neural reaction speed: at the threshold of Perception-type classification.
Burst duration: short.
Green nodded.
"I see. Since your results are near the critical boundary, the system cannot lock your classification."
Cannot lock.
The phrase was light.
But it meant instability of identity.
Uncertainty in future resource allocation.
Seven spoke:
"So I propose a definitive method."
Green stopped writing.
"Oh? What is it?"
Seven didn't hesitate.
"Is there a former professional fighter in the security unit?"
The office fell silent for a second.
Green opened internal records.
Searched.
The screen flickered.
"…Yes. There is."
His tone slowly turned cautious.
"Former contender in an MMA lightweight championship."
He looked up at Seven.
Thin.
About 150 cm tall.
Shoulder line not yet fully developed.
"Even if you are Enhancement-type, the weight difference cannot be compensated. I'm afraid—"
Seven cut in.
"It doesn't matter. This is my choice. Besides, I only need to win. It's a regulated match."
His voice held no emotion.
Green fell silent.
Fingers tapped lightly on the desk.
After a few seconds—
"…Alright. I'll bring it up with the higher-ups."
With that sentence,
a process began.
The file was flagged.
Internal emails were sent.
Approval procedures activated.
Seven turned and left.
The door closed softly.
Corridor lights fell on his shoulders.
His shadow was small.
But steady.
Seven · Age 13 · Second-Year Promotion Exam
Enclosed training room.
Four white walls.
White without texture.
White to the point that distance became hard to judge.
Gray mats underfoot.
A slight rebound when stepped on.
Cold white light fell straight down from the ceiling.
No blind spots.
Behind the glass—
People in white coats stood in a row.
They didn't speak.
They only recorded.
The recording system was already active.
Screens lit.
Heart rate curves.
Force sensors.
Impact fluctuation data—synchronized.
Opponent—
A former adult professional fighter.
Around 80 kilograms.
Broad shoulders.
Thick forearms.
Enhanced further through security work.
No trace of a lightweight division anymore.
He stood across from Seven.
Like a wall.
Seven wore a specialized headgear.
It covered his eyes.
No one outside could see his gaze.
This was the system's last bit of consideration.
The examiner's voice was calm.
"Begin."
Round One · Standing
The former fighter moved first.
A probing jab.
Clean.
Professional habits remained.
Seven didn't panic.
Front foot adjusted slightly.
Center of gravity lowered.
Shoulder line pressed forward.
First straight punch.
No swing.
No excess movement.
Direct.
It landed on the guard.
Thud.
Heavier than expected.
Not sharp.
Dense.
The guard's eyes changed for half a second.
He recalculated the strength.
Second exchange.
A jab hit Seven's temple.
Impact rattled through the headgear.
Seven swayed slightly.
Vision trembled—
But his counter came almost simultaneously.
A straight punch to the chest.
The adult stepped back half a step.
Not pain.
Density.
The transmission of force felt abnormal.
From behind the glass:
"Abnormal output."
"Close to adult lightweight level."
Seven's frame was still that of a thirteen-year-old.
Thin wrists.
But every punch—
did not belong to a child.
The guard grew serious.
Combination punches pressed forward.
Tempo increased.
Seven's defense was immature.
His cheek got grazed.
His shoulder clipped.
Shock traveled through his frame.
He had no combos.
Only—
straight.
short.
hard.
One clash—
Both threw straight punches at the same time.
Air compressed.
Guards vibrated.
The adult's shoulder tightened.
Seven stepped back twice.
The gap still existed.
Weight was reality.
The guard realized he couldn't trade blows.
Tempo shifted.
Feint.
Level change.
Round One · Ground
Successful takedown.
Seven was flipped.
Back slammed into the mat.
Shock traveled up his spine.
Air was forced out of his lungs.
The guard pressed down.
Eighty kilograms—real.
Seven bridged.
Failed.
Second time.
Moved only a few centimeters.
A punch dropped.
A dull impact.
Headgear shook.
His eyes didn't panic.
He was waiting.
Waiting for a shift.
The moment pressure adjusted—
His spine tightened.
Core exploded.
Not upward.
Diagonal.
Weight shifted.
An opening.
Seven slipped out from under the armpit.
Rolled away.
Got up.
For the first time—
the adult frowned.
End of round.
Round Two · Harder Standing
Seven's breathing became uneven.
The air inside the headgear grew hot.
Heart rate surged.
The guard pressed the pace.
Jabs chained.
Low kicks.
Seven's legs trembled slightly.
He countered.
A straight punch hit the cheek.
A heavy sound.
Teeth rattled.
Weight suppression still held.
In a clash—
A heavy punch grazed the temple.
Vision whitened.
Sound delayed.
Footwork faltered.
The guard shot in.
Double-leg.
Lift.
Slam.
Mat shook.
Faster control.
Heavier punches.
First escape—failed.
Second—failed.
Breathing fractured.
Chest locked.
Third—
Angle changed.
Body collapsed sideways.
Half a shoulder slipped free.
Escape.
Roll away.
He staggered up.
Round over.
Behind the glass:
"Burst decay."
"Stamina at critical threshold."
Round Three
Seven stood still.
Breathing gradually stabilized.
His lungs hurt.
But rhythm returned.
The guard knew—
one more takedown would end it.
Probe.
Jab.
Seven didn't move.
Second jab.
Still no movement.
The guard committed.
Level change.
Knees bent.
Initiation—
That instant—
Seven moved first.
Half-step cut.
Distance compressed.
Straight punch.
Shortest path.
Chin.
A delay in consciousness.
The body still moved forward—
Second punch.
Third punch.
Seven's punches weren't refined.
But dense.
Short strikes at close range.
A hook grazed the temple.
The guard stepped back.
Footwork broke.
Seven pressed.
Continuous.
No flair.
Guard broken open—
One clean hit.
Head snapped.
Balance collapsed.
Seven chased.
Close-range barrage.
Air torn apart by fists.
The referee rushed in.
Pulled them apart.
Hand waved.
"TKO."
The sound echoed.
The room returned to silence.
Seven's hands trembled.
Not emotion.
Neural overload.
Behind the glass:
"Power-type awakening confirmed."
"Burst multiplier abnormal."
"Structural destruction potential."
Pause.
"…But still suppressible."
Seven heard it.
He didn't argue.
Thirteen.
He could still be suppressed.
But the label had begun to form.
System interface updated.
The classification bar slowly shifted.
Enhancement—
Locked.
A year of fluctuation—
ended.
The people behind the glass continued recording.
The lights remained cold white.
The mats remained gray.
The air unchanged.
Only in the file—
one more line appeared.
—Power-type ability user.
And he stood there.
Breathing gradually steadied beneath the headgear.
The vague future—
seemed a little clearer.