Seven.
Fifteen years old.
Height: 163 cm.
The morning testing room was lit in cold white.
A metal measuring rod pressed against his back—straight, unyielding, cold enough to register through the thin layer of fabric. The head plate descended slowly, flattening his hair as it settled into place. The recorder lowered their gaze, confirming the scale. The pen moved across the form, leaving behind a series of fine, dry strokes.
Seven centimeters taller than last year.
The number was written down.
No emotion attached.
Weight: 52 kg.
The electronic scale beneath his feet emitted a short, clipped tone. Seven stood still, toes naturally spread, weight evenly distributed. The air carried the mixed scent of disinfectant and old sweat—dry, faintly irritating.
Over the past year, his strength had increased noticeably.
In the training room, in front of the mirrored wall, he pressed the barbell upward again and again. The iron plates on both ends trembled slightly with each repetition. His breathing followed the rhythm of motion—controlled, consistent.
The bench press record on the whiteboard had been updated.
Above the numbers, faint chalk smears remained, traces of previous values erased but not fully gone.
During squats, the bar rested across his shoulders.
Lower.
Pause.
Rise.
The movement path was clean.
No excess sway.
When the bar returned to the rack, the sound of metal meeting support was heavier than last year.
His muscles were not exaggerated.
Not bulky.
But the lines had become defined.
The connection between shoulder and back no longer loose.
It held.
Firm.
Then came the upgrade examination period.
The corridor's air conditioning ran continuously, forming a low, uninterrupted background line. On the wall-mounted bulletin board, exam schedules were posted. The corners of the paper curled slightly, stirred by faint airflow.
Seven stopped in front of the office door.
Dark wood.
Fine scratches crisscrossed the surface—shallow marks left by time.
He raised his hand and knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was level.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the lighting shifted warmer.
Green sat behind the desk. Documents were stacked on the left side. A faint water ring lingered near the rim of a cup. On the corner of the desk, a photograph—his child, visibly a year older now. The face longer. The smile unchanged.
"Oh, about the exam, right?"
Green pulled open a drawer. The wood slid with a dull friction. He took out an envelope, its edges slightly curled.
"The security guard who's been your opponent for the past two years—he sent a challenge letter. Took some time off. Went to an MMA gym. Did recovery training."
Seven scratched his head. His fingers paused briefly at his hairline.
"That's not really fair, is it? That uncle's no longer my opponent."
His tone wasn't lowered.
Green leaned back in his chair. The legs shifted slightly.
"Yeah. So you're refusing? Up to you."
Seven shrugged.
"Fine. As long as he doesn't mind embarrassing himself."
He turned after speaking.
His hand had just wrapped around the doorknob.
Click.
The lock fell into place.
Seven stopped.
Turned back.
"You serious?"
The next thirty minutes—
Green stood in front of him, speaking at a steady, uninterrupted pace.
Talking about his son.
Proud.
Relentless.
Seven remained where he was.
Occasionally nodding.
His gaze drifted, briefly, toward the training field outside the window. Sunlight lay across the running track. Heat shimmered faintly above the surface.
The door finally opened.
Seven stepped out.
The air outside felt… smoother.
More fluid.
He walked to the steps by the field and sat down. The concrete held a slight coolness. Sunlight fell across the side of his face. In the distance, someone practiced sprints. Footsteps struck the ground in a clear, rhythmic pattern.
Ros and 77 approached.
"Seven, where'd you go?"
"I went to the office. Talked about the exam."
"Oh, I see. Is it hard?"
"Simple. As long as I perform normally, I'll pass."
Ros glanced at 77.
"That's great."
77 raised his voice.
"What did I tell you? I don't take exams seriously!"
His voice spread across the open field.
Seven stood.
The wind lifted the edge of his shirt.
Seven · Age Fifteen · Fourth-Year Upgrade Examination
The same training room.
Today, the pressure felt lower.
The lighting brighter.
More white coats.
Behind the glass, figures stood in orderly rows.
Monitoring equipment had been upgraded to high-sensitivity versions.
New sensors had been installed in the corners.
Embedded vibration-recording modules in the floor emitted faint green lights.
The air was colder than usual.
His opponent remained at an adult professional level.
The man stepped into the field.
Broad shoulders.
Stable steps.
The friction of gloves sounded clear in the space.
This time, he knew—
Seven was no longer purely strength-based.
The bell rang.
First round.
Also the only round.
The adult fighter was cautious.
A probing jab.
Stopping just short in the air before retracting.
A low sweep.
The sole brushed the ground with a soft sound.
A feint level change.
Shoulders dropped.
Eyes locked.
He did not rush in.
Seven stood still.
Feet flat.
Knees slightly bent.
Breathing steady.
Psychokinesis was not released outward.
It activated at the moment of contact—
correcting the direction of force.
The jab came again.
Air split.
Seven tilted his head.
Minimal movement.
Counter.
A straight punch.
It struck the guard.
At the moment of contact—
an unseen deflection.
Psychokinesis layered along the path of the punch.
Not increasing power.
Concentrating impact.
The adult fighter's arm went numb.
Vibration traveled through bone.
He stepped back half a pace.
Frowned.
Something was wrong with the feedback.
He attempted a takedown.
Closed distance.
Shoulders dropped.
Level change initiated.
Body drove forward.
Seven did not retreat.
His lead hand pressed against the back of the opponent's neck.
At the point of contact—
a slight force.
Not pushing.
Redirecting.
The center of gravity shifted.
Two centimeters.
Two centimeters—
at speed—
was enough.
Foot placement broke.
The friction of the sole stretched sharply.
Seven shifted to the side.
A short punch to the jaw.
Crisp.
The opponent did not fall.
Instinctive counter.
Seven's second punch followed.
Shorter.
Straighter.
At contact—
psychokinesis aligned forward along the strike.
A slight pull formed along the line of the jaw.
Force vectors unified.
Impact entered along a single axis.
The sound was clean.
Consciousness fractured.
Balance collapsed.
Axis broken.
The adult fighter dropped straight to the ground.
The floor vibration was recorded.
Seven did not follow up.
The referee rushed in.
Hand signaled.
One-round KO.
The air in the field seemed emptied.
The adult lay on the ground.
Chest rising.
Falling.
Seven stood at the center.
His breathing—
still steady.
On defense—
last year, the year before, he could be grabbed.
Pinned.
Now—
different.
At the moment of contact—
psychokinesis automatically corrected incoming force.
Pressure on the chest shifted.
Knee blocks slipped.
Structural control—
almost complete.
Almost.
Which meant—
almost no takedown opportunities.
It wasn't weight.
It was vector control.
Behind the glass—
white coats silent.
Pens moved.
Data flickered across screens.
Force direction correction at contact.
Micro-scale psychokinetic field.
Reaction synchronization rate—
abnormally high.
"Strength type—completed."
"Not just strength. He's controlling direction."
Seven stood at the center of the field.
Light fell across his shoulders.
Sweat traced down along his temples.
Fifteen years old.
Last year—
he interrupted initiation.
This year—
he decided the direction of impact.
The opponent—
was placed—
at the end of that line.