Sixteen-year-old Seven.
One hundred seventy centimeters tall.
Seven centimeters taller than last year.
The light in the single dorm room hung quietly overhead. Cold white. No warmth. It spread evenly, forming a sharp boundary between brightness and shadow across the walls and floor. The curtains were drawn. The outside world was completely sealed off. Only the steady, low-frequency hum of the air circulation system remained.
He stood in the center of the room.
Barefoot on the floor.
Muscle lines held naturally under stillness. With his frame stretched out, the width of his shoulders began to show. Collarbones level. Back extended. The contours of his abdomen rose and fell faintly with each breath—tight on inhale, relaxed on exhale. He was not displaying strength, yet control was already evident in his body.
Weight: sixty kilograms.
Not heavy.
But balanced.
He raised his right hand.
The air in front of his palm refracted almost imperceptibly.
A barrier formed.
No sound.
Only space pressed into a thin, transparent membrane.
Light bent along its edges.
"Barrier?"
He spoke quietly.
Focus tightened.
The structure in his palm formed rapidly.
Transparent. Flat. Regular.
Like an extremely thin sheet of glass.
His fingers curled slightly.
He applied pressure.
Cracks spread outward from the center.
Fine. Even.
Crack.
It shattered.
The fragments did not fall.
They dissolved into the air.
He gathered it again.
This time, the structure softened.
Semi-transparent.
Edges slightly bulging.
Like a slowly inflating balloon.
His fingers tightened inward.
Thump.
A dull rupture echoed inside his palm.
The air snapped back against his skin.
Temperature unchanged.
But the sensation was clear.
He picked up a pencil from the desk.
Black shaft.
Very light.
He pushed the pencil into the barrier.
No resistance.
The next instant—
the pencil disappeared.
Not shattered.
Not deflected.
As if its existence had been cut.
Only air remained in his palm.
A faint trace of wood dust lingered in the air.
He stared at the emptiness.
Breathing slowed.
"Oh… I could probably graduate here with this."
Inside his mind, simulations completed—
points connected into a single line.
The barrier formed again.
This time, it did not disperse.
The transparent structure extended outward from his palm.
Extremely thin.
Perfectly straight.
Like a line of light pulled taut.
He stared at the line.
The air trembled slightly.
The line did not shift.
—
Green's desk was the same as before.
The wooden edge still bore old marks.
Documents were neatly arranged.
A pen holder sat on the right.
Only the photograph had changed.
The child had grown from two years old to three.
The smile wider.
Seven stood in front of the desk.
Shoulders straight.
"You're sure?"
Green looked up.
A slight lift at the brow.
A flicker of surprise in his eyes.
"Sure."
No hesitation.
Green remained silent for half a second.
Then nodded.
For this exam, Seven had chosen a combat robot as his opponent.
"I'll need approval to use a dagger," Seven added.
His tone remained steady.
"Of course," Green replied.
—
The training room had been upgraded.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed forward.
The metallic scent was stronger.
The floor had been replaced with composite metal plates.
Footsteps landed with weight.
Echoes were short and contained.
Momentum sensors were installed around the perimeter.
Dark modules embedded into the walls.
Red indicator lights pulsed at a low frequency.
At the center—
An AI combat robot.
Silver-gray.
No unnecessary reflective decoration.
Silent joints.
Arms reinforced with high-strength alloy frameworks.
Red light scanned from its eyes.
From top to bottom.
Pause.
Lock.
Its combat algorithms included:
global professional fighting databases,
military close-quarters models,
predictive trajectory calculations.
Seven stood opposite.
Daggers held in reverse grip.
Short blades.
Black.
No excess decoration.
Cold light pressed along the edges.
Start.
The air froze for half a second.
The AI moved first.
No probing.
A direct charge.
Metal footsteps struck the composite floor.
Vibration transferred through the ground.
Right arm—straight thrust.
Extremely fast.
Seven sidestepped.
Foot sliding.
The blade scraped along the mechanical arm's surface.
Sparks flashed briefly in the air.
A sharp metallic sound.
The robot swept its left leg.
Flat angle.
No hesitation.
Seven jumped back.
Weight settled.
Breathing steady.
No feints in its attacks.
Only efficiency.
First exchange ended.
The smell of metal friction lingered in the air.
The robot locked onto Seven's hips.
Red light adjusted.
Simulated grapple charge.
Distance collapsed rapidly.
Seven stepped forward.
Left blade cut across a joint seam.
Edge pressed precisely along the structure.
Not severed.
But accurate.
Psychokinesis attached to the blade.
Not to expand range—
but to stabilize the penetration axis.
The blade maintained a perfect straight line.
Driven directly into the joint seam.
The metallic friction sharpened.
The robot's movement delayed by 0.07 seconds.
Extremely brief.
Like a pause in breathing.
An opening appeared.
Seven rotated.
Waist driving shoulders.
Right blade pierced into the neck transmission interface.
Withdraw.
Step back.
The robot turned.
Structure re-locked.
Still operational.
No fear.
It pressed forward again.
Second round.
Speed against speed.
The robot entered high-speed mode.
Continuous thrusts.
Both arms nearly sealed off retreat paths.
The air was cut apart rapidly.
Seven did not contest force.
His steps were minimal.
Each movement compressed to the shortest possible distance.
Like carving lines onto metal.
Each strike was short.
Not seeking depth.
Only joints.
Lines.
Sensor nodes.
Psychokinesis formed micro vector stabilization along the blade's direction.
The air on both sides of the blade was straightened.
No deviation at the moment of contact.
Like precision guidance.
The robot's left arm suddenly accelerated.
A straight thrust.
Nearly a hit.
Seven's shoulder was grazed open.
Fabric tore.
Skin split.
Blood seeped out.
Warm, sliding along the collarbone.
He did not react.
Breathing remained even.
Retreat became advance.
A step forward.
Distance compressed.
Close.
Close was the most dangerous range for a machine—
because its algorithm relied more on spatial prediction.
The robot prepared a choke lock.
Arms closing in.
Metal framework tightened under the light.
At that moment—
Seven did not evade.
He moved forward.
His body entered between the arms.
Shoulder brushing against inner metal.
Blade pressed against the mechanical chest.
Psychokinesis layered.
Not increasing force—
but locking the blade onto a straight line.
The air was pulled taut.
A direct thrust.
Hit.
Through the seam of the core control chamber.
A low metallic vibration.
Insertion.
Twist.
Internal structures grinding.
Withdraw.
Step back.
The robot froze.
Red light flickered.
Frequency dropping.
Limbs lost coordination.
It knelt.
The metal floor echoed heavily.
Power cut.
Lights out.
The field returned to silence.
The vibrations in the air dissipated slowly.
Seven stood still.
Blood still flowed from his shoulder.
Dropping onto the metal floor.
Red spreading across cold gray.
Breathing steady.
Chest rising evenly.
White coat recording:
Psychokinesis directional control precision increased.
High adaptability with cold weapons.
Successful close-range risk management.
One examiner spoke in a low voice:
"He's starting to use the algorithm's predictive model."
Another replied:
"Not competing with speed.
Interfering with the path."
Sixteen-year-old Seven
stood on the composite metal floor.
Shoulder wound unclosed.
Blade lowered.
Light fell between his shoulder line and the edge of the blade.
He was no longer just strength-based.
No longer just intercepting initiation.
He had begun—
to use direction and structure
to cut through any opponent's optimal solution.