For a brief moment, the dungeon fell silent.
Not the kind of silence that came from peace,
but the kind that followed destruction—
heavy, stagnant, and filled with the aftermath of violence.
Shattered limbs lay scattered across the stone floor.
Broken weapons rested where they had fallen, their edges dulled by impact.
Thick green fluid seeped from torn bodies, flowing slowly along the cracks between the stones, pooling in uneven depressions before continuing onward like sluggish streams.
Cold white lights illuminated everything evenly.
There was no judgment in that light.
No emphasis.
No drama.
It simply recorded what had happened.
Seven stood where he was.
He had not moved since the last blow.
His posture was neutral.
His breathing steady.
His gaze directed forward, not lingering on the corpses around him.
At the far edge of the visible area—
"Wait."
Jackson's voice dropped suddenly, instinctively lowering as if he had sensed something before fully understanding it.
"…There's still one left."
The camera reacted instantly, pulling back and widening its field of view.
Between the fallen bodies, something moved.
A goblin.
It struggled upright, limbs shaking violently. One leg dragged uselessly behind it, bent at an unnatural angle. Its mouth hung open as it gasped for air, thick strands of mucus and saliva stretching and snapping as it whimpered incoherently.
Fear had completely crushed it.
This was not a creature thinking about survival through combat.
This was a creature thinking only about escape.
It did not look back.
Not once did it dare turn its head toward Seven.
Instead, it ran.
Its steps were clumsy and uneven, feet slapping against the stone floor without rhythm. Several times it nearly fell, catching itself with frantic flailing arms before stumbling forward again.
"Running away?"
Jackson raised an eyebrow, surprise bleeding into his tone.
"Folks, that's not something you see every day."
The goblin burst through a narrow passageway and emerged into a space that was clearly different from the previous area.
The lighting vanished.
No artificial glow remained.
In its place rose towering stone structures, rough and unpolished, supporting a ceiling that stretched far upward into darkness. The room felt cavernous, like the interior of a massive hall carved directly from bedrock.
The walls were uneven, scarred with deep grooves and marks, as if something had clawed at them repeatedly over time. The environment was unmistakably designed to resemble a primitive lair.
The goblin reached the center of the chamber and collapsed to its knees.
Its body shook violently as it turned toward the deepest shadows of the room. It gestured wildly, arms flailing as it produced a stream of broken sounds—half cries, half incoherent explanations.
It looked like pleading.
It looked like reporting.
It looked like begging for protection.
"It's… communicating?"
For the first time, hesitation crept into Jackson's voice.
"Looks like there's still—"
He never finished the sentence.
Bang.
The sound exploded through the chamber.
The goblin's body was launched forward by a single kick, lifted completely off the ground like a rag doll. It slammed into the stone wall with sickening force. The sound of bones snapping echoed clearly before the body slid down and collapsed in a lifeless heap.
The livestream went dead silent.
"Oh?"
Jackson dragged out the sound, a familiar note of anticipation returning to his voice.
"So this is the show?"
The next instant—
The torches ignited.
One by one, flames burst to life along both sides of the chamber walls. Orange-red fire crawled upward, illuminating the stone in flickering light and steadily pushing back the darkness.
A massive figure emerged.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Its head nearly brushed the ceiling. Its shoulders were impossibly broad, its muscles piled onto its frame like slabs of rock forced together without refinement. Dark brown skin stretched over the bulk, crisscrossed with old scars—proof of countless previous battles.
From within the firelight, a pair of murky yet vicious eyes looked down.
The creature opened its mouth.
The roar that followed shook the air itself.
"…There it is."
Jackson inhaled sharply.
"As expected."
"An Orc Boss."
The camera adjusted automatically, pulling back further in a futile attempt to fit the creature's full form into the frame.
"Ladies and gentlemen—"
Jackson's voice shifted, taking on the formal cadence of an announcer introducing a heavyweight contender.
"This is the gatekeeper of Area One in Freetown's dungeon system."
"An Orc."
Under the torchlight, its details became unmistakable.
Protruding tusks.
Arms thick enough to resemble tree trunks.
A back so heavily muscled it looked like a single armored plate.
In its grasp was a massive spiked club, nearly as tall as a full-grown man. Metal studs lined its surface, catching the firelight and flashing with every slight movement. Each swing displaced air with enough force to be felt even through the screen.
The orc released a deep, threatening growl.
Then it moved.
There was no warning.
No probing strike.
No intimidation display.
It attacked with full force.
The club descended in a nearly vertical arc, tearing through the air with a thunderous roar as it came crashing down toward Seven's head.
"Direct attack!"
Jackson shouted.
Seven did not dodge.
He did not step back.
He did not shift to the side.
He simply raised his hands.
"…What?"
Jackson froze.
The camera caught the moment his weapons appeared.
Short.
Plain.
Devoid of decoration.
"No—those aren't conventional short blades."
"They're more like—"
"Metal blocks shaped like knives."
The orc's strength was fully unleashed.
And then—
Seven moved.
He did not block head-on.
With minimal motion, he redirected the club's trajectory.
Four ounces moving a thousand pounds.
The massive force was diverted just enough.
The club scraped past Seven's body and smashed into the ground beside him.
Boom.
Stone fractured. Debris exploded outward.
"This is pure masculine insanity!"
Jackson's excitement surged.
"Seven chose a frontal clash!"
"He didn't evade!"
The chat erupted.
[No way!]
[Is that even human?]
[Martial arts master?]
The orc hesitated.
Only for a fraction of a second.
That was all Seven needed.
He stepped forward.
During the brief recovery window—the moment of rigidity after a missed heavy strike—his blades moved.
His target was precise.
Not the chest.
Not the neck.
The knees.
"Wait—what is he doing?"
Jackson slowed his speech.
On screen, red markers appeared, highlighting the orc's knee joints. Beneath them, segmented health bars became visible.
"…Someone on Freetown's design team really thought this through."
"They even labeled joint durability."
The first strike landed.
The health bar dropped.
The second.
Dropped evenly.
The third.
The fourth.
No wasted movement.
No flourish.
Then—
Both bars emptied simultaneously.
The orc's knees snapped.
Its massive body crashed to the ground, stone cracking under the impact. A confused, terrified roar escaped its throat as it dragged itself backward with its arms, desperately attempting to flee.
It was retreating.
Seven was already beside it.
A storm of blades followed.
There was no rhythm.
No elegance.
Only outcome.
The final strike fell.
The orc's head separated from its body and rolled across the stone floor, firelight reflecting off a face frozen in terror.
"…Perfect."
Jackson whispered.
"Seven just—destroyed the orc."
After a brief pause—
The cheering erupted through the system.
Seven stood before the corpse and sheathed his weapons.
No victory pose.
No acknowledgment.
And deep within the dungeon, the system notification chimed softly.
His challenge—
Had only just begun.