The change did not come as a sudden cut.
There was no flash, no hard transition—
instead, the world overwrote itself layer by layer, as if a new environment was being rendered directly on top of the old one.
The ground beneath Seven's feet lost its metallic firmness first.
What had been solid, artificial flooring was swallowed by loose soil and tangled roots. The texture shifted instantly—soft enough to sink into slightly, yet uneven, unstable. Each step now carried uncertainty. Moisture clung to the air, thick and heavy, laced with the sour scent of decaying vegetation.
Humidity rose sharply.
Then the trees came.
Not growing—generated.
Massive trunks erupted from the earth in rapid succession, bark rough and dark, stretching upward with violent speed. Branches expanded outward, interlocking high above, forming a dense canopy that strangled the light. Whatever illumination existed was torn apart, fragmented into broken shards that slipped through gaps in the leaves.
Visibility collapsed.
Anything beyond twenty meters dissolved into shadow, swallowed whole by overlapping darkness.
It felt ancient.
Untouched.
Like a primeval forest sealed away from time.
"The terrain has changed."
Jackson's voice followed immediately, sharper than before. His speaking pace increased, instincts kicking in.
"This isn't an ordinary woodland environment. This is a primitive forest-type zone. Limited sightlines, dense obstacles, sound absorption—"
He paused for a fraction of a second.
"This is a textbook hunting ground."
The camera swept across the surroundings.
Fallen logs lay half-buried beneath moss. Jagged rocks jutted from the soil at irregular angles. Thick roots twisted across the ground like exposed veins. There was no truly safe footing anywhere—every step risked imbalance, noise, or entrapment.
"In a place like this," Jackson continued, almost to himself,
"What do we usually see?"
"Monsters?"
"Or… animals?"
Before the sentence fully landed—
The bushes moved.
Not one location.
Multiple.
Simultaneously.
Subtle disturbances rippled through the undergrowth from several directions at once, faint yet synchronized. Low, restrained breathing followed—pressed deliberately close to silence, but unmistakably present.
Then—
Gray shapes burst from the shadows.
They moved low to the ground, bodies streamlined, trajectories clean and lethal.
Wolves.
But not the kind found in reality.
These were larger. Heavier. Muscles coiled tight beneath their hides, movements stripped of waste. Their paws struck the earth with muted precision, sound dampened by intent rather than terrain. Each stride carried rhythm—short, sharp, predatory.
"They're faster than real wolves by at least one tier," Jackson judged instantly.
"If one of those lands a clean bite, it won't stop at tearing flesh. Bone fractures would be the minimum."
Seven did not retreat.
Nor did he charge.
He stood still.
And then—
A sound brushed the air above.
So faint it was almost missed.
Not wind.
Scales.
Sliding against bark.
"…Wait."
Jackson's tone shifted.
"There's something in the trees."
The camera snapped upward.
Thin, elongated silhouettes clung to the branches, bodies flattened against the trunks as they moved with slow, deliberate precision. Scales reflected dim light in cold hues. Their heads lifted slightly, adjusting angles—calibrating.
Ranged units.
"This is a mixed terrain configuration," Jackson said, now fully engaged.
"High-speed melee units on the ground, combined with elevated ranged harassment."
A short, humorless laugh escaped him.
"Difficulty spike confirmed. At least one level higher than the previous stage."
"Let's see—"
"What Seven does."
The moment the words left his mouth—
Cold flashes cut through the air.
No wind-up.
No wasted motion.
The throwing knives left Seven's hand as if released from thought itself. The air split along razor-thin paths, trajectories so clean they were almost invisible.
Then—
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Three dull impacts echoed from above.
Snake-like creatures were pinned directly into the tree trunks, bodies frozen mid-attack posture. No twitching. No struggle. The blades were buried deep, leaving only their tails vibrating faintly.
"…That was—"
Jackson paused, genuinely caught off guard.
"Throwing knives?"
The camera barely had time to register the kills.
Because the ground erupted.
The wolves lunged.
Seven stepped forward once.
His short blade slid free.
Not a swing.
A cut.
The motion was minimal—economical to the extreme. The blade traced paths that intersected the wolves' charge lines, as if Seven had already placed the ending points in advance.
The first wolf passed through—
And disintegrated midair.
Segments separated before blood could even spray.
Second.
Third.
The blade never danced. Never flourished. There was no display, no excess movement—only the shortest routes to total destruction.
Each strike carried a single intent.
Termination.
Bodies collapsed in pieces, momentum unfinished, life already gone.
"Ground units… neutralized," Jackson muttered, unconsciously lowering his voice.
The chat exploded.
[Those were throwing knives?!]
[Is this a wuxia novel?!]
[No guns? Knives only? Is this real?!]
Then—
The air shifted again.
Four knives rose behind Seven.
Not thrown.
Not falling.
Floating.
Suspended in space, tips angled slightly downward, as if awaiting silent command.
"Oh."
Jackson inhaled slowly.
"Telekinesis."
"As expected. Seven isn't an ordinary combatant. He's an ability user."
The audience response spiked audibly.
"At present, his telekinetic control appears to be mid-tier," Jackson analyzed quickly.
"Limited quantity, stable manipulation—not overwhelming output."
"But—"
He paused.
"In this terrain, it's more than sufficient."
Seven moved on.
His pace was steady. Unhurried. Unhesitating.
The forest began to thin.
Ahead lay an open clearing.
The ground there was scorched black, layered with signs of repeated burning. A faint sulfuric stench lingered in the air, prickling the senses.
"This is…"
Jackson's voice dropped.
"Hellhound."
A massive canine form lay at the center of the clearing.
As Seven entered its range, the creature rose.
Its size was oppressive—shoulder height rivaling an adult human. Coarse fur covered its body, but the true source of discomfort was its heads.
Three.
Three distinct heads.
Each bore a different expression.
The left snarled violently, fangs bared.
The center was calm, indifferent, embers drifting from its mouth.
The right watched silently, breath stirring the air with faint pressure.
Three sets of eyes.
Three different colors.
"This is the boss of the second zone," Jackson said quietly.
The Hellhound shook itself, power rippling outward. The ground trembled. Claws scraped against charred earth with a piercing sound.
Seven did not attack.
He stopped.
Watched.
The Hellhound advanced.
At close range—bites, claws, tail strikes.
At distance—
Fireballs gathered.
Lightning cracked.
Wind blades sliced across the ground.
Clear. Direct. Brutal.
"I see," Jackson realized.
"Three heads. Three attributes."
"The eye colors correspond to elemental attacks."
Seven's gaze remained unchanged.
He had already finished observing.
The trial continued.