Four throwing knives hovered behind Seven at the same instant.
Not one lagged behind.
Not one drifted forward.
They remained suspended at equal distance from his back, their positions so precise that the air around them seemed to accept their presence without resistance. The spacing between each blade was identical, measured not by sight but by something more absolute, as though an invisible framework had already been laid out in the surrounding space.
Angles aligned.
Distances locked.
It gave the unsettling impression that the knives were not floating freely, but instead resting upon fixed points that already existed—points that only Seven could perceive.
The blades did not tremble.
They did not sway.
Their edges caught the ambient light, thin lines of cold reflection cutting through the darkness, yet even that reflection remained steady, unbroken.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
And yet the stillness itself carried pressure.
It was the kind of silence that suggested preparation rather than hesitation.
Not the calm before chaos, but the calm before confirmation.
Then—
They began to rotate.
The movement did not erupt outward.
There was no sudden acceleration, no violent release of force.
The rotation emerged gradually, almost politely, as if following an internal rule. All four knives turned along the same axis, maintaining their relative positions with absolute discipline.
The frequency increased step by step.
At first, the sound was nearly nonexistent. The air responded sluggishly, as though unsure how to react to what was being imposed upon it.
But within moments, that changed.
The surrounding airflow began to shift—not scatter, not swirl chaotically, but align.
Air was being dragged.
Not stirred.
Not disturbed.
Dragged into order.
Within the rotational zone, air no longer behaved as a free medium. It stopped dispersing outward. Instead, it was compressed, guided, forced to obey a singular direction. Countless invisible streams converged, pulled inward with growing urgency.
Pressure began to build.
The sound of wind transformed.
What should have been erratic turbulence condensed into a low, dense resonance. The pitch dropped, the vibration deepened, until the noise resembled the steady hum of heavy machinery waking from dormancy.
A mechanical presence, born not of metal, but of motion.
As the rotation intensified, the outlines of the knives blurred.
Not because they moved too fast to see—but because they ceased to feel like individual objects.
They became anchors.
Fixed nodes along a shared axis, each one reinforcing the structure being formed between them. The blades no longer acted as weapons in isolation. They functioned as components.
Air responded accordingly.
It was bound.
Squeezed.
Forced into accelerated flow along a single, uncompromising trajectory.
At the rotational core, pressure dropped abruptly.
The surrounding atmosphere rushed inward to compensate, but the moment it approached the center, it was torn apart. Streams collided, shredded into unstable fragments, reduced to chaotic remnants unable to retain cohesion.
The process repeated endlessly.
Intake.
Compression.
Destruction.
The wind was no longer behaving naturally.
It was being shaped.
Not into a random vortex.
Not into an accidental phenomenon.
But into a deliberate construct.
A structure with a defined axis.
A structure with a defined direction.
A structure with a defined purpose.
A drill.
A drill composed entirely of air.
It possessed no physical mass, yet its presence was undeniable. The space around it distorted subtly, pressure gradients bending perception. Even without visual exaggeration, the threat was instinctively apparent.
The ground beneath Seven trembled.
Pebbles rattled. Loose fragments lifted from the surface, drawn upward by the suction around the rotating airflow. But none of them reached the core intact. They were intercepted early, sliced apart by shear forces so intense that solid matter disintegrated into dust before contact.
Powder dispersed into the air, instantly absorbed by the rotation and erased.
Seven remained where he was.
He did not shift his stance.
He did not brace.
His posture was upright, balanced, his center of gravity perfectly stable. His hands remained relaxed, fingers loose, as if the phenomenon unfolding before him required no further supervision.
His breathing was steady.
His gaze unmoved.
There was no sense of performance.
No flourish.
It did not resemble someone unveiling a signature move. It resembled someone running a test—verifying a hypothesis already proven countless times.
As if to say:
—If the structure is correct,
—the medium will obey.
The next moment—
The knives advanced.
All four moved forward simultaneously, carrying the fully stabilized air drill with them. The transition from stationary to motion was seamless, without any visible jerk or delay.
The target had been selected long before the movement began.
Among the hellhound's three heads, one stood out immediately.
The wind-aspect head.
Its presence was different. Subtler. More volatile. The air around it constantly shifted, thin currents forming and dissolving like nervous reflexes. Compared to fire and lightning, it was faster, more adaptive, harder to suppress.
The most troublesome threat.
"…What is this?"
Jackson's voice broke through the broadcast for the first time with unmistakable uncertainty.
"This is… Seven's technique?"
The air drill surged forward.
The wind-aspect head reacted almost instantly. Its jaws parted as compressed wind blades burst outward, multiple currents intersecting in a desperate attempt to disrupt the incoming structure.
The response was precise.
Correct.
Textbook.
But ineffective.
The air drill did not collide directly.
Instead, it adjusted.
The shift was minute—barely perceptible—but decisive. The drill altered its advance by a fraction of a second, sliding through the narrow temporal gap between the intersecting wind blades.
Not evasion.
Displacement.
The hostile currents scraped along its outer layers, shredding peripheral airflow, but the core remained intact. The structure held.
Then—
Impact.
The air drill penetrated the wind-aspect head cleanly.
There was no explosion.
No flash.
No cinematic shockwave.
Only the sensation of something being torn apart at extreme speed. Layers of compressed air ripped through flesh and energy alike, dismantling structure faster than resistance could form.
The wind-aspect head released a sharp, truncated scream.
Its health bar plummeted.
More than one third gone in an instant.
The interface left no room for interpretation.
Three heads.
Three independent gauges.
"As expected," Jackson said quickly, composure snapping back into place.
"Seven targeted the hardest opponent first."
"The wind-aspect head has the fastest attacks and the highest interference capability."
"Compared to that, fireballs and lightning orbs are significantly slower."
The air drill did not dissipate.
It continued forward, making subtle adjustments in trajectory, its rotation unwavering.
Second impact.
Third.
The wind-aspect head lost coherence. The neck twisted unnaturally, tissue and energy structures collapsing together. The head sagged to the side, motionless.
Next—lightning.
The lightning-aspect head attempted to form an orb, energy gathering between its jaws. But before the structure could stabilize, the air drill cut through the forming field.
The orb destabilized.
Electric arcs scattered violently, discharging into the surrounding air without direction.
Finally—fire.
The fire-aspect head pulled back instinctively, flames flaring defensively. Distance widened, but not enough.
The air drill advanced without hesitation.
Flames were torn apart mid-bloom, heat dispersed violently as the underlying energy matrix collapsed. The head disintegrated under the forced airflow, its form breaking down into fragments consumed by motion.
Three heads.
Neutralized.
Deprived of its ranged capabilities, the hellhound's remaining body let out a low, confused roar. Power remained, but coordination was gone.
Seven stepped forward.
This time, there was no spectacle.
No elaborate setup.
The short blade rose.
And fell.
Target: the legs.
The strike was precise. Joint alignment shattered instantly. The front legs failed, support collapsing as the massive body lost balance and slammed into the ground with a heavy impact.
Its movement options vanished.
"…Wait."
Jackson's voice rose again.
"Seven is pulling back?"
Seven retreated, widening the distance deliberately.
The reason became clear immediately.
The hellhound's body began to glow.
Red light spread beneath its skin, veins pulsing as residual energy surged without containment. Lightning arced wildly from ruptured points, unable to circulate, feeding back into itself.
"I see," Jackson said.
"Energy overload."
"It's self-destruction."
The explosion followed.
Fire, electricity, and pressure erupted outward.
But Seven was already beyond the blast radius.
When the smoke cleared, he flicked his suit jacket lightly, brushing away dust that did not exist.
He did not turn.
He continued forward.