The terrain shifted without warning.
The light that had filtered through the previous area vanished as if it had been swallowed whole, and what replaced it was not darkness, but something heavier—an oppressive dimness that pressed down from above, as though the sky itself had lowered until it nearly brushed the treetops. The forest that unfolded around Seven was dense and ancient, its canopy woven so tightly that not a single ray of sunlight could pierce through. The air was damp, cold, and carried the faint scent of decaying leaves and moss, layered with something sharper, something unfamiliar.
This was not a natural forest.
It was an artificial battlefield designed to erase vision, distort distance, and punish hesitation.
Seven slowed his steps, not because of fear, but because speed without information was meaningless here. His boots sank slightly into the soft earth, the ground yielding just enough to absorb sound. Every movement he made was measured, his breathing controlled, his grip on the short blade relaxed yet ready. The silence around him was deceptive, the kind that existed only when something was waiting.
The attack came from behind.
No warning. No sound. No shift in the air that an ordinary fighter could have noticed.
A presence materialized in the space directly at Seven's back, close enough that the cold of it brushed against his skin. A blade, thin and curved, descended in a downward arc aimed precisely at the junction between neck and shoulder, a strike meant to kill in a single motion.
"Ambush?"
The word barely left his lips before his body responded.
Seven twisted, not fully turning, but just enough. His short blade snapped upward, the metal catching the incoming weapon with a sharp, compressed impact that rang out for only an instant before being swallowed by the forest. Sparks flickered and vanished. The force traveled down his arm, heavy but controlled, calculated to test rather than overwhelm.
The figure recoiled and disappeared in the same instant it had appeared.
Seven did not pursue.
He stood still, blade angled downward, eyes scanning the darkness between the trees. His gaze followed the path where the attacker had been, yet there was nothing there now—no sound of retreating footsteps, no rustle of leaves, no lingering disturbance in the air.
"Dark Elf?"
The question was rhetorical, spoken more out of confirmation than doubt.
The forest remained silent, but above them, beyond the battlefield, the audience did not.
"That was blocked?" "No way, I didn't even see it." "If that hit me, I'd already be dead." "How did he react to something he couldn't see?" "Does he have eyes on the back of his head?"
A collective breath seemed to leave the viewers all at once, tension bleeding out only after the danger had already passed.
Moments later, the replay confirmed it.
"Based on frame-by-frame analysis," the commentator announced, voice steady but edged with restrained excitement, "the attacker has been identified as a Dark Elf. High-speed concealment, close-range assassination type. That was a lethal strike."
Seven was already moving again.
He advanced deeper into the forest, each step careful but unhesitating, the earlier ambush filed away as data rather than threat. The Dark Elf had tested him, not committed. That meant something larger was coming.
He heard it before he saw it.
The sound was distant at first, rhythmic and heavy, vibrating through the ground rather than the air. Hooves. Not scattered, not frantic, but steady, deliberate, growing louder with each passing second. The cadence suggested mass, weight, and confidence, the kind that came from a creature that had no reason to fear what lay ahead.
The trees parted just enough for the shape to emerge.
A Centaur.
Its upper body was humanoid, broad-shouldered and armored in rough plates that bore scratches from countless previous battles. Its lower body was that of a powerful horse, muscles coiled beneath dark hide, hooves striking the earth with controlled force. In its hands was a long lance, the shaft thick and balanced, the tip gleaming faintly even in the low light.
"Oh! A Centaur!" "A classic melee monster!" "That's a charging type!"
The Centaur did not slow.
It lowered its lance and charged, the ground trembling beneath its advance, momentum building with every stride. This was not a reckless attack, but a practiced one, the angle precise, the timing honed to catch prey mid-reaction.
Seven waited until the final moment.
He shifted sideways, letting the lance pass just close enough that he could feel the air displaced by its tip. His foot came down on the shaft, boot sole grinding against the polished wood as he used it as a springboard rather than an obstacle. His body lifted, flipping cleanly over the Centaur's forward momentum, blade flashing once in a tight arc.
He landed behind it.
The Centaur's body continued forward for two steps before collapsing, its head separating from its shoulders as though the cut had been delayed by the sheer force of motion.
"That's one of those scenes you see all the time in manga," the commentator exclaimed. "Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement."
The forest did not give him time to savor it.
The sound of hooves returned, this time multiplied.
From behind, from the flanks, Centaurs emerged in formation rather than chaos. They did not charge blindly. Three of them moved together, their spacing precise, lances angled not to strike individually, but to control space.
The first lance thrust toward Seven's midsection, not to kill, but to force movement. The second aimed higher, tracking the likely dodge path. The third lagged just enough to react to either outcome.
Seven saw the pattern instantly.
He stepped forward instead of back.
His foot came down at the exact point where the three lances intersected, where their shafts crossed in a fleeting moment of alignment created by timing and coordination. The contact was brief, barely longer than a heartbeat, but it was enough. He used the convergence as leverage, his weight compressing downward as his body rose upward.
The motion flowed without pause.
His body lifted, twisting, the short blade rotating in his hand as he passed over the weapons. He did not strike the Centaurs directly. There was no opening. They were not foolish enough to overextend.
Instead, he cut.
The blade flashed across the lance shafts at critical stress points, metal biting into wood that was already under pressure. The Centaurs reacted instantly, pulling back, adjusting, attempting to recover formation.
Too late.
The compromised lances failed under the sudden change in force. Shafts cracked, splintered, and twisted out of alignment, the disruption cascading through their coordinated attack. Their balance faltered, hooves skidding as their forward momentum betrayed them.
Seven was already gone.
He landed to the side, rolling once before rising, never stopping, never turning back to admire the result. As the three Centaurs stumbled and crashed into one another, their formation collapsing into chaos, he leapt.
His body soared upward, fingers catching the rough bark of the nearest tree. He climbed in a single fluid motion, boots finding purchase where none should exist, and settled onto a thick branch high above the ground.
From there, he watched.
The remaining Centaurs did not pursue immediately.
They circled below, hooves stamping, heads tilted upward as they assessed the situation. Their weapons—what remained of them—were raised defensively, not aggressively. They were not mindless beasts. They understood terrain, understood advantage, and most importantly, understood when not to commit.
"Look at their weapons," the commentator observed. "No ranged options. Staying grounded was the right call. That was a calm, rational decision under pressure."
The Centaurs snorted, frustration evident in the tension of their movements, before retreating deeper into the forest, choosing distance over desperation.
Seven remained where he was for a moment longer.
The forest settled again, shadows reclaiming the spaces where violence had briefly erupted. He adjusted his grip on the short blade, exhaled once, and then moved forward along the branches, disappearing into the darkness as silently as he had entered it.