A university campus.
The bell signaling the end of the lecture faded, its echo dissolving into the ceiling panels and the layered air of the hall.
In a tiered classroom designed for orderly dispersal, sound should have thinned naturally. Chairs should have shifted. Bags should have closed. The atmosphere should have relaxed.
Instead, it reignited.
Not because the professor lingered.
Not because anyone stood up too early.
Not because of an announcement or disruption.
But because of a single, deliberately lowered voice.
"Did you see the livestream?"
The voice was restrained. Controlled. Almost casual.
Yet the effect was immediate.
Like a pebble dropped into still water, the reaction spread outward before anyone consciously chose to respond.
"What livestream?"
"Free Town's."
"Jackson's stream?"
"Yeah. That one."
Phones unlocked almost simultaneously.
Some students lowered their heads, disguising the motion as message checks.
Others tilted their screens away from the aisle, angling light downward.
Rows of seats flickered with reflections, screens pulsing faintly in the dim indoor lighting.
The footage trembled slightly with movement.
Compressed motion. Stabilized framing.
Comments scrolled so quickly they blurred into bands of color, stacking faster than the eye could process.
"Is this real?"
"Isn't this just marketing?"
"They're actually fighting, right?"
"That monster design is insane…"
The classroom's loose order collapsed into a low murmur.
Voices stayed restrained. Excitement remained suppressed.
It resembled a group of people sharing something unofficial, something not meant to be consumed here.
A female student holding her phone leaned sideways, lowering her voice further as she whispered to the girl beside her.
"Miss Lucy, do you know about this Free Town livestream?"
The addressed girl lifted her head.
Long black hair slid smoothly past her shoulders, heavy yet immaculate.
Her features were delicate, calibrated with unsettling precision. Not striking enough to draw stares. Not plain enough to disappear. As if someone had measured the exact threshold of attention and stopped just short of it.
She sat straight-backed. Posture exact.
Even seated among ordinary students, she gave off the subtle impression of something placed there intentionally rather than belonging naturally.
She glanced at the phone.
Only once.
Then she shook her head.
"I don't know."
Her voice was soft. Even. Lacking fluctuation.
There was no curiosity.
No surprise.
No visible interest.
She was Lucian's younger sister.
The next second, she reached into her bag.
She removed a pair of glasses.
They were not consumer-grade VR equipment.
The frame was thin—too thin.
The fit exact.
The structure nearly invisible.
The material absorbed light instead of reflecting it, as if the device existed solely to transmit vision, not to be perceived.
Standard equipment of Free Town.
Lucy placed the glasses on.
The world switched.
The classroom vanished.
The image unfolded directly across her retinas. Latency approached zero.
There was no sensation of watching a screen.
No frame. No boundary.
She was there.
Jackson appeared first.
His familiar composure filled the feed—the practiced calm of someone who had witnessed too many abnormal events to be shaken easily.
Then her gaze fixed.
Seven.
He struck down the beastman.
Then suppressed the hellhound head-on.
No wasted movement.
No unnecessary flourish.
Every action felt inevitable, as if the conclusion had been decided long before his body moved.
Lucy's fingers tightened slightly at her side.
The next moment, she stood.
Her chair slid back. The sound was controlled. Almost silent.
"I'm not feeling well. I'll leave early."
She nodded politely—distantly—to the girl beside her.
Before any reply formed, she had already stepped into the aisle.
The corridor outside was crowded.
She did not accelerate.
Her pace matched that of an ordinary student. Neither hurried nor slow.
Footsteps aligned. Breathing steady.
Until she turned into a narrow dead corner rarely used.
The air changed.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
Lucy paused for a fraction of a second.
Then vanished.
The wind split apart.
Speed was no longer restrained.
Her body dissolved into an afterimage, tearing through buildings, roads, and layered city structures with overwhelming velocity.
There was only one destination.
Free Town.
"Well played, Lucian."
Her voice was shredded by the wind, yet remained distinct.
"No wonder you've looked so excited these past few days."
"So this is it."
The dungeon.
The environment shifted continuously.
Seven moved between trees.
His feet touched branches and vines with minimal sound.
Each step calculated.
Each landing exact.
Then—
A sharp whistle sliced through the air.
An arrow flew straight toward him.
Trajectory clean.
Intent unhesitating.
Seven raised his hand.
The short blade met the arrow mid-flight.
Clang.
The metallic impact was swallowed instantly by the forest canopy.
"This is…?"
Jackson's voice followed without delay.
"Elves?"
Ahead, a humanoid figure emerged.
Slender frame. Balanced proportions.
Beautiful features carrying an unmistakably inhuman chill.
Long ears tapered backward.
An elven archer.
"In most game settings," Jackson explained evenly,
"elves are born archery specialists."
"High accuracy. Rapid judgment. Exceptional ranged suppression."
Before the explanation finished—
Three bowstrings vibrated almost simultaneously.
Triple shot.
The arrows tore through the air.
Angles precise.
Paths calculated not to kill, but to seal movement.
The arrow rain descended.
Seven rotated the short blade, blocking in rapid succession.
Sparks flared briefly.
Then vanished.
Without hesitation, he leapt down from the tree.
"Sometimes, precision becomes a limitation," Jackson observed.
"Elven archers depend heavily on predictive movement ranges."
On-screen, arrows embedded themselves into branches and trunks.
Below—
Hoofbeats erupted.
Heavy. Unified. Relentless.
Centaurs burst from the forest.
Spears leveled.
Formation intact.
"Oh?"
Jackson's tone lifted.
"Centaurs?"
Recognition followed immediately.
"They didn't retreat."
"They linked up with the archer."
"Both races belong to the elven faction. Coordinated combat makes complete tactical sense."
Melee and ranged.
Front and rear.
The battlefield sealed into a net.
Seven stood at the center.
He did not retreat.
He did not rush.
He moved between attack rhythms.
Steps precise to the point of discomfort.
"Seven's current state is—"
Jackson continued.
"Evasion alone is no longer an issue."
"But the attack density has reached net formation."
"If he doesn't break it—"
The sentence never finished.
The screen convulsed.
Centaurs and massive trees were torn apart by invisible force.
Fragments scattered outward.
At the instant the elven archer lost balance above, a flying blade—driven by telekinesis—pierced straight through.
No follow-up.
No excess.
Silence.
Jackson paused.
Then corrected himself.
"…He broke through by force."
The footage resumed its forward momentum.
And the trial—
Was far from over.