The centaur robot released a sound that sank deep into the air.
It was not merely a roar.
It came from within—compressed, restrained, forced through layers of reinforced alloy before finally tearing its way out. A violent discharge of pressure burst from its metal chest cavity, thick and heavy, as if the machine itself had reached the limit of containment.
The sound wave rolled outward along the ground.
Loose stones trembled. Fine dust lifted and skittered across the surface. For a brief instant, the air itself seemed to deform, shoved aside by raw mechanical force.
Then—movement.
The centaur robot surged forward.
Its massive frame exploded into motion with speed utterly at odds with its size. Metal hooves slammed down in rapid succession, pulverizing the ground beneath them. Each step sent sparks flying, orange streaks flaring and vanishing almost instantly.
The lance snapped forward.
Cold. Linear. Absolute.
It aligned with terrifying precision, a straight line drawn through space, locking onto a single point without deviation.
Seven.
Seven did not charge.
He did not brace.
At the very instant the lance began its thrust, he was already moving away.
Not a leap.
Not a roll.
Distance simply opened.
His body slid backward as if seized by an invisible current, boots skimming the ground without friction. The terrain stretched beneath him, his original position dissolving into empty air.
The lance tore through that space a fraction of a second later.
It struck nothing.
Only air screamed around the spearhead as it pierced forward, the tip embedding itself in vacuum where flesh had been meant to be.
The miss triggered the next phase.
Beneath the centaur robot's left arm, concealed apertures snapped open.
They glowed.
Not with flame—but with condensed light.
Energy surged through internal conduits, flooding the gun barrels in a blinding rush. Dozens of energy rounds coalesced almost simultaneously, small suns forming in sequence, aligned, stacked, restrained only for an instant.
Then they were released.
A sweep.
No hesitation.
No adjustment.
The barrage cut sideways across the battlefield, beams slicing through space in parallel lines. Walls were scorched instantly, surfaces blackening as molten traces were carved into concrete and steel. The ground screamed under the assault, rows of glowing scars marking where energy had passed.
"Prepared for contingencies," Jackson's voice echoed from the commentary booth.
His tone remained composed, professional—but the volume had risen, just enough to betray the pressure of the moment.
"As expected. Seven predicted the centaur robot's attack pattern."
On the screen, Seven moved.
He did not flee wildly.
He threaded.
His body slipped between beams with minimal displacement—no wasted motion, no excess force. A shoulder angled inward. His waist twisted a degree. A single step slid half a foot sideways.
Each correction was exact.
Energy rounds skimmed past him, heat washing over his skin, light flaring at the edges of his vision. They missed him not by meters, not even by centimeters—but by margins too narrow to measure.
At the same time, Seven raised his hand.
The motion was calm.
Controlled.
Telekinesis engaged.
The air around him shifted.
Several throwing knives lifted, metal trembling faintly as invisible pressure took hold. They hovered in formation, blades aligned toward the centaur robot, edges catching the ambient glow.
They did not accelerate immediately.
Instead, they paused.
For a single breath, they hung there, their orientation subtly adjusting—angles refined, vectors corrected with microscopic precision.
Then—
They launched.
The knives ripped forward, cutting through the air in straight, merciless lines. The sound they produced was sharp and piercing, a high whistle that bit into the ears as compressed air tore apart around the blades.
They never reached their target.
Halfway through their flight, space resisted.
Not impact.
Interruption.
A translucent plane unfolded between the knives and the centaur robot.
An energy wall.
It manifested smoothly, seamlessly, its surface clear yet impossibly solid. The instant the knives struck, their momentum vanished. Blades screamed as force rebounded through them, vibrations shuddering down the metal, trajectories violently altered.
They were not destroyed.
They were denied.
Seven's eyes moved.
Not slowly.
Not frantically.
In an instant, his gaze traced the source.
Behind the centaur robot, the air tore open.
Space split along clean geometric seams as dozens of aerial units rose into view. They were compact, angular, their movements synchronized with machine precision.
Four units snapped together.
Then four more.
Panels formed. Panels connected.
Like puzzle pieces assembling themselves in midair, dozens of segments locked into place, expanding outward until a full defensive structure took shape.
A complete energy shield.
It hovered in front of the centaur robot, angled perfectly, covering every frontal vulnerability without excess.
"An energy shield," Jackson said, admiration slipping into his voice despite himself.
"As expected of Free Town's technological culmination. Seamless offense and defense. So—how does Seven respond?"
On screen, the knives trembled inches from the shield's surface.
They pushed.
They vibrated.
They failed.
Seven did not rush.
He did not abandon the attack.
He simply watched.
The shield.
Its curvature.
Its energy distribution.
Then—adjustment.
Four knives shifted position.
They rotated, spacing collapsing as invisible force crushed their formation inward. What had been separate blades were forced onto a single axis, their tips aligning perfectly.
The air reacted violently.
Pressure spiked.
Currents bent away, spiraling as rotation accelerated beyond natural limits. Distortion rippled outward, warping the space around the blades.
An air drill formed.
The moment alignment was complete, rotational speed exploded.
Air was dragged screaming into the center, compressed, shredded, forced into a roaring vortex that vibrated through the battlefield like a living thing.
The drill surged forward.
It struck the shield head-on.
No explosion followed.
No shattering light.
Instead, ripples spread across the shield's surface, concentric waves rolling outward like water struck by a massive object. The contact point shifted erratically as the drill chewed at the barrier, but the shield held.
A shrill sound tore through the air.
Metal screaming against force.
Pressure grinding against denial.
Screeeee—
The noise stretched, long and unbearable, echoing through the space.
"Direct penetration really is impossible—" Jackson began.
He never finished.
Because Seven had already moved.
While the air drill consumed attention, the remaining knives were gone.
They had separated silently, slipping away along the shield's edges. Telekinesis flattened their trajectories, pressing them tight against the barrier's outer rim.
They slid.
So close that energy licked their edges.
No flares.
No alarms.
They vanished into blind spots.
The next instant—they emerged.
Behind the shield.
Blades flipped mid-flight.
Before the aerial units could respond, steel punched through their frames.
One.
Two.
Three.
Units ruptured, their internal systems collapsing instantly. Power failed. Balance vanished. Wreckage spiraled downward, fragments scattering in chaotic arcs.
The shield flickered.
Gaps opened.
Light stuttered, unstable, threatening collapse.
But the machines reacted.
The remaining aerial units abandoned formation in unison.
They converged.
All units compressed toward a single point, energy flooding inward. Light intensified rapidly, becoming blinding. The surrounding air burned, crackling with faint explosive pops as particles ionized.
A laser formed.
No charge-up.
No warning.
It fired.
A single beam swept across the battlefield, clean and merciless. Wherever it passed, matter parted. The ground split open, walls were carved through with surgical precision, leaving smooth, charred edges glowing faintly.
Seven moved as it appeared.
Minimal.
Efficient.
One step back.
Shoulders lowered.
The beam skimmed past his face, heat tearing at his clothes, fabric snapping violently in the wake.
"Oh—" Jackson's voice lagged.
For the first time, he was behind the action.
"The shield's weakness was behind it… what? The aerial units can still counterattack?"
His words trailed, scrambling to catch up.
On screen, Seven had already stopped.
He stood centered.
Knives hovered around him once more, silent, steady, blades at rest.
Across the field, the centaur robot and the surviving aerial units adjusted their stances. Weapons realigned. Systems recalibrated.
The battlefield settled.
Smoke drifted.
The air reeked of scorched metal and ionized residue. Energy still rippled faintly, refusing to dissipate.
Silence stretched—thin, tense.
Then the machines shifted again.
The next exchange was about to begin.