"The centaur unit has released another wave of aerial drones."
Jackson's voice rose sharply from the commentator's booth, lifted as if pushed forward by an invisible gust of wind that swept through the arena. His reaction was immediate, instinctive, the kind that came only from years of live commentary under pressure.
On the screen, the sky was cut apart once more.
Silver-gray flying units ascended in dense formation, filling the air with cold precision. Their arrangement was flawless to the point of discomfort, every unit maintaining exact distance from the next. Thrusters ignited at the same instant, releasing a low, synchronized hum that vibrated through the battlefield like the pulse of a mechanical heart.
This was not chaotic reinforcement.
It was calm, deliberate, and calculated.
Almost cruel.
This was not a retreat, nor was it a probing maneuver meant to gather data. The intention was far more direct. It felt like a complete reset, as if all previous failures had been wiped clean in a single command, followed immediately by a sharp increase in difficulty.
The airflow across the battlefield shifted.
The rhythm that Seven had already shattered was forcibly dragged back into the centaur unit's control. Wind vectors reversed with visible force, pushing debris and dust in new directions. Atmospheric pressure sank, pressing down on the field until the air itself felt dense and heavy. Even the audience screens began to tremble, faint static distortions crawling along their edges.
"This isn't a battlefield reset," Jackson corrected himself quickly, his speech accelerating rather than slowing as new data flooded in. "More accurately, this is an escalation of attack tiers."
The flying units separated with mechanical efficiency.
Three distinct vertical layers formed in the sky.
The upper layer spiraled at extreme speed, sealing off vertical movement and eliminating any possibility of aerial escape. The middle layer maintained rigid formation, releasing continuous suppressive fire that overlapped into a suffocating curtain of energy. The lower layer skimmed close to the ground, engines screaming as they prepared for direct collision, each unit calibrated for a suicide charge if necessary.
This was a tactical configuration designed for a single purpose.
The hunting of high-mobility targets.
And yet, despite the overwhelming pressure, Seven did not retreat.
He did not even shift into a visible defensive stance.
He stood where he was, unmoving at the center of the field. His breathing remained steady, controlled, almost detached from the chaos surrounding him. His feet barely left the ground as he moved, each step minimal in range, almost casual in appearance. Yet every adjustment placed him precisely where the next attack would fail to land.
It was as if he already knew where every strike would fall.
As if the battlefield itself had revealed its intentions to him in advance.
"In a battlefield that looks like a raging storm," Jackson said, his voice dropping half a tone without him realizing it, "what Seven is showing us right now is complete ease."
Energy fire crossed into a dense lattice above the arena floor.
Beams scraped past Seven's shoulder, missing him by margins too small to be coincidence. Explosions bloomed behind him, shockwaves rolling outward in violent pulses, yet the only visible effect was the flutter of his coat as the pressure passed. Dust lifted and settled again, untouched by panic.
The attacks were relentless.
They did not slow, and they did not hesitate.
But none of them connected.
Not because the drones lacked speed.
Not because their firepower was insufficient.
But because Seven was always standing in the correct position.
"There's a fact here that genuinely frightens me," Jackson said, pausing for a single second as if to confirm the reality of his own observation. "Up to this moment, Seven has not suffered a single effective hit."
The commentator booth fell silent.
Then the audience reacted.
A low, restless murmur spread through the stands as viewers leaned forward in their seats. Some frowned, others instinctively checked their screens, replaying recent moments frame by frame. The realization crept in slowly, resisted at first, then accepted.
"…Wait. He's right."
"How long has it been?"
"He hasn't been hit even once?"
Someone laughed, but the sound carried unease rather than amusement. Others continued rewinding footage, searching desperately for a missed detail, any sign of error or oversight.
They found none.
"Is he a god?" someone whispered.
"No."
Another voice followed, slower, more hesitant, as if reluctant to finish the thought.
"Then is he… a king?"
"A king?"
The word landed softly, almost casually, yet it carried weight.
Small at first.
But the ripples spread outward.
Whispers multiplied throughout the audience, not as an organized chant, but as an instinctive association. Unbeaten. Dominant. Standing at the center without issuing commands, without making declarations, and yet controlling the entire field by presence alone.
"King?" Jackson repeated, his eyes sharpening as he caught the word spreading through the crowd. "Wait… that description fits frighteningly well."
The camera zoomed in.
Seven's silhouette stood encircled by countless streaks of light, energy trails crossing and collapsing around him, while he remained at the calmest core of the storm. The contrast was impossible to ignore.
"Yes," Jackson said, excitement igniting in his tone. "That's exactly it. He's a king. The undefeated king of the arena."
The live chat began to change.
At first, only a few scattered messages appeared.
"King."
Then more followed.
Dozens, then hundreds, overlapping, repeating, multiplying until the word filled the screen. Jackson's fingers paused above the control console as he watched the trend take shape in real time.
The next second, he smiled, the kind of smile only a seasoned commentator could wear.
There it is.
He opened a private message and sent it without hesitation.
Your Majesty, help me out.
Lift the atmosphere.
One slogan. One word. King.
Elsewhere, on another screen, the Queen's livestream continued.
She reclined against a high-backed chair, one leg crossed casually over the other, fingertips tapping the surface of her screen in a relaxed rhythm. When the message appeared, she didn't hesitate for even a second.
"Everyone, focus."
Her voice wasn't loud, yet it pierced cleanly through the noise. The chat froze, not by command alone, but by instinct. Veteran fans stopped typing mid-sentence. Moderators acted instantly, locking channels and stabilizing the flow.
A system notice appeared. Chat temporarily locked.
"A special event is starting," the Queen announced.
She leaned forward slightly, and the camera caught the subtle shift in her posture. "Today's theme is cheering for Seven in the arena."
She paused, lips curling upward with controlled amusement.
"And no, you won't be doing it for free."
Before reactions could form, she continued smoothly. "I'll be distributing a large number of membership passes."
The reaction was immediate.
Membership passes meant skipping entry advertisements. Skipping mid-stream interruptions. Everyone understood the value instantly. Nothing killed momentum faster than forced ads at emotional peaks, and she had removed that obstacle entirely.
"However," she added, raising a finger lightly, "priority goes to those who perform."
Though the chat remained restricted, it wasn't sealed completely. High-tier supporters, long-time contributors, and heavy donors retained speaking privileges. Gift effects detonated across the screen in rapid succession as comments flooded in at visible speed.
"I want one."
"Don't forget me."
"Wait, me too."
Partial restrictions lifted, like a dam opening under pressure.
The livestream exploded.
Viewer counts surged upward in real time. The chat density grew so thick it nearly obscured the visuals entirely. Amid the chaos, the Queen's voice cut through cleanly.
"Everyone," she said, steady and commanding, "are you ready?"
At that same moment, inside the arena, the flying units dove again.
Outside the arena, tens of thousands of viewers held their breath.
Every gaze locked forward.
Every emotion tightened.
Every expectation aligned.
All of it pointed toward a single figure.
Seven.