"Who am I?"
The Queen's voice rose abruptly.
Not loud in volume alone—but sharp in intent.
It cut through the livestream's audio feed like a blade, stripping away all background noise, all idle chatter, all hesitation. Even viewers who had been half-listening felt their attention snap into place.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was coiled.
"Queen!"
The response came instantly.
Not fragmented comments.
Not overlapping reactions.
It was unified.
Trained.
Conditioned.
A single, overwhelming wave of sound surged through the chat, through the speakers, through every connected device. It carried no doubt, no variation—only affirmation.
"Then—"
The Queen paused.
Only for a heartbeat.
The corner of her lips lifted, slow and deliberate, forming a smile that carried weight far beyond the screen. It was not playful. Not shy. It was knowing.
"My future husband is?"
For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to stall.
A blank space—
so brief it barely existed—
yet long enough for anticipation to tighten in the chest.
Then it erupted.
"King—!"
The word detonated across the stream.
Cheers followed, tangled with laughter and deliberate exaggeration, voices dragging out the final syllable in mock ceremony. Some shouted in jest. Some screamed for fun.
But beneath it all—
There was no hesitation.
"King!"
"King!!"
"KING!!!"
The chant spread like fire through dry grass.
From the Queen's livestream outward—
first the inner circle, the devoted fans who never missed a broadcast.
Then the casual viewers, caught and carried along before they could resist.
And then—
The arena.
The sound that should have belonged solely to the live audience was swallowed, reversed, and amplified by the broadcast feed. The livestream invaded the physical space, overriding it.
Some people joined willingly.
Some were pulled along by momentum.
Some barely understood what they were shouting before the word left their mouths.
King.
King.
King.
It was not a name.
It was a role.
A seat.
A crown-shaped absence waiting to be filled.
The arena's roar began to resonate.
The metal dome overhead caught the sound and sent it back down, reflections layering upon reflections, until the noise gained mass. Each repetition made it heavier, denser—like a pressure wave stacking upon itself.
Every online viewer.
Every pair of eyes locked onto a screen.
In that moment, all attention was forced into alignment.
Toward a single figure.
—Seven.
He stood alone at the center of the field.
Surrounded by wreckage.
By cameras.
By expectation.
Seven tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something distant, something not entirely present.
"This program's done pretty well,"
he murmured, his voice low, threaded with faint confusion.
"It's almost like real people."
It was said casually.
Almost offhand.
As if millions of voices screaming the same word meant no more to him than background noise.
For the first time since stepping into view, he raised a hand and touched his chin.
The movement was small.
But the cameras caught it.
And once seen, it could not be ignored.
It was not a hero's pose.
Not a declaration.
It was a habit.
A human gesture performed by something that no longer felt entirely human.
He snapped his fingers.
The sound itself was insignificant—sharp, brief, ordinary.
But the arena's systems caught it.
Amplified it.
Replicated it.
The snap echoed outward, bouncing from wall to wall, until it felt like the arena itself had responded.
"Since you're this enthusiastic,"
Seven lifted his gaze. His eyes were calm, steady, unshaken by the ocean of sound.
"I should respond properly."
At the same instant—
The centaur robot moved.
The massive lance mounted to its arm began to rotate once more.
This time, there was no restraint.
The hum escalated, rising rapidly as internal limiters disengaged. Motors screamed. Power surged. The rotation crossed from mechanical motion into something closer to violence.
The air was dragged inward.
Pressure spiked.
A visible distortion rippled outward as if the atmosphere itself were being seized and twisted. Viewers could see it—not with instruments, but with their eyes.
All aerial units reacted at once.
Not in panic.
Not in chaos.
They retreated cleanly, smoothly, slipping behind the centaur robot in perfect formation, as though following instructions written long before the battle began.
A guard formation.
Around the lance, the distortion intensified.
This was not wind.
Not turbulence.
Space itself was being forced to comply—compressed, folded, stretched thin.
A vortex formed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like a well opening without walls.
The centaur robot let out a long howl.
The sound did not belong to steel.
Nor to flesh.
It was synthetic, designed not to express pain or emotion, but to intimidate. A roar crafted to trigger instinctive fear responses.
The next moment—
It charged.
The ground exploded beneath its weight.
Its steel body launched forward with terrifying acceleration, momentum tearing across the arena floor. Shockwaves rippled outward, rattling seats, vibrating barriers. The guardrails along the stands emitted a deep, resonant hum as they absorbed the force.
It went straight for Seven.
And then—
The image went blank.
Exactly one second.
No buffering icon.
No signal delay.
Every monitoring system lost the target simultaneously.
Cameras searched.
Sensors failed.
Seven vanished.
The next instant—
He was behind the centaur robot.
No afterimage followed.
No trace marked the path.
He was simply there.
As if the universe itself had repositioned him.
Both of his hands moved at once, flicking upward.
Two short blades left his fingers and spun into the air.
They rotated cleanly, catching the arena lights as they fell.
At the precise moment they crossed his shoulder line, Seven reached up and caught them.
The timing was flawless.
Too flawless.
The motion flowed so naturally that it created an unsettling illusion—
as if this sequence had been rehearsed not dozens, but thousands of times.
Seven landed.
His arms dropped naturally at his sides.
Then—
at the very last moment—they stopped.
Hands angled downward.
Forty-five degrees.
No tension.
No excess movement.
A stance defined by absence rather than force.
What followed made no sound.
First—the lance.
The massive weapon did not explode.
There was no screech of tearing metal.
It was simply… severed.
Cleanly.
Segment after segment separated, sliding apart as if gravity alone were responsible. Dozens of pieces fell to the ground, each cut precise enough to look intentional.
Then—the front half of the centaur robot.
The steel torso shifted.
Along an invisible line, it began to slide, tilt, and divide.
No sparks.
No resistance.
Finally—the tail.
One section fell.
Then another.
Then another.
Each collapse followed the last, methodical and inevitable.
Like dominoes toppling in slow sequence.
The entire centaur robot disassembled itself under gravity's command.
The arena froze.
Seconds passed.
No one cheered.
Because no one understood.
"…Incredible!"
Jackson's voice broke the stillness, sharp with disbelief.
"Seven has defeated the centaur robot!"
He stood abruptly, hands slamming onto the commentary desk.
"What a battle that shakes the heavens and stirs the spirits!"
The tension snapped.
The arena exploded.
"Incredible!"
"He really did it!"
"Cheer for Seven—no, for the King!"
"As expected, Seven is the strongest!"
The noise surged, layered with emotion, excitement, hysteria.
Among it all, one boy's voice cut through—too loud, too raw. The microphone briefly distorted under the force of it.
Seven frowned slightly.
He raised a hand and rubbed his ear.
"…Why does that sound like Jim?"
he muttered.
At the commentary desk, Jackson was fully swept away.
"What a moment!"
"This is nothing short of a miracle!"
"One man—"
"Breaking the limit!"
"Defeating a super robot!"
He inhaled sharply.
"We are witnessing the history of Freetown!"
"We are witnessing—"
He slowed deliberately.
"The birth of a great King!"
"Bless him!"
"Praise him!"
"And for him—applaud! Cheer!"
The broadcast cut at the peak of sound.
Backstage, Jackson collapsed into his chair, soaked in sweat.
He stared at the data panel.
Online viewers: over two million.
For two seconds, he said nothing.
Then he laughed.
Elsewhere, the Queen's livestream refreshed.
—Ten million.
The lights went out.
No filters.
No stage effects.
On the screen, her expression was bare.
Pride.
Relief.
Emotion held down by sheer force of will.
"I finally found you…"
she whispered.
"Brother Seven. You really are alive."
She closed her eyes.
Opened them again.
"I'm coming to find you."
Joy trembled beneath her words.
So did sorrow.
The kind that arrives late—and never truly leaves.