After leaving the training sector, Danny led Seven through an internal passage reserved for core personnel.
The corridor was not long.
Yet it descended.
Not dramatically, not enough to disorient—but enough for the body to register a subtle shift. The floor angled just slightly downward, and with every step, the air seemed to settle, as if pressure increased by an immeasurable degree.
The walls changed first.
The composite armor plating common in the training zones gave way to a denser, seamless white synthetic layer. No joints. No visible bolts. The surface absorbed light instead of reflecting it, diffusing illumination into something soft—
And sterile.
The lighting itself was gentle.
Too gentle.
There was no fluctuation in brightness, no flicker, no temperature variation. It was the kind of light that erased shadows without offering warmth. The kind that made it difficult to tell how long one had been walking.
This was not a combat zone.
But it was not a place where one could relax.
The Director's Office of the First Combat Division was located in the midsection of the main structure, deliberately positioned away from any external interface. No windows. No external access points. No lines leading outward.
A sealed center.
At the entrance, there were no guards.
Only a wall.
A seamless panel embedded with an authorization system, its surface indistinguishable from the surrounding structure until approached. No visible interface. No prompts.
Danny raised his hand.
Authentication completed in silence.
The door slid open.
No sound.
Not even the faint mechanical whisper most systems failed to eliminate.
Inside—
The room was small.
Intentionally so.
There was no oversized desk to dominate the space, no symbolic ornament to declare authority. No banners, no insignias, no unnecessary architecture.
One wall was occupied entirely by a tactical data interface, currently dormant, its surface dim but alive beneath the layer.
The opposite side held a simple reception area—two chairs, a low table, nothing more.
The floor was layered with sound-absorbing material.
Every footstep disappeared before it could exist.
And seated there—
Was Dawolf.
His frame was still massive.
Broad shoulders, thick torso, a body built not for aesthetics but for function. Even seated, he carried weight—presence that did not rely on movement.
But his arms—
Were gone.
In their place were two temporary prosthetic limbs.
Not designed to imitate flesh.
No artificial skin. No attempt at deception. The structure was exposed—metal frameworks, visible joint mechanics, clean angular segments that reflected cold light in muted tones.
At the connection points, neural interfaces were sealed under protective layers, leaving only the necessary conduction ports accessible.
Functional.
Nothing more.
He looked up.
The moment he saw Seven—
His face broke into a grin.
"—Oh, King!"
His voice filled the room.
Loud. Steady. Unbroken.
"You're here!"
Seven's gaze fell to the prosthetic arms.
It stayed there.
No comment.
No shift.
Dawolf noticed.
He didn't care.
Leaning back into his seat, he moved as if nothing had been lost—as if those arms had never existed in their previous form.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, still smiling. "I should be thanking you."
Seven's eyes lifted.
"Thanking me?"
"Of course."
Dawolf chuckled lightly.
"For cutting them off."
Danny coughed once from the side.
Didn't interrupt.
"My daughter, Alma, said it clearly," Dawolf continued, his tone casual, almost conversational. "If we didn't remove them, I would've died on the operating table."
He lifted one prosthetic arm, rotating the joint.
A faint hum followed the movement.
Smooth.
Precise.
"That was the price of my ability," he said. "Always was. Just took its time collecting."
He let the arm drop.
A soft mechanical click.
"Can't blame you," he added. "Can't blame anyone."
Seven watched him.
"How is the adaptation?"
"Same as before."
Dawolf shrugged.
The prosthetics mirrored the motion perfectly.
"No difference in daily life. Drinking, eating, signing documents—it all works."
A pause.
Something shifted in his eyes.
Not regret.
Anticipation.
"What I'm really looking forward to," he said, voice lowering slightly, "is the Young Master."
He leaned forward.
"He said he'd design me a combat-specific set. Not these temporary ones."
There was no bitterness.
Only excitement.
"Think about it," Dawolf continued, grin widening. "If losing my arms gets me more output—stronger performance—then that's not a bad trade."
Silence followed.
Not heavy.
Just… complete.
Danny stepped forward slightly.
"The King's schedule is tight."
His voice was lowered intentionally.
A reminder.
Dawolf nodded immediately.
"Right, right. Understood."
He stood.
The motion was slower than before.
But stable.
Grounded.
Before Seven turned to leave, Dawolf spoke again.
"—Oh, one more thing."
Seven paused.
"The morale in the First Combat Division," Dawolf said, tone steady again. "It's good."
"They know who they're fighting for."
Seven gave a small nod.
Then left.
The corridor sealed behind them.
The First Combat Division—
Remained behind.
＿＿＿
The second destination—
The Intelligence Monitoring Division.
This time, the passage ascended.
Gradually.
The air changed again.
A low-frequency hum began to emerge—not loud, not intrusive, but constant. Not human noise.
System resonance.
Like a pulse.
By the time they reached the main level, Seven's first impression was not "busy."
It was—
Order.
No one looked up.
No one slowed.
No one reacted to their presence.
Screens floated in midair, data streams cascading like transparent waterfalls, flowing from different directions into central nodes. Every individual worked within their assigned segment, processing without excess communication.
Danny spoke as they walked.
"This is the central hub for all information within Freetown—no, within the Azure Polity."
He corrected himself mid-sentence.
"If anything happens anywhere, the system marks it immediately."
"Then we decide," he continued, "whether to deploy personnel—or resolve it in advance."
Seven's gaze moved across the shifting predictive trajectories.
"Espionage included?"
Danny hesitated.
A fraction of a second.
Then nodded.
"Included."
"We have agents distributed globally," he said. "Operating under the condition that their survival is prioritized."
Seven's voice remained unchanged.
"And when it's not just observation?"
Danny smiled faintly.
"That's when we leave it to people better suited for combat."
He continued without pause.
"This isn't an intelligence station."
His tone sharpened slightly.
As if correcting a common misconception.
"Espionage, surveillance, infiltration—that's just the outer layer."
They moved along the perimeter of the data ring. Screens passed through peripheral vision, none oriented toward them directly.
Information wasn't displayed.
It was processed.
"The Intelligence Monitoring Division has only one responsibility."
Danny continued.
"Filtering."
Seven said nothing.
Danny went on.
"Not filtering enemies."
A gesture.
Several statistical trajectories appeared—then faded, leaving only final outcomes.
"Filtering variables."
"Last year," he said, voice steady, "127 ability users were evaluated here and allowed entry into Freetown."
The number stood alone.
Not an achievement.
Not a statistic to celebrate.
"They weren't 'accepted,'" Danny added. "They were determined to be—less dangerous inside than outside."
A brief pause.
"Freetown doesn't exist to save them."
Another beat.
"It exists to prevent them from becoming uncontrollable events."
They kept walking.
The predictive lines closed again.
As if those 127 individuals had never existed.
They did not stay long.
There was nothing to display.
Its value was never meant to be seen.
＿＿＿
The third destination—
The Ability Development Research Bureau.
The moment they entered the main hall—
The air changed.
Completely.
No oppressive stillness like the First Combat Division.
No constant low-frequency resonance like Intelligence.
Instead—
Noise.
Controlled noise.
Footsteps. Conversations. System notifications. All layered together, restrained within a threshold that never tipped into chaos.
Danny spoke.
"The first floor functions like a district administration office."
His tone was neutral.
"Registration. Modifications. Applications. Re-examinations."
"In Freetown, most non-combat matters are handled here."
Seven's gaze swept across the hall.
People.
Normal residents.
Low-tier ability users.
Technical staff in uniform.
Mixed together.
Behind the counters, personnel moved efficiently, expressions neutral, motions practiced. There was no discussion of strength. No judgment of worth.
Only process.
A child suddenly pointed toward Seven.
"That's the King!"
The voice was clear.
Not loud.
But enough.
A few heads turned.
No panic.
No commotion.
Just recognition.
Pause. Confirmation. A natural, almost trained gesture of acknowledgment.
No synchronization.
Yet consistent.
Seven didn't stop.
Danny noticed.
Adjusted his pace slightly.
Shielded the path.
"This level is open to the public," he said. "The only one."
"Above this—restricted."
The elevator rose.
Fast.
Then—
Slowed.
As it approached the second floor.
The doors opened.
Glass.
Isolation chambers arranged in precise order. Lighting was bright—mercilessly so. No decoration. No attempt to ease tension.
Everything here emphasized one thing—
Observation.
Seven stepped into a testing chamber.
The door sealed.
System activation.
The sound was clean.
Controlled.
Ability scan initiated.
First pass.
The interface flickered.
Error.
No alarm.
Just a quiet red indicator.
Unclassifiable.
Retry.
Second pass.
Parameters refreshed.
The anomaly persisted.
Danny stood outside.
Silent.
His gaze shifted once—away from the data panel.
Then returned.
Third attempt—
Did not occur.
The system entered protection mode.
Forced termination.
All parameters reset to zero.
Only then did Danny speak.
"…Let's proceed with identity registration."
His tone remained steady.
But no longer seamless.
They returned to the first floor.
The registration process—
Was fast.
Too fast.
No questioning.
No verification.
Barcode implantation completed.
The account interface appeared.
The value field—
Empty.
Then—
A symbol.
∞
Seven looked at it.
Expression unchanged.
"What is this?"
Danny answered.
"In Freetown, all transactions require points."
A pause.
"But yours are covered by the Azure Polity."
Another beat.
"Because you are the King."
Seven let out a faint, cold laugh.
Shallow.
Distant.
"Good," he said. "Let Jim eat more meals."
"And enjoy himself."
Danny didn't respond.
The elevator doors closed again.
The noise of the first floor—
Was cut off below.