From that day on, the atmosphere of Class 3-3 changed.
Not a sudden explosion.
Not a confrontation confined to a single second.
No desks overturned with a crash.
No collective uprising.
It was something slower.
A gradual tilt.
Like a tabletop, shifting at an angle too subtle for the eye to catch.
At first, almost imperceptible.
No one noticed immediately.
But the water in a cup would, at some point, gather toward one side.
A scratch appeared on the desk.
The once-smooth wooden surface had been cut by something sharp.
Not deep.
But obvious enough.
When light passed over it, it reflected a thin line.
That line lay across the center of the desk.
Exactly where Ros usually placed her textbook.
She set the book down.
The spine caught slightly.
A faint friction sound followed.
The corners of the pages were folded.
Not torn apart.
Just repeatedly bent.
As if someone had idly pressed and flipped the paper back and forth with their fingers.
The edges frayed.
Fine white fibers lifted.
Pens in the drawer disappeared.
Erasers gone.
Replaced by broken pen refills.
Jagged metal tips.
Enough to cut skin with the slightest touch.
Her notebook was stuffed into the trash.
Pages crumpled into a ball.
Ink smeared into blurred stains.
Water spread across it, bleeding the edges outward.
No one admitted anything.
No one explained.
Class continued as usual.
Chalk scraped across the board.
Dry.
Harsh.
White dust drifted down.
Someone in the back whispered.
Laughter followed—low, drawn out.
Deliberate.
Testing limits.
Number 33 sat in the back row.
Chair tilted slightly backward.
Legs stretched out.
Toes tapping the floor.
Fingers drummed on the desk.
"Tap. Tap. Tap."
Not fast.
But steady.
A casual smile.
Corners of his mouth lifted.
But his gaze stayed fixed on the front.
"77… Little Seven."
The voice dragged.
Syllables stretched out.
Deliberately lowered.
77 looked up.
The movement was minimal.
Jawline tightened.
Eyes lowered slightly.
"Don't call me that."
The voice was strained.
Like sand pressed against the throat.
Not loud.
But clear.
33's smile deepened.
He leaned forward.
"You wanna die?"
The chair scraped.
Wood against floor.
Sharp.
They stood almost at the same time.
The desk shifted.
Books fell.
Pages scattered.
A punch came without warning.
Air split.
77 moved fast.
Foot struck the ground.
A short friction sound from the sole.
Shoulder drove the arm forward.
Muscles tightened beneath the sleeve.
A straight punch.
A sharp break in the air.
33 leaned back.
Neck pressed backward.
But not enough.
The wind of the punch grazed his face.
Hair lifted.
There were people behind him.
Two figures moved at the same time.
An arm was grabbed.
Fingers locked onto joints.
Force pressed down on the shoulder.
77's shoulder jerked.
The forward momentum was forcibly stopped.
The other hand swung out almost simultaneously.
Desks and chairs overturned.
A chair hit the ground.
The sound exploded across the classroom.
Tables vibrated.
Chalk dust fell.
Yet it wasn't true chaos.
Most just watched.
Some stood.
Some leaned against desks.
Their gazes were indifferent.
No one rushed in.
No one intervened.
The air tightened.
But did not break.
—
Later, the exclusion was no longer hidden.
Midday corridor.
Light slanted in from outside.
Long shadows stretched across the floor.
The crowd was sparse.
Footsteps scattered.
33 approached from the side.
Sudden.
His arm shot out.
He grabbed Ros's hair.
Fingers buried into the strands.
Pulled back.
Her scalp tightened instantly.
Pain shot from the crown down to the back of her neck.
Her head was forced upward.
Her throat exposed.
Her breath stopped for a moment.
Laughter.
Not loud.
Short. Breath-laced.
Broken.
People nearby paused.
Glances swept over.
No one stepped forward.
77's hand lifted.
No warning.
Shoulder moved first.
Then the arm.
Ability released instantly.
The air trembled.
Like invisible ripples expanding.
Compressing.
Bursting.
The sound wasn't loud.
But clear.
Like a muffled thunder at close range.
33's arm exploded.
Not flesh scattering.
But torn apart by force.
Sleeve ripped first.
Fabric snapped.
Skin split outward.
Bone exposed.
White and red intertwined.
Muscle fibers forced apart.
Blood sprayed into the air.
Onto the ground.
Walls.
Shoes.
A scream tore through the corridor.
Echoes rebounded between the walls.
Layered.
33 dropped to his knees.
His other hand grabbed the ruined arm.
Breathing broken.
Teeth clenched.
Veins bulged on his forehead.
Seconds later—
Staff arrived.
Steady footsteps.
Uniforms precise.
No panic in their expressions.
Efficient.
They restrained 77.
Her shoulder was forced against the wall.
Wrists locked.
The metallic click was clear.
She didn't struggle.
But her breathing was heavy.
Chest rising sharply.
Her gaze stayed on 33.
She was taken away.
The corridor returned to order.
Onlookers dispersed slowly.
Low murmurs.
Blood remained on the floor.
Bright.
Cleaning staff arrived quickly.
Cart wheels rolled over the ground.
Disinfectant spread.
Sharp.
Irritating.
Mops wiped repeatedly.
Water covered the blood.
Diluted it.
The red faded.
Slowly disappeared.
—
Isolation room.
Metal door.
Heavy.
A dull echo when it shut.
The lock clicked.
Low.
Light came from above.
Single direction.
White.
Cold.
The space was narrow.
Bare walls.
Slow air circulation.
Breathing echoed within.
—
Seven found 33.
An empty classroom on the third floor.
No one inside.
Curtains half-drawn.
Dust floated in the beam of light.
Desks aligned neatly.
Door closed.
Locked.
"How many points?"
Seven's tone was flat.
No raised volume.
Yet unusually clear in the empty room.
33 sat in a chair.
His arm fixed.
Bandages layered thick.
Blood seeped faintly through.
Face pale.
Lips cracked.
"What points?"
His voice was weak.
The ending trembled.
Seven looked at him.
No change in expression.
"Don't pretend."
The air seemed to press down.
Wind could be heard faintly outside.
"How many points to get 77 out?"
He stepped forward.
Light footstep.
"Or—"
A pause.
"To get you expelled?"
No change in tone.
But closer.
33 swallowed.
Back pressed to the chair.
Shoulders trembling slightly.
"You have that authority?"
His voice shook.
Seven smiled.
Barely.
"Excuses are easy."
He looked down at him.
Gaze fixed.
Ability activated.
Second-stage mind reading.
No light.
No visible fluctuation.
The air remained unchanged.
Only an internal structure opening.
Information spread in his mind.
Fragments.
Flashing images.
Residual emotions.
Fear.
Calculation.
Luck.
And a name.
Sixth grade.
Number 13.
Seven's eyes cooled.
Focus tightened.
"So you thought sixth grade would protect you."
33's breath hitched.
Pupils shrank.
Seven continued.
"He's just using you."
Flat tone.
"No anger."
"When I reach sixth grade—"
His voice lowered.
Clear.
"I'll kill you."
Each word landed steadily.
No emphasis.
No pause.
33's legs gave out.
The chair tilted backward.
Legs scraped the floor.
He slid down.
The movement pulled at his wound.
Pain surged.
He sucked in a breath.
Cold sweat formed on his forehead.
Seven turned.
Left.
The door opened.
The corridor light was cold and white.
A contrast to the gray inside.
The door closed behind him.
Soft.
The name echoed in his mind.
Sixth grade.
Number 13.
—
Night training ended.
Half the field lights were off.
Only one row of tall lamps remained.
Light uneven.
Shadows stretched from the stands.
The track edge dimmed dark red.
Wind moved along the field.
Cold.
Seven sat on the steps.
Back against concrete.
Rough texture through fabric.
Elbows on knees.
Fingers loosely curled.
Breathing steady.
Sweat slid from his temples.
Paused at his jaw.
Night pressed down on sound.
Occasional distant metallic clinks.
His mind organized structures.
Layer by layer.
Clear lines.
If he wanted to remain unharmed in the academy—
He had to break that layer.
Footsteps came from behind.
Light.
Controlled rhythm.
Not rushed.
Soles pressed against the track.
Sound absorbed.
Seven didn't turn.
"What is it?"
His voice blended into the night.
Two seconds of silence.
Wind passed through the stands.
"About sixth grade, number 13."
The voice was filtered by a mask.
Lower.
Distorted.
Seven turned.
The person wore ordinary sportswear.
Loose fabric.
Sleeves hanging.
A mask covered the upper face.
Only the jawline visible.
Breath turned into faint white mist.
"He uses the old school building as a base."
Flat tone.
"No emotion."
"Cameras?"
Seven asked.
"Outside, yes. Inside, no."
A clean answer.
"The footage is replaced by a virtual ability user."
Silence settled.
Wind swept across the grass.
"There's a map."
The person raised a hand.
A terminal screen lit faintly.
Light reflected along the mask edge.
Seven shook his head.
Slight.
"No need."
He stood.
Cold concrete underfoot.
"The cameras can't capture me."
The masked figure fell silent for a few seconds.
Wind passed between them.
Clothes stirred.
"Good luck."
The voice dropped.
The figure stepped back.
Footsteps swallowed by the night.
Darkness closed again.
Wind swept across the field.
The flagpole trembled faintly.
Seven looked toward the old school building.
Its outline a dark mass.
No lights.
Windows like hollow eyes.
"So easy to get intel…"
He spoke softly.
The wind carried it away.
"Looks like 13 has gone too far."
The night gave no answer.
The field remained still.
His breathing stretched slowly in the cold air.