There were three people in the sixth grade who had never been to the infirmary.
The number spread slowly through the grade.
It did not need to be written down.
No one verified it.
No one questioned it.
Yet it remained.
The infirmary door opened and closed every day.
A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in the corridor, never fully fading, as if it had seeped into the walls themselves. White lights stayed on for long hours, steady and unwavering, flattening shadows and draining warmth from the space.
Some students pushed the door open and entered with tense expressions.
Some walked out with lowered heads, sleeves adjusted, movements careful.
Footsteps passed. Voices lowered. Silence returned.
But those three—
never stepped inside.
—
The first was Ros.
She possessed self-regeneration.
During training, when skin was scraped open, the wound would begin to close almost immediately. The process was subtle—no dramatic glow, no visible surge of energy—just a quiet, efficient recovery.
Tiny beads of blood would form, hesitate—
then disappear before fully gathering.
Muscle soreness from repeated impacts never lasted long. What would burden others for hours, even days, faded from her body within minutes. Her recovery was not explosive, but constant—like a system that refused to accumulate damage.
When she stood in the center of the training field, her posture was natural.
Shoulders relaxed. Spine straight.
Her breathing steady, unhurried.
Sunlight often fell across the back of her hand. The skin there remained smooth, unbroken. Her knuckles were clean, without swelling, without discoloration.
Even after continuous drills, there was no trace left behind.
She rarely bled.
And even when she did—
nothing remained.
—
The second was 77.
He possessed a defensive detonation condition.
Before activation, there existed a boundary.
It was not visible. Not measurable by ordinary means.
But it was there.
After adjustments made by Seven and the academy, his ability had been reclassified. No longer purely offensive, it was categorized as defensive.
As long as the trigger remained within defensive parameters—
there would be no punishment.
On the training field, his stance was always slightly lowered.
Knees bent just enough to absorb force.
Shoulders drawn inward by a subtle margin.
His center of gravity stayed contained, as if confined within an invisible perimeter.
He moved less than others.
But never lost balance.
It was not stillness born of hesitation—
but restraint maintained under structure.
His breathing was heavier than most.
Yet it never broke rhythm.
Each inhale, each exhale, consistent.
Like something regulated from within.
—
The third was Number 33.
His ability remained unknown.
No one had seen it clearly.
No one could describe its limits.
Yet his physical capability alone was enough to draw attention.
When running, his stride was even.
Not fast in bursts, not explosive—
but consistent.
Footfalls landed cleanly. Short. Controlled.
Each step carried weight, yet wasted no motion.
In sparring exercises, his reactions were sharp.
Not rushed. Not exaggerated.
Efficient.
After receiving a hit, his center of gravity corrected almost instantly. No staggering. No visible delay. His body seemed to re-align before imbalance could fully form.
His sleeves were always clean.
There were no stains.
No signs of injury.
As if nothing ever reached the point of leaving a mark.
—
The seventh-grade classroom was located at the far end of the sixth floor.
The corridor narrowed slightly near that section, but the ceiling remained high. Light spread evenly, leaving no corner in shadow.
The window was half open.
Wind flowed in slowly from outside, carrying a faint coolness.
The curtain edges swayed in small, repetitive motions.
Desks and chairs were arranged with precise alignment.
Everything in place.
The air carried a slight chill.
77 stood beside Seven's desk.
Seven sat without shifting his posture. Several sheets of paper were spread across the surface, their edges aligned but not fixed. The pen in his hand hovered just above the page, unmoving for a moment, as if waiting for the next point to connect.
"That Number 33… something's off."
77 lowered his voice.
The words were controlled, but not casual.
His throat moved slightly as he spoke.
"He seems close to the supervisor."
Silence settled between them.
Not empty—
but held.
Seven's pen lowered.
The tip touched the paper.
A thin line was drawn, precise and unbroken.
"Mm."
The response was quiet.
Steady.
Wind brushed faintly against the window.
"Since the new school year began,"
Seven spoke without looking up at first,
"the principal and management have been replaced."
He turned a page.
Paper brushed against paper with a soft, dry sound.
"The supervisor appeared."
The pen paused again.
A brief halt.
"The infirmary now has an ability user."
Light fell across the paper, highlighting the faint indentation of previous strokes.
"Training intensity increased."
His tone did not change.
"Unexplained injuries have increased… and so on."
The final phrase settled without emphasis.
Seven's gaze lowered slightly, as if tracing an internal pattern rather than the page itself.
"It feels like there's a connection."
Not a conclusion.
A structure forming.
The air remained cool.
He lifted his eyes.
"That Number 33… he's not inexperienced."
His gaze was steady.
No speculation.
Just assessment.
"Don't deal with him alone."
The sentence carried no added weight.
Yet it remained.
77's shoulders tightened slightly.
His fingers curled inward, a subtle contraction.
"How would I know if I haven't fought him?"
His voice stayed low.
Controlled.
But not relaxed.
The air paused for half a second.
Seven did not argue.
He did not explain further.
He simply looked at him.
Calm.
Unmoving.
77 turned.
Left.
His shoes struck the floor.
The sound echoed along the corridor, stretching into the distance before fading.
—
The sixth-floor corridor was evenly lit.
The floor reflected a faint sheen under the cold white lights.
Ros stood near the window.
Sunlight fell across her shoulders, outlining her figure in soft contrast against the cooler interior.
Her hair caught the light, carrying a muted glow.
She heard footsteps.
Not hurried.
Not concealed.
She lifted her head.
Number 33 stood across from her.
The distance between them was not large.
Enough for conversation.
Not enough for avoidance.
His back was straight.
His posture unchanged.
His gaze lowered briefly—
then lifted.
"You have such a good ability."
His voice was flat.
No inflection.
No overt provocation.
"Why do you always stay behind Little Seven?"
The air tightened.
Not visibly—
but perceptibly.
Ros's breathing did not change.
Her shoulders remained steady.
Only her eyelashes moved slightly.
"I don't know what you mean."
Her tone was even.
Measured.
Number 33 did not look away.
"If I had your ability,"
he continued,
his stance stable,
"I would choose to fight on my own."
No change in breathing.
"Instead of hiding behind someone else."
A classroom door closed in the distance.
The sound was light.
But clear.
Light stretched shadows across the floor.
Their silhouettes crossed for a moment—
then separated again.
Ros remained where she stood.
Unmoving.
The air paused.
A fraction of a second—
held.
Then—
footsteps.
From around the corner.
Faster.
More direct.
77 appeared.
He stopped slightly ahead of Ros.
Positioned between lines.
His gaze locked onto Number 33.
"What do you want?"
His voice was low.
Breathing slightly heavier than before.
Number 33 glanced at him.
Just a glance.
His gaze lingered for half a second—
then shifted.
Ros turned her head slightly.
"It's nothing."
Her voice was light.
The air moved again.
Subtle.
But restored.
Number 33 turned.
His steps remained steady.
Each step produced a short, crisp friction against the floor.
Ros turned as well.
Her hair moved lightly with the motion.
77 remained still for a brief moment.
His shoulders, previously tense, lowered slowly.
Controlled release.
Then he followed.
The corridor returned to silence.
Lights remained cold white.
Air steady.
The three figures extended into long shadows along the corridor.
Distance gradually increased.
Step by step.
The sixth floor remained stable.
No disturbance.
No further sound.
The air held its original temperature.
Unchanged.