Inside the old school building, silence returned once again.
No new sounds appeared in the open space at the center.
The dust that had been stirred up by the fight was now slowly settling. Tiny particles drifted down through the beam of light from above, spinning gently like fragments suspended in midair.
The light had dimmed slightly.
Outside the skylight, the sky was already shifting toward evening.
The light fell from above, passing through the opening over the old building, forming a slanted patch of illumination on the concrete floor.
Cracks in the cement became more visible within that light.
Three people remained in the center.
77 lay on the ground, body tilted, shoulder pressed against the concrete.
Number 33 lay on the other side, flat on his back.
Seven stood between them.
His feet were planted firmly on the ground.
His posture was upright and natural.
His breathing steady.
His chest barely moved.
The continuous actions from earlier seemed to have left no obvious exhaustion on him.
There was no wind in the open space.
Only dust slowly falling.
Seven lowered his gaze.
Several daggers were scattered on the ground.
Two from his sleeves.
Two from his shoes.
The blades were slender, reflecting faint glints under the cold white light.
Seven bent down.
His movements were natural.
He first picked up a dagger near Number 33's feet.
The handle was cold.
A thin layer of dust clung to the blade.
He pinched the spine of the knife, deliberately avoiding the edge.
Then picked up another.
Took a couple of steps and collected the remaining two.
Soon, all four daggers were placed together.
Their blades aligned, forming a thin line of reflected light.
Seven stacked them simply, then raised his head.
He glanced at Number 33.
Number 33 lay on his side.
The angle of his right arm joint was clearly unnatural.
His left knee was dislocated.
His body barely moved.
But he was still breathing.
His chest rose and fell slowly.
He wouldn't wake up anytime soon.
Seven's gaze lingered for a second.
Then shifted to the other side.
77 lay there.
Blood from his forehead had flowed down to his brow bone, then along the corner of his eye, forming a dried streak along his face.
There were visible bruises.
A slight tear at the corner of his mouth.
But his breathing was steady.
His chest movement obvious.
Seven walked over.
His steps unhurried.
The soles of his shoes made faint friction sounds against the concrete.
He crouched beside 77.
Gently tapped his shoulder.
No response.
Still unconscious.
Seven raised his hand and checked his breathing.
Even. Unobstructed.
He stood up again.
Silence returned.
The walls of the old building were worn.
A faint wind occasionally passed above the skylight.
Dust continued to drift.
Time felt stretched.
Seven glanced down at both of them.
Then bent down.
He lifted 77 first.
The body was heavy.
Arms hanging limp.
Seven placed one arm over his shoulder, adjusted slightly, and hoisted him onto his back.
He leaned forward a bit to stabilize his center of gravity.
Then he walked to Number 33.
Paused.
Looked down.
The daggers were already collected.
Number 33 was still breathing.
A few abrasions on his face.
Seven crouched, turned him onto his back, grabbed his collar, pulled him up, and slung him over his other shoulder.
One on his back.
One over his shoulder.
Both weights pressed onto him.
Seven adjusted his stance slightly.
Stabilized.
His breathing remained steady.
The open space fell silent again.
Dust settled into the cracks.
Seven turned.
Walked toward the exit.
Not fast.
Each step firm.
Soft friction sounds echoed.
The corridor stretched ahead.
Walls gray-white.
Lighting dim.
Footsteps elongated into faint echoes.
He passed through the corridor.
Reached the disguised wall.
Shifted his body.
Used his shoulder to brace it.
Freed one hand.
Pressed against the wall.
Pushed inward.
A faint scraping sound.
The door slowly opened.
Light from outside spilled in.
Evening had deepened.
The light was dimmer now.
Seven stepped through the gap.
The wall closed behind him.
Outside air felt cooler.
Wind drifted from the end of the corridor.
Leaves rustled softly.
Lights in the distant lab building were already on.
Few people remained on campus.
Evening training had ended.
Some students were heading back to dorms.
Seven moved along the side path.
Steps steady.
Streetlights flickered on one by one.
Circles of pale yellow light appeared on the ground.
Shadows stretched long.
77's arm hung in front of Seven's chest.
Number 33's legs dangled from the other side.
Neither woke up.
Seven didn't stop.
He continued forward.
Soon, the infirmary came into view.
Light shone from the windows.
The entrance was quiet.
Seven pushed the door open with his shoulder.
A soft creak.
Inside, the lights were bright.
The air carried a faint scent of disinfectant.
The infirmary was small.
Four single beds lined against the wall.
White sheets neatly arranged.
A cabinet stood against the opposite side.
Only one person was inside.
A newly arrived female teacher.
She sat by the desk organizing files.
Hearing the door, she looked up.
Then froze for a moment at the sight.
Seven carried both inside.
He walked to a bed and gently placed 77 down.
Carefully.
77's head tilted to one side.
Breathing steady.
Then he turned and placed Number 33 on another bed.
The weight lifted from his shoulders.
The air felt lighter.
Seven straightened.
Exhaled.
The teacher had already stood up.
Walked closer.
She looked between the two.
Frowned.
"What happened?"
Her voice carried surprise.
"They're this badly injured?"
Seven stood beside her.
Calm.
"They were sparring."
"They lost control."
She glanced at him.
Then back at them.
Said nothing more.
She walked to Number 33 first.
Pressed fingers to his neck.
Checked his pulse.
Then lifted his arm slightly.
Paused at the shoulder joint.
A quiet intake of breath.
Then moved on.
To the leg.
Examined the knee.
Movements steady.
No panic.
After a few seconds, she moved to 77.
Her hand hovered over his forehead.
The room fell quiet again.
Seven closed his eyes.
Second-stage mind-reading activated.
Within three meters.
The spatial structure emerged.
Walls.
Floor.
Edges of beds.
Airflow.
The teacher became a moving shadow in his perception.
Her movements steady.
Breathing clear.
Seven observed silently.
The fluorescent light hummed softly.
The room smelled faintly sterile.
Windows closed.
Wind blocked outside.
Only breathing and fabric sounds remained.
"Silence? How did he get hurt?" she thought.
She pulled the curtain.
Leaned slightly forward.
Checked the neck.
Paused.
Then shoulder.
Lifted arm.
Noticed dislocation.
Breath slightly heavier.
Then knee.
Confirmed position.
Still calm.
Then moved to 77.
Her movements slowed.
Examining.
77's breathing heavier.
Air vibrations stronger.
She paused.
Moved briefly toward the desk.
Then returned.
Seven didn't open his eyes.
Perception steady.
Then—
The airflow changed.
Behind her.
A new outline appeared.
Like two expanding shapes.
Extending outward.
Forming boundaries in space.
Seven's breathing didn't change.
But the outline was clear.
Like wings.
But only a shadow.
No feathers.
No detail.
Just form.
Expanding.
Contracting slightly.
Moving with her body.
Not independent.
Part of her.
Seven paused internally.
Not illusion.
Not momentary.
Stable.
He analyzed.
Ability manifestation?
No.
More like a physical extension.
His breathing remained calm.
He didn't move.
After a few seconds—
He deployed a barrier above the room.
Subtle.
Minimal disturbance.
Then opened his eyes.
The room returned.
White walls.
Neat beds.
Cabinet.
The teacher stood beside 77.
Slightly bent forward.
Hand over his forehead.
And behind her—
A pair of wings.
White.
Not large.
Layered feathers.
Like a swan's wings.
But attached awkwardly.
As if forced on.
They didn't flap.
They simply existed.
Seven looked.
Paused for a second.
Then his expression returned to calm.
One thought crossed his mind.
So it's real.
He said nothing.
Showed nothing.
Just watched.
The teacher raised her hand.
A pale white light appeared.
Like soft mist.
It wrapped around 77's forehead.
The blood faded.
The wound closed.
Skin restored.
77's breathing slowed.
The room remained quiet.
The light lasted a while.
Then faded.
Disappeared.
The teacher straightened.
The wings folded slightly.
She wiped her forehead.
Exhaled.
Then sat down.
Picked up a cup.
Drank.
Water rippled.
Seven stood still.
After a few seconds, he spoke:
"Thank you for your hard work, teacher."