"Good afternoon, everyone."
The image trembled for a fraction of a second, as if the signal itself had taken a breath before committing. A faint layer of static rippled across the screen, thin and fleeting, then vanished without leaving a trace. What replaced it was a high-altitude overhead view, distant and detached, like the opening shot of a classified surveillance feed rather than a public broadcast.
An enclosed underground space unfolded slowly, revealing itself in deliberate layers.
At first, there was only curvature—smooth, metallic arcs extending outward in every direction, forming a massive dome. Its surface reflected light faintly, not enough to shine, but enough to feel cold. Evenly spaced light panels were embedded along the walls, each emitting a pale, clinical glow. The illumination was uniform, calculated, and emotionless.
Nothing flickered.
Nothing pulsed.
Cold-toned light washed over the entire structure, flattening shadows and stripping the space of warmth. The atmosphere felt sterile, functional, and unmistakably artificial. This was not a place designed for spectacle. It felt closer to a sealed military installation than a game arena.
More unsettling than what could be seen was what could not.
There were no banners.
No decorative elements.
No attempt to disguise its purpose.
It looked like something that had never been meant to go public.
"I'm the man you all know best."
The camera cut sharply.
The transition was abrupt enough to feel intentional. One moment the audience hovered above an underground facility; the next, they were face-to-face with a commentator's booth. A broad-shouldered man sat upright on a tall chair, his posture straight and disciplined. His presence filled the frame effortlessly.
His arms were thick, muscles packed tightly beneath casual clothing. His build was unmistakably athletic—not exaggerated, but earned. Short hair framed a sharp jawline, and his eyes carried the alertness of someone accustomed to combat sports and high-pressure environments.
His voice followed immediately, carrying practiced excitement that cut cleanly through the silence.
"The MMA streamer who loves nothing more than blood, sweat, and tears mixed together."
A grin spread across his face, relaxed but confident.
"Jackson."
The grin widened just a touch more, the way it did when he knew he had everyone's attention.
"Today, I received a very special invitation."
The comment section detonated instantly.
[Freetown??]
[That place that never opens to the public?]
[No way.]
Text flooded the screen faster than it could be read, overlapping in chaotic layers. Jackson lifted one hand, palm outward, a simple gesture—but it worked. The flow slowed, if only slightly.
"That's right. From Freetown," he said, voice steady.
"From the man surrounded by rumors."
He paused.
Not long. Not dramatic. Just enough.
"Lord Lucian."
Half a second of silence followed.
That was all it took.
The reaction came like a delayed explosion. Messages multiplied, speculation stacking atop speculation. Names, theories, disbelief—everything poured out at once.
"Today marks the first public reveal of Freetown's dungeon system," Jackson continued, unfazed.
"I will be providing live commentary from start to finish."
Without warning, the environment changed.
The metallic dome dissolved as if it had never existed. The smooth walls fragmented into particles of light, peeling away from reality itself. In their place, a forest emerged—not abruptly, but seamlessly, as though it had always been there beneath the surface.
Trees rose naturally from the ground, their trunks thick and uneven. Leaves clustered overhead, filtering light into broken patterns. Underbrush spread across the uneven terrain, roots and soil interwoven with convincing irregularity. It looked ordinary. Almost peaceful.
Too peaceful.
The camera cut again.
At the dungeon's entrance stood a man.
He occupied a precise boundary where light met shadow, neither fully illuminated nor completely obscured. He wore a black suit jacket, cleanly cut, with no ornamentation. Beneath it was a dark shirt, equally plain. There was no badge. No emblem. No visible identification of any kind.
He wore sunglasses.
The lenses reflected the pale artificial light, concealing his eyes entirely. His head was completely shaved, the smooth surface catching a faint glow from above.
"All right, folks," Jackson's voice returned, layered cleanly over the image.
"This is today's contestant. No—challenger."
The camera began a slow, deliberate zoom.
"Designation: Number Seven."
For a brief moment, the chat froze.
Then it erupted.
[Why seven?]
[A codename?]
[Is he an ability user?]
"Why he's called Seven is not something we'll discuss today," Jackson said lightly.
"Private information. You know the rules. We don't want to get banned."
He tapped the desk once.
"What matters is this," he continued.
"How far he will make it."
Seven stood still.
There was no warm-up.
No stretching.
No unnecessary scanning of his surroundings.
He did not look impressed, nor cautious. It felt less like he had entered the dungeon and more like he had simply been placed there, as if the environment were irrelevant to his state of mind.
"One quick reminder," Jackson added.
"All viewers can switch to VR mode. Put on your headset to enter the dungeon from a shared perspective."
"You cannot interfere," he continued.
"However, your comments and cheers will be transmitted directly to the challenger."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Just remember. If you go too far, the system will block you."
The moment he finished speaking, the space ahead distorted.
The air itself seemed to tear open, stretching unnaturally, like fabric pulled apart by invisible hands. Green figures emerged from projected light, their forms stabilizing piece by piece.
"There they are," Jackson said, tone sharpening instantly.
"Goblins."
They were short, hunched creatures, their proportions exaggerated just enough to feel wrong. Their skin was a sickly shade of green, mottled and uneven. Coarse muscle lined their frames, disturbingly realistic in its texture. Their eyes bulged slightly, reflecting light at odd angles, while uneven teeth jutted from their mouths.
"Internally, they are mechanical units," Jackson explained calmly.
"But the projection technology is excellent."
"They are almost indistinguishable from low-level mobs in a game."
The goblins waved crude weapons, jagged blades and clubs assembled with no regard for balance. They shrieked sharply, voices high and piercing. Their gestures were exaggerated, mocking. They pointed at Seven. They laughed.
They ridiculed him openly.
Seven moved.
He did not charge forward.
He crouched down, lowering his center of gravity, and reached toward the ground. His fingers brushed over the surface, rough and uneven beneath his touch. He selected a small stone.
It was unremarkable.
There was no run-up.
No visible force.
He flicked his wrist.
The stone flew forward.
A sharp cracking sound followed.
The front goblin's head snapped backward violently. The impact was sudden, brutal. Its body lost balance and collapsed, limbs folding beneath it as it hit the ground.
It did not move again.
The remaining goblins froze.
They stared at the fallen body. The skull had shattered completely. Green fluid seeped out, spreading slowly across the forest floor.
"Instant death," Jackson said quietly.
Then rage erupted.
The goblin pack screeched in unison, their voices overlapping into a shrill cacophony. They surged forward together, abandoning mockery for raw aggression.
"Here they come!"
Seven did not retreat.
He raised his hand. Metal gloves reflected the cold light. He threw the first punch.
It landed cleanly.
The goblin's head collapsed like cheap pottery, fragments scattering as the body dropped. Seven pivoted immediately, momentum flowing into a sweeping kick.
It was not meant to trip.
It was meant to break.
Bone snapped audibly.
Several goblins collapsed, screaming as they hit the ground. Seven bent down smoothly, movements economical and precise. He picked up their weapons.
He threw them.
There was no hesitation.
The blades cut through the air, spinning with controlled velocity. They pinned distant goblins in place with terrifying accuracy.
"Beautiful!" Jackson shouted.
"So fast. So clean!"
Seven stepped forward.
His foot came down heavily.
A dull impact echoed.
"He just crushed the goblin's head!"
Silence spread through the dungeon.
Seven remained standing.
His breathing had not changed.
It was as if nothing had happened.
The camera slowly pulled back.
The comment feed spiraled out of control.
The broadcast had only just begun.