Once the sound stabilized, Jim almost forgot he was standing on the observation deck.
It wasn't that the image itself was overwhelming. There were no sudden visual shocks, no exaggerated explosions meant to stun the viewer into silence. Instead, it was the feeling beneath it all—the quiet, unsettling sense that everything unfolding on the screen was exactly as it should be.
Seven was fighting.
And that alone felt enough.
It was the same kind of certainty as knowing the sun would rise from the east. No suspense. No anxious waiting for a twist. No need to question whether the outcome could change. The moment Seven appeared, the result already existed, solid and unquestionable, like a line written into the structure of the world.
Jim stood there, eyes fixed on the projection.
Seven's figure moved with ruthless clarity. Each action was precise, stripped of unnecessary motion. There was no hesitation, no flourish meant to impress an audience watching from afar. This wasn't a performance. It wasn't even a "battle" in the dramatic sense.
It was execution.
The kind carried out by someone who had long since grown used to danger, to pressure, to the constant presence of lethal intent. Every movement carried the weight of experience—someone who knew exactly how much force was required, exactly how far to go, and exactly when to stop.
Jackson's voice continued to flow through the audio channel beside him.
Professional. Calm. Efficient.
There was even a faint edge of excitement woven into the commentary, as if the analyst couldn't fully suppress his admiration. Each action was broken down, categorized, explained in clear, technical language meant to help viewers understand what they were seeing.
Jim barely registered any of it.
The words reached his ears, but they never truly entered his mind. His attention stayed locked on the image itself, on the presence that dominated the screen without trying to.
When Seven defeated the orc boss, the reaction came before Jim could stop himself.
"Amazing!"
The word burst out of his throat, louder than he expected.
The sound felt out of place in the observation deck—too raw, too unfiltered. A few people nearby turned their heads, brief glances filled with mild surprise or curiosity.
Jim didn't care.
His eyes never left the projection.
The footage continued, smooth and uninterrupted.
As the scene shifted and Seven faced the hellhound, the same thing happened again. The fight was short. Decisive. Almost brutal in its efficiency.
"Amazing!"
Jim shouted once more.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't measured. It simply escaped him, pulled out by something deeper than thought.
And when the final battle arrived—when the centaur-type giant mech fell, its massive frame collapsing under Seven's final strike—Jim's voice rose even higher.
"As expected, Seven is the strongest!"
This time, it was almost a yell.
The moment the sound left him, Jim felt the strain in his throat. A faint tightness spread across his neck, the aftereffect of using his voice too hard, too suddenly. Yet at the same time, his chest felt strangely light.
As if something heavy—something he hadn't even realized he was carrying—had finally been released.
The projection offered no response.
The broadcast didn't pause. The commentary didn't change tone. The world didn't acknowledge Jim's outburst in any meaningful way.
Life continued.
The sun, indifferent to human excitement, began its slow descent.
Light shifted almost imperceptibly at first, the sharp brightness of afternoon softening into warmer hues. The sky gradually took on a gentler tone, and Freetown below was wrapped in layers of gold and orange.
Low buildings stretched their shadows across the streets, long and thin, as if trying to reach somewhere farther than they ever could. And above them all, the four high-rises remained unmoved—standing tall, their silhouettes clean and unchanging, as though time itself had been forced to bend around them.
Jim lifted a hand and removed his glasses.
The world blurred for a split second before settling again. He gazed toward the distant skyline, letting the image sink in without the filter of lenses or projections.
And in that moment, a thought slipped into his mind.
If there were no Seven… would I be standing in a place like this?
The question was dangerous.
Jim recognized that instantly.
Before it could grow roots, before it could spiral into something heavier, he pressed it down. Forced it back into the part of his mind reserved for problems he wasn't ready to face.
It was too complicated.
Not because it lacked an answer—but because the answer would demand more than he could give right now.
A breeze swept across the observation deck.
It wasn't strong, but it carried a faint chill, enough to brush against his skin and remind him of where he was. Jim stood near the edge, hands resting loosely at his sides, eyes following the line where the sky met the city.
He watched the sun sink lower.
Time passed quietly.
And then, without fully deciding to, Jim spoke.
"I want to become as strong as Seven!"
The words echoed softly against the open space.
They weren't part of a carefully constructed plan. There was no roadmap behind them, no concrete steps laid out in his mind.
They weren't a declaration, either. Not a promise, not a vow sworn with dramatic conviction.
They were instinct.
The kind of reaction that came from seeing a path too clear to ignore. A road that screamed danger with every step, yet still pulled you forward so strongly that resistance felt pointless.
Like standing at the edge of a cliff and thinking, I know it's reckless—but I want to jump.
Null's voice answered almost immediately.
"You should give up."
Her tone was level. Calm. Completely devoid of sarcasm or ridicule.
She wasn't dismissing him.
She was stating a fact.
"He's already beyond the range of human understanding."
The words settled gently—and that was what made them hurt.
It wasn't a sharp pain. There was no stabbing sensation, no dramatic shock.
It felt more like pressure.
Like someone pressing a hand against his chest, not hard enough to injure him, but firm enough to make the difference undeniable.
This is where you stand.
That is where he stands.
Jim opened his mouth.
Closed it.
For a brief moment, he genuinely couldn't think of a response.
"Is that so…"
The words came out weaker than he wanted.
A faint sense of unwillingness lingered in his voice, but it lacked substance. "Then… is there really no way?"
Even as he said it, Jim felt how childish it sounded.
Like a kid looking up at an adult, asking if flying was still an option—knowing the answer, yet hoping it might change anyway.
Silence stretched for a few seconds.
The wind continued to move past them. The city below remained unchanged.
Then, suddenly, a thought sparked.
"What if the three of us form a team?"
The words slipped out before he could weigh them properly.
"We'll have a chance to catch up to Seven someday, right?"
For an instant, the air itself seemed to pause.
Before either of them could respond, Jim hurried to fill the gap.
"I'm B-rank, so I'll be the captain."
The moment the sentence finished, Jim realized how thin it sounded.
Even to himself.
"I'm A-rank."
Null's reply was immediate and concise.
Jim froze.
His mind scrambled for alternatives. Rank was useless. Strength was worse. Every obvious metric worked against him.
Left with nothing solid, he reached for something else.
"I… I'm the oldest."
The words felt heavy on his tongue. "So I'm the captain."
Ryan's voice joined the conversation.
"I'm nineteen."
There was a brief pause, genuine confusion seeping through his tone. "You're older than me?"
That was it.
Jim's thoughts locked up completely.
The sounds around him—the wind, the distant hum of the city, the faint echoes of movement on the observation deck—suddenly felt amplified. The sunset's glow painted the ground in deep amber, making every shadow sharper, clearer.
The embarrassment wasn't coming from them.
It was coming from himself.
Jim knew how ridiculous he sounded. He knew how flimsy his arguments were.
And still—
"Anyway, I'll become stronger than both of you!"
The words came out forcefully, almost defiantly.
This wasn't meant to convince them.
It was meant to keep himself from backing down.
Null didn't answer right away.
Seconds passed.
Then she exhaled—a soft sigh, quiet but unmistakable.
"I think," she said, her voice carrying clear resignation for the first time, "we should give the captain role to Alma."
"I agree."
Ryan responded without hesitation.
"Huh?"
Jim blinked, caught completely off guard. "Since when is Alma on our team?"
The name felt too natural in their mouths.
As if the decision had already been made somewhere he hadn't been looking. As if this was something everyone else understood, and he was simply late to the conversation.
No one replied immediately.
The wind continued to move. The last traces of sunlight slid across the floor of the observation deck before finally fading. The projection had long since gone dark, leaving behind nothing but the empty structure that had held it.
The world returned to its usual rhythm.
No dramatic shift. No sign marking this moment as important.
And yet—
This was probably how it began.
Not with heroes gathering under banners.
Not with destiny announcing itself in thunder and fire.
But with three youths—children still figuring out which direction they belonged to—standing together on an ordinary afternoon, awkwardly stitching together a fragile possibility.
Later, this team would be remembered as the first—and the strongest. Because the remaining powerful individuals were too incompatible, too self-defined, to ever function as a unit.
Right now, though, it didn't even have a name.
It hadn't truly come into existence.
Jim stood there, watching as night slowly swallowed Freetown whole.
His mind, for once, was clear.
We can't catch up to Seven.
Not yet.
Even so—
I don't want to stop.