The Ability Development Research Bureau stood within the inner ring of the core administrative district of the Azure Polity.
It was not a building that tried to impress.
Unlike the headquarters of the First Combat Division, it did not project a sense of outward aggression. There were no reinforced observation towers, no visible security formations, no walls designed to remind visitors that this place specialized in violence.
Nor did it resemble the headquarters of the Intelligence Surveillance Department, where the air itself carried a quiet, suffocating pressure—as if every movement, every word, every breath might already be recorded and analyzed.
The Bureau felt… quieter.
Aside from the large open lobby on the ground floor, the rest of the building existed in a state of controlled stillness.
Not because fewer people worked there.
But because sound itself had been engineered.
The corridor floor beneath their feet consisted of layered vibration-absorbing material. Every step that landed on it was instantly softened, stripped of excess resonance before it could travel further down the hall.
No echoes.
No lingering noise.
Just the dull, controlled contact of movement.
The walls were not metal.
Instead, they were composed of composite ceramic panels arranged in seamless segments. Their surface carried a deep matte gray tone, almost absorbing light rather than reflecting it.
Anyone walking through the corridor would quickly notice something subtle.
You could not see yourself on the walls.
No reflection.
Not even a faint outline.
The environment had been intentionally designed to remove visual distraction—one less variable capable of influencing the psychological state of ability users moving through the building.
Seven walked at the front.
Danny followed half a step behind.
The distance between them was small, but deliberate. It was the natural spacing of someone accompanying a superior without appearing overly rigid.
The air was not cold.
Yet there was a constant, stable quality to the temperature—so consistent that it felt unmistakably artificial.
Laboratory control.
Breathing here became slower without conscious effort.
Even the rhythm of one's heartbeat seemed to settle into a calmer pace.
Seven was very familiar with this type of environment.
It existed for a specific purpose.
To maintain the mental state of ability users within a range where cognitive activity could be monitored, measured, and studied—
without being stimulated.
The director's office stood at the very end of the corridor.
The door was not particularly large.
It lacked the exaggerated scale often used by powerful figures to signal authority. There were no engraved emblems, no elaborate decorations.
Only a small silver plate embedded beside the frame.
Director — Ability Development Research Bureau.
Seven stopped walking.
For the briefest fraction of a second, his gaze rested on the plate.
Danny noticed the pause.
But he said nothing.
The door slid open automatically.
The room inside was brighter than expected.
Not the sterile white brightness of laboratories, but a warm illumination distributed through multiple light sources embedded in the ceiling.
The light was softened before reaching the room, carefully diffused so that no corner fell into shadow.
Even lighting.
No blind spots.
At the center of the room stood a desk.
It was not large.
In fact, compared to the offices of other high-ranking officials within the Azure Polity, it seemed modest.
Behind the desk sat an elderly man.
Bald.
The top of his head reflected a faint shine beneath the ceiling lights.
Yet around the sides, a stubborn ring of gray hair remained, curling outward slightly as though refusing to completely surrender to time.
His body was somewhat heavyset.
When seated, his stomach leaned slightly forward, creating the rounded outline of someone who had long ago left behind the physical discipline of youth.
But there was nothing sluggish about him.
His posture carried the quiet stability of someone whose sharp edges had simply been worn smooth by decades.
His face was gentle.
Not the carefully constructed friendliness of someone attempting to appear approachable.
But the natural expression of a man who had spent most of his life interacting with others.
Fine wrinkles spread outward from the corners of his eyes.
His mouth rested in a faint upward curve, as if the habit of patient listening had permanently softened his features.
Seven recognized him immediately.
Of course.
There was no need to confirm.
This man had once been responsible for overseeing one of the early training systems within the Ability Users Academy where Seven had studied.
Dr. Anton Keller.
Anton Keller.
Within the academy, he had never been the most famous educator.
Nor had he been considered particularly efficient.
In an institution where evaluation cycles were measured in months and success was defined by how quickly ability users could be shaped into functional assets, Keller's approach had always seemed… outdated.
His philosophy of education had remained consistent throughout his career.
Education.
Cultivation.
Long-term observation.
Psychological stability above all else.
In an era obsessed with ability output, combat potential, and rapid development metrics, such a philosophy was almost painfully slow.
To the administrators above him, Keller's methods delayed progress.
So gradually—
he had been pushed aside.
Marginalized.
Removed from access to the academy's most valuable resources.
Yet Seven had never considered Dr. Keller a failure.
He had simply existed outside the rhythm of that era.
And now—
he sat in the director's office of the Ability Development Research Bureau of the Azure Polity.
Seven's gaze moved slowly across the room.
There were no unnecessary decorations.
One wall was completely occupied by a large bookshelf.
But the contents of those shelves were not the sleek, standardized publications that typically filled modern research offices.
Instead there was a strange mixture.
Old paper files.
Handwritten notebooks.
Data tablets from discontinued generations.
Documents that clearly belonged to different periods, collected without strict organization.
The room did not resemble the office of an institution obsessed with pushing the limits of ability development.
It felt more like a place attempting to understand people.
Seven felt no emotional disturbance.
No surprise.
Only confirmation.
Dr. Keller would find a place in any country.
That had always been true.
The only unexpected detail was that the country had turned out to be the Azure Polity.
Dr. Keller had also noticed Seven.
At first, he froze.
Not the brief pause of formal etiquette.
But genuine confusion.
His gaze lingered on Seven's face longer than expected.
Long enough that Danny could clearly sense the hesitation forming in the air.
The old man's eyes moved slightly.
Comparing.
Searching through memory.
Evaluating.
The man standing before him possessed a calm, restrained presence.
Someone whose identity clearly carried weight.
Yet the eyes—
Those quiet, controlled eyes—
observed the world with the same calm detachment he remembered from a certain boy long ago.
Slowly, Dr. Keller stood up.
His movement was not quick.
His knees produced a faint sound as he rose from the chair.
One hand briefly touched the edge of the desk for support, though the motion did not suggest weakness.
Then he bowed.
It was a proper bow.
Respectful.
But not exaggerated.
It was the courtesy given to someone of authority—not the submission of someone acting out of fear.
Even as he straightened, his gaze did not leave Seven.
Seven spoke first.
"Oh. So the director of the Ability Development Research Bureau is you, Headmaster."
His tone was calm.
Almost conversational.
As if he were merely acknowledging something that had already been accepted.
At that moment, Dr. Keller's expression shifted.
Not shock.
Recognition.
He inhaled slowly.
A small breath, but one that carried the weight of realization.
"…I did not expect to see you here."
His voice was low.
There was a quiet gravity in it.
"Your Majesty."
The title left his mouth without hesitation.
Seven gave a small nod.
"Neither did I."
His tone remained steady.
No greetings.
No emotional embellishment.
They sat down.
Seven chose a seat on the sofa positioned across from the desk. His back remained straight, yet relaxed.
Danny sat slightly behind him.
The position naturally established him as accompanying personnel.
Dr. Keller returned to his chair.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the desk surface once.
A small motion.
Almost subconscious.
As if giving himself a moment to arrange his thoughts.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Black coffee," Seven replied.
"Water for me," Danny added.
Dr. Keller nodded.
"Two coffees. One bottle of water."
He did not reach for a call button.
Instead he spoke quietly toward a small sensor panel embedded into the side of the desk.
A few seconds later, the door opened again.
The one who entered was not a secretary.
Nor a human assistant.
It was an AI service robot.
Its design was simple and entirely functional.
No artificial facial features.
No attempt at human imitation.
Its structure emphasized efficiency.
Its movements were precise, quiet, and free of unnecessary hesitation.
Seven glanced at it briefly.
No surprise.
Of course.
This place did not employ "beautiful secretaries."
The robot placed the tray onto the table before them.
Then it turned and left without producing a sound.
Dr. Keller lifted the coffee cup.
He took a small sip.
The motion appeared habitual.
Not something done for stimulation.
More like a ritual marking the beginning of conversation.
"I remember the first time I spoke with you," he said slowly.
"It was when you advanced to seventh grade."
His tone softened slightly.
His eyes drifted downward toward the surface of the desk.
As if the polished surface had become a window into another time.
His thoughts moved backward.
Normally, schools did not have a seventh grade.
At the academy where Seven had studied, sixth grade was the final year.
Students who achieved the required standards in ability control and psychological stability graduated immediately.
From there they were transferred into national institutions or higher-level training systems.
The problem had emerged gradually.
Once the most stable and capable students left—
the younger grades lost their examples.
The academy had operated under a principle of student self-governance.
Students were expected to resolve student problems.
But when the students capable of maintaining order graduated, the system began to lose its balance.
That was how the Seventh Grade Program had been created.
At the time, Seven had still been a sixth-grade student.
Together with his homeroom teacher—Mr. Green, Jim's father—he had discussed the idea repeatedly.
They eventually organized their thoughts into a formal proposal.
Then submitted it to the headmaster's office.
The proposal itself had been simple.
The academy had no seventh grade.
So they would create one in name.
Students whose abilities and psychological maturity were already stable—but who had not yet been recruited by outside organizations—would delay graduation.
They would remain within the academy.
But they would no longer be ordinary students.
They would become something else.
Examples.
Problem solvers.
Anchors of stability.
Dr. Keller had studied that proposal for a long time.
He had clearly seen the risks.
He had understood the potential complications.
Yet in the end—
he approved it.
"Because of your efforts," Dr. Keller said quietly, "student incidents decreased significantly."
There was no exaggeration in his voice.
Only a calm statement of fact.
Seven gave a small nod.
"Not really," he replied evenly. "It was also thanks to the headmaster approving it."
His tone remained steady.
As if that entire chapter of his life had simply been another routine entry in his past.
Dr. Keller looked at him.
And in that moment, a quiet realization settled in his mind.
The man sitting before him was no longer the boy who had once stood inside the headmaster's office proposing reforms.
And he himself—
might already belong to another era entirely.
The room fell silent.
Steam rose slowly from the coffee cup.
Then disappeared into the stable air maintained by the building's environmental systems.
The conversation
had only just begun.