77's ability had made some progress.
The range wasn't large.
Only within close distance.
The air felt slightly compressed.
Not visible distortion—
but a faint resistance against the skin when approaching.
Like the thin layer of heat clinging to a wall in summer.
He could impose defensive conditions on others within a certain range.
Not coverage.
More like writing trigger rules in advance.
At a position invisible to the naked eye.
Around the target.
Within the gaps between layers of air.
When external force reached a threshold—
the condition would be met.
Detonation.
The sound was light.
Almost inaudible.
More like air collapsing suddenly—
then refilling immediately.
—
During the first attempt,
his fingers tingled slightly.
Starting from the fingertips,
spreading into the palm.
Like a faint electric current.
His palm grew warm.
Not burning—
but compressed heat.
At the moment the condition was met,
space seemed to ignite—
then extinguish instantly.
No flames.
No smoke.
Only compression and release.
The air let out a short, muffled burst—
then returned to normal.
—
He didn't test it recklessly on others.
Ros stood across from him.
Light fell across her profile,
turning the edges of her hair pale gold.
She was still.
Breathing steady.
Shoulders barely moving.
Because Ros possessed self-regeneration,
he dared to apply it to her.
—
He raised his hand.
Fingers slightly spread.
A subtle vibration appeared in the air.
Invisible lines seemed to tighten around her.
Not physical—
yet like strings being wound taut.
Layer by layer.
Close to her body.
The application was complete.
He said nothing.
Ros did not ask.
—
The first defensive trigger came suddenly.
External force brushed the threshold.
Not a heavy impact—
just a grazing contact.
Pop.
Soft.
Like a bubble bursting.
The fabric at Ros's shoulder flared outward for a moment,
then settled.
A thin cut appeared on her skin.
A faint line.
Not yet bleeding.
The next second—
it vanished.
Her skin returned to normal.
No trace of blood.
She didn't even look down.
Just stood there.
Breathing unchanged.
—
The second came faster.
Threshold touched.
Air tightened.
A compressed burst.
Ros's body swayed slightly.
Her heel shifted back half an inch—
then stabilized.
Her hair moved lightly.
Her breathing rhythm remained unchanged.
—
After several repetitions—
the wounds that should have appeared grew fewer.
The ruptures that should have formed
were intercepted before manifestation.
Bursts were neutralized.
Damage interrupted.
Impact dissolved.
Occasionally, defensive detonations still occurred.
Short compressions of air at her side—
like faint popping sounds.
But the damage no longer continued.
—
Ros stood there.
Stable.
Intact.
77 stood still.
The heat in his palms slowly faded.
From warm—
to neutral—
to faintly cool.
The numbness in his fingertips dissipated.
The air returned to normal flow.
He lowered his hand.
His shoulders relaxed.
He had his answer.
Not a guess—
but verification through repeated triggers.
Range.
Trigger.
Stability.
—
Outside the old school building.
The wind was light.
Walls gray-white.
Paint slightly peeling.
Windows dim—
as if long uncleaned.
Evening light slanted down.
Shadows stretched long—
to the edge of the ground.
—
77 leaned against the wall.
Back pressed to cold concrete.
Hands in his pockets.
Residual warmth lingered in his fingertips.
Breathing steady.
Gaze level.
—
The area was quiet.
Hidden cameras were embedded near the corners.
Casings matched the wall color.
Almost invisible unless deliberately observed.
Lens angles fixed.
Covering the outer walkway.
Occasional reflections flickered across the glass.
No movement inside.
—
77 scanned once.
Confirmed blind spots.
Where he stood—
just outside overlapping coverage.
No markers.
Only experience.
—
Footsteps came from the corner.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Even rhythm.
No. 33 appeared.
Holding a piece of paper.
Its corner folded.
Edges slightly curled.
"Honestly, I'm disappointed."
He lifted the paper slightly.
Tone casual—like a joke.
"I thought someone wrote me a love letter."
A smile on his lips.
Eyes observing.
—
77 looked up.
Cold gaze.
"Damn. You that delusional?"
Voice low.
No trace of humor.
—
No. 33's smile paused for a moment—
then returned.
77 turned.
Walked ahead.
Steady steps.
Soles brushing against concrete—
soft friction.
No. 33 followed.
Two steps behind.
—
They passed beyond camera coverage.
Into a blind zone.
—
77 moved closer to the wall.
Palm pressed against cold surface.
Fingertips touched fine grit.
He pushed inward.
A faint grinding sound.
Not a door—
more like stone shifting.
The disguised wall opened inward,
just enough for one person.
Darkness spilled out.
Carrying cool air.
—
77 slipped inside.
Clothes brushing the edge.
Fabric against stone.
No. 33 followed.
The door closed slowly behind them.
Light cut off.
Sound swallowed.
—
Inside—
the old building remained a ring corridor.
Open center.
Skylight sealed above.
Dust floated in the air.
Fine particles drifting through slanted beams of light.
Cracks ran across the floor.
Footsteps produced low, suppressed echoes.
—
No. 33 looked around.
Gaze sweeping the empty center.
"So the academy has places this wide."
His voice echoed lightly.
Half-beat delay.
"Three months and I never knew."
—
77 didn't turn.
"This isn't a secret."
Flat tone.
"You're just unpopular."
—
No. 33 chuckled.
The sound stretched in the space.
"Is that so."
He spun the paper in his hand.
Soft friction.
"Then why bring me here?"
Pause.
He stepped forward half a pace.
"Not just to show me around, right?"
—
The air sank.
Dust slowed.
—
77 turned.
Eyes fixed on him.
Less than three meters apart.
"Sixth years get injured a lot."
Low voice.
"That's your doing, isn't it?"
—
No. 33's brow twitched.
Eyes tightened slightly.
"How so?"
Tone still loose.
—
77 took out a half-burned piece of paper.
Edges charred black.
Surface curled from heat.
He held one corner.
It swayed slightly.
"Because you're always nearby when it happens."
One step forward.
Footstep echoing.
"And paper fragments keep showing up around Ros."
—
Silence.
Distance closed.
—
No. 33 stared at the burned paper.
His pupils shrank for a moment.
The paper in his own hand slowly straightened.
Soft surface tightening.
Edges turning rigid—
like flattened metal.
His fingers clenched.
A faint tension sound.
—
A flick of his wrist.
Clean motion.
The paper sliced through the air—
a thin tearing sound.
Straight toward 77.
Perfect angle.
Distance: one meter.
—
The air suddenly compressed.
As if a prewritten rule had been triggered.
Threshold reached.
Bang.
A small explosion.
Air expanded outward.
A barely visible ripple spread.
—
The paper halted for a fraction of a second before impact.
Edges licked by heat.
Blackened instantly.
Flames flickered across its surface—
tiny orange sparks running along it—
then extinguished.
Ash fell.
A faint burnt smell lingered.
—
No. 33 narrowed his eyes.
Gaze locked around 77.
"I see."
Voice lowered.
"Interesting."
His eyes moved from the ashes back up.
"Your ability evolved?"
Light tone—
but sharp beneath.
—
At the same time—
the air grew heavy.
As if tension tightened the space.
Killing intent spread.
Not released—
but pressed down.
Against skin.
Against breath.
Breathing deepened slightly.
Temperature seemed to drop.
Dust hung still in midair.
—
77 stood in place.
No step back.
Shoulders steady.
Air around him vibrated faintly—
ready to trigger again.
—
No. 33's lips curved.
The smile narrowed.
"What a shame."
Voice sharpened.
"Then you'll have to leave the academy."
—
His words fell.
Echo stretched through the open space.
Cracks on the ground sharp beneath their feet.
Ash still drifting.
The air tightened to its limit.
—
The distance between them did not change.
But space itself felt compressed.
Stillness stretched.
Breathing audible.
—
The next trigger—
could happen at any moment.