Basement Level 3 was quiet.
The training room door was already closed.
The heavy metal door sealed completely, the locking mechanism at the edge giving a faint mechanical click. The sound was short, quickly swallowed by the emptiness inside. All noise from the corridor was completely cut off.
Only the breathing of two people remained.
The lights fell straight down from the ceiling.
White light, steady. No flicker. No shifting shadows. The entire training field was evenly illuminated. The light fell across the ground, and across both of them.
The floor was reinforced material.
Its surface was flat.
The pale gray texture had almost no pattern, looking like a single pressed slab.
But on closer inspection, traces remained.
They were not obvious.
Some looked like fine scratches.
Some like shallow dents.
Some areas were slightly darker.
As if something heavy had struck them before.
The force had been great, but absorbed.
What remained were only these faint marks.
They had always been there.
Never cleaned.
The supervisor stood at the center of the field.
His posture was casual.
His hands hung naturally at his sides.
His shoulders were not tense.
His back was not straight.
He did not look like someone preparing for a fight.
No stance.
No deliberate spacing.
He simply stood there.
As if waiting.
Seven stood not far from the entrance.
He did not approach.
Nor did he retreat.
There was distance between them.
Not far.
But enough to clearly see each other's movements.
The air grew heavier.
The training room was too quiet.
Quiet enough to hear the faint friction of clothing.
The supervisor looked at him.
His gaze steady.
No pressure.
No sharpness of deliberate observation.
More like confirmation.
Confirming the person standing before him.
After a few seconds,
he spoke.
"Begin."
The voice was not loud.
No commanding tone.
More like stating a fact.
The moment the word fell—
Seven moved.
His steps were light.
Almost silent against the ground.
His body moved forward.
Not slow.
But not a full explosive sprint either.
Like testing the approach first.
The distance closed.
Three steps.
Two.
One.
Seven's body suddenly shifted left.
His path cut.
From a straight line into a diagonal entry.
His shoulder leaned slightly forward.
His center of gravity dropped.
A punch came from the side—
aimed at the supervisor's shoulder.
Fast.
Almost no wind-up.
The moment the arm lifted, the fist was already on its path.
A probe.
The supervisor did not dodge.
Did not step back.
His body did not even visibly tense.
He simply raised his hand.
A simple motion.
Palm forward.
Arm lifted naturally.
Lightly blocked.
The fist met his arm.
A soft sound.
Not impact—
more like being gently stopped.
Seven's attack halted.
The supervisor did not move.
His feet felt rooted.
His center unmoved.
Seven did not stop.
His other hand had already risen.
A straight punch.
Target: the chest.
Direct.
Faster than before.
The supervisor pressed his arm downward.
A small motion.
A slight adjustment of the wrist.
Seven's punch shifted off course.
The fist grazed past clothing.
Did not land.
Seven's body rotated with the motion.
Step inward.
Leg lifted.
A sweep.
Fluid.
The momentum of rotation carried the strike.
Air split.
A sharp rush of displaced air.
The rhythm tightened.
But the supervisor still did not retreat.
His foot shifted—
half a step.
Half.
Just enough angle.
Seven's leg cut through empty space.
Missed.
Air parted.
Seven landed.
Sole against ground.
A brief sliding sound.
He steadied.
Distance opened again.
The supervisor watched him.
No change in expression.
"Good reaction."
His voice remained even.
Like evaluating a training result.
Seven did not reply.
His breathing was steady.
His gaze never left the supervisor.
He was observing.
Every exchange just now—
the supervisor had not truly attacked.
Only blocked.
Only moved.
Minimal motions.
Yet precise.
Every time at the critical point.
Seven adjusted his breathing again.
Shoulders relaxed slightly.
Body leaned forward.
The next movement was faster.
His foot pressed down.
Force dropped instantly.
His body accelerated—
almost instantly closing in.
A straight punch.
Faster.
Shorter path.
More concentrated force.
The supervisor raised his hand.
Blocked.
Same simplicity.
But in that instant—
Seven changed.
The punch retracted.
Arm pulled inward.
Body dropped.
Center lowered.
Elbow strike—
from below, driving upward.
Target: the ribs.
Sudden.
Close-range burst.
The supervisor turned slightly.
Angle shifted.
The attack brushed past clothing.
Missed.
Seven did not stop.
Arm recoiled.
Knee rose.
Knee strike.
Fluid.
Continuous.
This time the supervisor raised his hand.
Palm met the knee.
No force—
just a slight outward push.
But enough.
The direction changed.
The strike missed again.
Seven slid forward half a step.
Friction against the floor.
The supervisor moved.
For the first time, a true forward step.
His body pressed in slightly.
Hand extended.
Not fast—
but too close.
Seven had just turned—
the palm was already on his shoulder.
A light push.
Not strong.
But stable.
Seven stepped back.
Two steps.
Footwork shifting.
Soft friction sounds.
Distance opened again.
The supervisor looked at him.
"Continue."
Same calm tone.
Seven did not stop.
He charged again.
Faster.
Footsteps lighter.
His body like a shadow.
Fists came in succession.
Angles shifting constantly.
High.
Side.
Low.
Each strike searching for an opening.
Different directions.
Increasing density.
The supervisor remained simple.
Block.
Move.
Press.
Few movements.
But exact.
Almost every attack missed.
Air shattered repeatedly.
Currents crossed between them.
Footwork sliding.
Rhythm accelerating.
After a few seconds—
Seven suddenly stopped.
Stepped back slightly.
Distance opened again.
His breathing grew heavier.
The supervisor watched.
Silent.
But his eyes were slightly more focused now.
Seven moved again.
Faster.
Almost silent.
Forward burst.
A straight punch.
The supervisor raised his hand.
Blocked.
But at the moment of contact—
Seven shifted.
Body rotated.
The other hand cut in from the side—
target: the neck.
The supervisor's arm moved quickly.
Blocked.
At the same time—
Seven's knee rose.
Toward the chest.
The supervisor stepped back half a step.
Missed.
Seven did not stop.
Three consecutive attacks.
Fist.
Elbow.
Knee.
Faster and faster.
Air cracked in succession.
This time—
the supervisor did not fully defend.
His hand shot forward.
Grabbed Seven's wrist.
Fast.
Stable.
Seven's arm locked.
His body still moving forward.
Center off-balance.
A light pull—
then a push to the side.
Seven lost balance.
Steps retreating.
Until he stabilized again.
The air quieted once more.
Distance opened again.
The supervisor looked at him.
"Good speed."
"Enough strength."
Seven said nothing.
He reset his stance.
Shoulders rising and falling slowly.
Breathing stabilizing.
His state—
more focused than before.
The training room remained silent.
The lights steady.