On the first day of school, the sky was overcast.
Not the kind that signaled an incoming storm,
but a single, massive layer of clouds pressing low over the city—
as if it had settled there long ago, with no intention of leaving.
Sunlight was completely blocked.
The ground took on a directionless gray.
The Ability Academy stood outside the city.
The gymnasium looked like a metallic structure embedded into the earth. Its exterior walls bore no decorative lines, no symbolic insignia—only evenly arranged monitoring nodes and energy sensors, embedded along the building's contours in layered rings.
They did not blink.
They did not glow.
They simply remained in continuous operation.
As if waiting.
New students were guided inside in batches.
The instructors spoke in identical tones, identical rhythms, with no trace of individuality—as if prerecorded instructions had been temporarily placed into human throats.
"Two lines."
"Maintain spacing."
"Do not stop."
Two hundred first-year students were distributed between the stands and the central area. The seating distances were deliberately spaced—too far for easy conversation, yet not far enough for isolation—just enough for each person to realize:
They were being recorded as individuals.
There was no school anthem.
No banners.
No visual cues that suggested they were "welcome."
The broadcast system played only repeated reminders of order and behavioral regulations.
Seven stood at the edge of the crowd.
He was not particularly tall among his peers, nor especially strong in build. Yet his posture was straight—not deliberately rigid, but naturally stable—forming a subtle contrast with the surrounding students, who were either excited, uneasy, or restlessly looking around.
The gymnasium's energy monitoring array had already been activated.
Low-frequency scans spread like an invisible membrane across the entire space. The structure of the floor, walls, and ceiling was not perfectly symmetrical, but the scanning grid was precise—every energy fluctuation would be uniformly fed into the system.
This was routine.
The freshmen had not yet registered their abilities, but any abnormal fluctuation would be captured, tagged, and archived.
Seven could feel the scanning.
Not through sight.
But through a perception formed by long exposure to being observed.
He did not resist.
Nor did he cooperate.
He simply stood there.
The principal stepped onto the stage.
His appearance caused little disturbance—not out of disrespect, but because the setting itself discouraged emotional display.
A dark uniform, well-tailored, with no unnecessary accessories.
Once he stood still, the background noise of the gym automatically lowered, as if the space itself was adjusting to his speaking authority.
"Welcome to the Ability Academy."
His voice, amplified, echoed through the gymnasium—yet carried no emotional variation.
That was not the speaker's issue.
It was because the statement itself required none.
"Here, you will not be discriminated against because of your abilities."
Some students nodded.
Others merely lifted their gaze out of reflex.
"You will learn how to control, use, and understand your abilities."
His speaking pace remained steady. Every word was delivered precisely within audible range.
"The training will not be easy."
He paused.
"You will feel pain."
No one spoke.
"You will feel frustration."
A few students subtly adjusted their posture.
"You may even begin to question whether you are suited to remain here."
This time, the atmosphere shifted slightly.
Not fear.
But a reality that had been announced in advance, yet could not be refused.
"But those who persist will obtain results."
When the sentence ended, there was no applause.
The students' attention had already begun to drift.
Some whispered to each other.
Some stared at the monitoring devices on the ceiling.
Some calculated how long until dismissal.
Only a few continued listening seriously, their expressions mixed with tension and unease.
Seven showed no reaction.
His attention was not on the stage—
but on the structure of the gymnasium itself.
The arrangement of energy nodes.
The locations of emergency lockdown doors.
The maintenance passages leading underground.
And the seemingly random, yet precisely calculated blind spots in visibility.
He marked them one by one in his mind.
The ceremony ended quickly.
No sense of ritual.
Like a required procedure being completed.
The first-year students were led to the academic building.
Two hundred students.
Fifty per class.
Assigned randomly by student number.
Seven was placed in Class 1.
He did not immediately follow the flow into the classroom. Instead, he deviated from the route and headed toward the office area.
The corridor was busy.
Teachers organizing materials.
New students being directed into their respective classrooms.
Order in motion.
Seven stopped at the door of an office and knocked.
"Come in."
The voice came from inside.
Seven pushed the door open.
The office was filled with paper files and terminal devices. A middle-aged man stood behind a desk, wearing a white coat loosely draped over his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sorting student records.
"What is it?"
He did not look up.
"I'm looking for the homeroom teacher of Class 1."
The man gestured inward with his chin.
"Class 1 is over there."
Seven walked over.
The man inside looked up.
Not surprise.
More like rapid assessment.
"You are?"
"Seven. Class 1."
"Oh."
He nodded. "I'm your homeroom teacher. You can call me Mr. Green."
He glanced at his watch.
"Homeroom is about to start. What do you need?"
Seven paused for a second.
"My eyes don't have pupils."
He spoke directly.
"Is there something that can cover them?"
Mr. Green froze briefly.
Then his expression shifted—into a too-quick understanding.
"Ah, right. The other kids might get scared."
"You're quite considerate."
Seven was about to respond.
But Mr. Green had already opened a drawer and taken out a pair of sunglasses.
"Here. I've worn them before, though."
"That's not—" Seven frowned. "I just need something to cover the eyes, it doesn't have to—"
"Don't worry about it."
Mr. Green had already stood up.
"No time. Let's head back to class."
He stuffed the sunglasses into Seven's hand and walked straight out of the office.
Seven remained where he was.
Looking at the sunglasses in his hand.
Silent for a moment.
"Seriously?"
"Sunglasses for a kid?"
He still put them on.
The moment the classroom door opened, attention converged.
The sunglasses were too noticeable.
But the attention didn't last long.
Seven chose a seat near the back, against the wall.
He adjusted his posture, lowering his presence.
Soon, the focus of the room shifted.
Small groups began to form naturally.
Some whispered.
Some exchanged information.
The most noticeable was the boy in the front row.
His body was nearly twice the size of his peers, shoulders broad—sitting there like a wall.
Student number one.
His voice was loud.
His presence deliberately amplified.
His gaze swept toward the back multiple times.
When it landed on Seven, it showed no attempt to hide hostility.
Seven noticed.
But did not respond.
The dismissal bell rang.
As Seven stepped out of the classroom, a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Hey."
Number One's voice was close.
He half-pulled, half-pushed Seven away from the crowd.
Toward the old school building.
Two followers trailed behind.
Seven did not resist.
At the end of the corridor, voices faded.
Seven closed his eyes.
A brief scan.
Most students from the class chose to ignore it.
The walls of the old building were worn.
Surveillance devices were sparse.
Number One stopped.
"Kid."
"You think you look cool?"
He pointed at the sunglasses.
"What are you pretending to be?"
"This was given by the homeroom teacher," Seven said.
"I'm not trying to look cool."
Number One's expression darkened.
"You talking back?"
He swung his hand.
Seven shifted aside.
The movement was too clean.
The laughter behind him stopped.
"Your thinking is too naive."
Seven's voice was flat.
"This isn't a normal school."
"This is the Ability Academy."
"It's not about who's bigger."
"It's about who's stronger."
His fist struck Number One's abdomen.
No extra motion.
Number One dropped to his knees.
Flames ignited.
Alarm triggered.
Red lights flashed.
Security arrived.
Suppression.
Seven raised his hands.
In the system records—
only Number One's ability activation was flagged.
That punch—
left no abnormal data.