The moment Serpent Locking Moon Blade left Seven's hand, the battlefield lost its sense of proportion.
The weapon did not behave like a thrown object.
There was no arc, no visible loss of force, no sign of release reducing its presence.
Its inertia was preserved in full.
The crescent-shaped structure traveled horizontally, cutting straight through the air at waist height, carrying with it the same mass, the same pressure, the same inevitability it possessed a moment earlier while still connected to Seven's grip.
If anything, its weight became more apparent after separation.
This was not a weapon in flight.
It was a reconstructed structure being forcibly detached—released without compromise, without adjustment, without any attempt to adapt to conventional physics.
It slammed into the center of the formation.
The first soldier did not fall immediately.
He was pushed.
Not struck.
Not cut.
Pushed—hard enough that his boots scraped against the ground, the friction screaming before his body understood what was happening.
His center of gravity broke apart a split second later.
Instinct took over. His manifested ability blade came up reflexively, angled to brace, to receive impact, to disperse force.
There was nothing to brace against.
This was not blade against blade.
It was mass colliding with mass.
The moment contact was made, the ability blade visibly deformed. The energy density compressed violently, the manifestation flickering as its internal structure destabilized. The edge lost definition, its shape warping under pressure it was never designed to endure.
The soldier's arms buckled.
He was driven backward into the second rank.
The second soldier barely had time to react.
He was struck not by the blade itself, but by the collapse of the space in front of him—the transferred force carrying through bodies as if they were part of the same object.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.
The middle line shifted sideways in unison, as if a moving wall had passed straight through them.
Weapons flew free.
Hands lost their grip.
Feet lost traction.
Bodies collided, tangled, fell.
The formation fractured in less than a second.
Irreparably.
Before the dust had time to settle—
Seven moved.
There was no pause between release and advance.
The instant Serpent Locking Moon Blade left his hand, his body had already pitched forward, momentum aligned, trajectory fixed.
His target was not the enemy.
It was the ground.
Azure hilts lay scattered across the field.
Four of them.
They remained in partial activation, residual energy clinging to their interfaces. Standard Azure systems did not terminate instantly upon losing their users; the channels dimmed gradually, like embers refusing to go dark.
Seven stepped through the debris without slowing.
He reached out.
The first hilt snapped into his hand.
Lightning attribute.
The moment his grip closed, the interface reacted—recognition protocols misfiring as control authority was forcibly overwritten. The manifested energy deviated instantly from its intended form.
Lightning that should have extended along a rigid blade geometry twisted instead—stretching, branching, bending in ways that violated its preset constraints.
The second hilt followed.
Chains.
The third and fourth—fire and wood, both whip-type manifestations.
There was no adjustment period.
No recalibration.
Seven did not change his stance.
He flicked his wrist once.
The abilities overlaid.
Fire surged along the established pathways of wood. The extension framework of the chains became threaded with lightning, arcs crawling across metallic segments that were never meant to conduct them.
Energy forms twisted visibly in midair.
Their shapes destabilized, losing any resemblance to standardized weapons.
They could no longer be called whips.
They moved.
Like awakened organisms.
Fire serpents coiled and lashed, heat distorting the air around them. Azure-green constructs surged beside them, snapping and writhing, lightning crawling along their length in violent pulses.
They crossed.
They struck.
They entwined.
Each impact was not a precise attack, but an assertion of space.
Those hit were not cut.
They were thrown.
Bodies lifted off the ground, slammed down, scattered apart as if the field itself had rejected them.
Heavy impacts echoed across the zone.
The ground shook.
What remained of the formation collapsed completely.
The rear line attempted to reestablish firing lanes.
They failed.
Residual energy saturated the air, thick enough to distort visibility. Targeting systems struggled to lock on, calibration data fluctuating wildly as overlapping manifestations scrambled spatial readings.
Lock-ons failed.
Again.
And again.
From the silent vantage point of the spider-like camera, the scene unfolded without commentary.
There was no voice.
No analysis.
Only movement.
The last standing soldier tried to retreat.
He took two steps before one of the fused constructs swept across his legs, lifting him off his feet and driving him into the ground with enough force to crack the surface beneath him.
He did not rise again.
No fatalities.
Seven released his grip.
The fused manifestations disintegrated immediately, unraveling into scattered motes of energy that dissipated like programmed constructs reaching the end of their task.
He looked down.
Two Azure hilts remained in his hands.
In the next instant, he activated them.
The response was immediate—and different.
The manifested blades that appeared were transparent, weightless in appearance, yet massive in scale. Their outlines were sharply defined, but there was no reflective edge, no suggestion of physical steel.
They resembled boundaries.
Carved segments of space, forcibly imposed.
Seven swung them lightly.
The air was pushed aside.
There was no cutting sound.
Only pressure.
The kind that pressed against the chest, against the senses, against the instinct to remain standing.
He adjusted his grip once.
"This kind works."
The words were not heard.
They were inferred—from posture, from timing, from the way his movement settled.
The remaining members of Combat Division One had lost all rhythm.
They could not understand what they were facing.
Not the techniques.
But the logic.
The blades had no weight—yet carried force.
The edges had no substance—yet displaced bodies.
Their paths were unfixed—yet always arrived ahead of any attempted response.
Seven stepped forward.
The twin blades extended with him.
Mid-swing, their length shifted. Angles adjusted. Boundaries reshaped themselves to match his motion rather than constrain it.
Some attempted to block.
There was nothing to meet.
No surface.
No point of contact.
Only pressure—followed by impact.
Bodies were lifted.
Then slammed.
After a final chain of collisions, the field fell silent.
All enemies were down.
No deaths.
Seven stood at the center of the zone and withdrew his ability.
The transparent blades vanished. The Azure hilts returned to inert interfaces.
He glanced at them once.
Then stowed them away.
On the monitor, the spider camera adjusted its angle slightly.
Seven turned and walked deeper into the zone.
Footsteps resumed.
Steady.
Clear.
As if the imbalance he had created had never existed at all.