"I suppose I'll have to use my own methods."
Lucy's voice was not loud.
In fact, it carried a strange lightness—almost casual, as if she were stating something obvious rather than declaring escalation. There was no dramatic emphasis, no warning layered with explanation. The sentence stood alone, complete in itself.
And then, nothing more followed.
No further instructions.
No elaboration.
As though the moment the words were spoken, the outcome had already been decided.
The terminal interface lit up.
A connection was established.
The feed did not appear at the center of the display. Instead, it crept into view from the far edge of the frame, slowly, subtly—an angle so marginal it would have been easy to overlook.
A corner of the wall.
A patch of shadow that never quite received direct light.
Something there moved.
Silently.
There was no mechanical hum.
No vibration associated with activation.
No faint scrape of metal, no disturbance of airflow.
The thing adhered to the wall as it advanced, its pace unhurried yet unwavering, as though its parameters had been calibrated with a single directive in mind:
Do not be noticed.
The camera adjusted, drawing closer.
It was a spider.
Or rather—something shaped like one.
A spider-shaped doll.
Its body was small, its surface wrapped in soft fabric, plush enough to look harmless at a glance. Beneath the cloth, a metallic frame supported the structure, but the design concealed it well. Eight rounded legs extended from the body, their joints exaggerated in a way that made them appear almost cute—something a child might grab from a toy shelf without a second thought.
A decorative item.
A novelty.
On its abdomen, hidden carefully among stitched patterns, was a tiny camera aperture. Without close inspection, it was indistinguishable from part of the design.
It looked absurdly harmless.
So harmless that even if it were spotted on a battlefield, most would dismiss it as psychological warfare at best—or simply ignore it outright.
It did not provoke hostility.
It did not demand attention.
It did not register as a threat.
That was precisely the point.
The doll-spider advanced along the edge of the wall, deliberately avoiding pools of light and navigating around scattered fragments of metal on the floor. Its path was not the shortest route, nor the most efficient.
It was the most natural one.
Natural to the point that it blended seamlessly into the environment, as though it had always belonged there.
Then—
Seven noticed it.
Not through sight.
Not through sound.
Not through any measurable change in air pressure or electromagnetic fluctuation.
It was something subtler.
A sensation brushing against the outer boundary of his awareness.
Not killing intent.
Not hostility.
Not even alertness.
It felt closer to—
Being watched.
The sensation was faint.
So faint that anyone else would have dismissed it as imagination, or never registered it at all.
The air seemed to gain an extra layer of density—nothing oppressive, nothing heavy, but undeniably present. As though an already balanced space had been altered by the insertion of something unnecessary.
Seven did not turn his head.
He did not raise a hand.
He did not attempt to locate the source.
This level of observation did not warrant a dedicated cognitive thread.
Look if you want.
The conclusion surfaced briefly within his consciousness.
Not as words.
As a decision.
And just as quickly, it sank beneath more pressing priorities.
Seven remained where he stood.
The doll-spider reached the wall beside him, paused for a fraction of a second, then leapt.
It landed on his shoulder.
There was almost no weight.
So light it felt like dust settling on fabric.
It did not disrupt his balance.
It did not interfere with his movement.
It did not alter his breathing.
As long as it did not obstruct his vision, entangle his arms, or impede his trajectory—
There was no reason to deal with it.
Still, Seven was aware of something else.
Not now.
But later.
If this gaze began to influence his actions.
If it attempted to interfere with his judgment.
If it crossed the boundary between observation and intrusion—
Then there would be only one outcome.
Cut.
Not a warning.
Not a threat.
Not hesitation.
Merely a result.
Seven's attention returned to his hand.
A short blade.
It was not a knife designed for cutting.
It resembled density given form—a mass shaped like a blade rather than a tool reliant on sharpness.
It would not chip.
It did not require an edge.
Because destruction had never depended on the blade itself.
The weapon moved slowly in his grip, its surface catching and releasing the overhead light in repeating arcs. The motion was unhurried, almost contemplative.
As though he were weighing something.
Or waiting.
"Can't be helped," he murmured.
The sound was low, meant for no one else.
"Can't save the shoes and outrun the wolves."
The moment the words fell away—
The damaged mechanical remains ahead of him changed.
Metal components scattered across the ground crossed an invisible threshold, as though a boundary no one could see had suddenly asserted itself.
They overlapped.
Not by physical stacking.
By spatial convergence.
Different objects occupied the same coordinates, forced into coexistence. Metal pressed against metal without the expected crash of impact. Structures deformed without any visible external force, as if the governing rules of space had been quietly rewritten.
Elsewhere, far removed from the scene, eyes widened.
Psychokinesis.
That was the immediate conclusion.
Yet almost as soon as it formed, doubt followed.
These machines were not being moved.
They were being destroyed.
Not shattered.
Not collapsed.
They were losing structural integrity from within.
Compressed into smaller units.
Compressed again.
Edges blurred.
Forms dissolved.
Like fruit thrown into a rapidly spinning blender—first recognizable, then reduced to indistinguishable fragments.
Friction ignited.
Sparks erupted, multiplying rapidly.
Heat surged in a compressed span of time, driven upward until metal surrendered its solidity.
It glowed red.
Then brighter.
Then molten.
Like flowing magma suspended in air.
There was no sound of speech from the spider.
No commentary.
Only observation.
The molten metal rotated at high speed, its trajectory precise. Not a single drop splashed free. Not a fraction of material was wasted. The temperature stabilized at a critical threshold—hot enough to remain fluid, restrained enough to avoid detonation.
Then the shape shifted.
The molten mass stretched.
Pulled.
Compressed.
Condensed.
A long, rod-like structure took form.
Clear in outline.
Stable in composition.
Seven raised his hand and affixed the twin short blades to one end of the rod.
The connection point did not require drilling.
It was pierced.
Several clean, symmetrical holes appeared simultaneously, as though the material itself had yielded in anticipation.
A length of iron chain was drawn from the air, threaded through the rod, winding around blade and handle alike. Metal locked into metal with flawless precision, no gaps, no redundancies.
As though this configuration had always existed.
Seven regarded the finished weapon.
He paused.
Briefly.
Then spoke again, to no one in particular.
"Since ancient times, Guan Yu wielded the Green Dragon Crescent Blade."
"Lord Guan is not to be offended."
He shifted the weapon slightly, testing its balance.
"My blade, then…"
"…will be called the Serpent Locking Moon Blade."
On the other end of the feed, silence lingered.
A pause long enough to register.
Then—
"…Huh?"
"What kind of name is that?"
A beat.
"No—wait."
"That's not the point."
"How did you even make that?"
"Are you a blacksmith now?"
The disbelief sharpened.
"Even blacksmiths need a forge!"
The doll-spider remained perched on Seven's shoulder.
Watching.
Quietly.
And the man beneath it stood motionless, holding a weapon that should not have existed—formed without sound, without ritual, without explanation.
The space around him settled.
As if acknowledging a new rule.