{ THIRD PERSON POINT OF VIEW }
The waves rolled lazily across the open sea, rising and falling beneath the small boat that carried nothing but a boy and the atomic bomb. The sun blazed high in the sky, its heat relentless. His gaze remained fixed on the device in front of him, its beeping slow and steady, counting down.
The ocean stretched infinitely in every direction, the only movement coming from the gentle sway of the water and the flickering numbers on the bomb’s timer. There were no landmasses, no rescue teams, no signs of civilization—just him, the deep blue abyss, and an experiment that could determine everything.
This was the next step. After weeks of progress, after proving he could control the Absolute Effector to some extent, they had brought him here to do the impossible: contain the force of an atomic explosion.
715 remained still, his feet planted firmly on the deck as the boat rocked beneath him. He didn't react to the unstable footing, nor to the sound of water splashing against the hull.
Through the monitor drones hovering above the boat, the three scientists who were responsible for studying him observed intently from miles away.
Taniyama, the lead physicist, exhaled slowly as he set down the paper filled with his painstaking calculations. His fingers lingered on the edges, gripping slightly, as if that alone could stabilize the chaos brewing inside him.
"This is insane," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.
A colleague standing behind him let out a short chuckle. "You worried, Taniyama-sensei?"
Taniyama turned slightly, catching his colleague’s gaze. He liked to believe he was a decent man, but when faced with the opportunity to study something that refused to bend to the laws of the universe—something as impossible as the Absolute Effector—he hadn't been able to refuse. Even if it meant using a child.
He hesitated before speaking. "It's too early for this experiment…" His voice was quieter now, tinged with doubt. "If he fails, we lose him. And with him, our only chance to study the Absolute Effector."
The third scientist, standing near the desk, placed a thick stack of documents in front of him with a dull thud. "The higher-ups know," he said, his tone flat, almost weary. "We don’t have time to hesitate."
Taniyama turned to him slowly, his eyes sharp with unspoken demand. "What?" he muttered.
His two colleagues exchanged glances, the weight of unspoken concerns passing between them. Then, as if reaching an unspoken agreement, they both turned back to him.
"715…" the younger scientist, Sonozaki, hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He's…"
Taniyama’s patience thinned. "He's what, Sonozaki-sensei?"
Before Sonozaki could answer, the older scientist, Toyoshima, cut in, his voice low but firm. "It's beginning."
And it was. The countdown had reached its final ten seconds.
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Through their screens, the scientists watched in tense silence as 715 extended his arm, reaching toward the bomb. And then, just like that, it materialized. A transparent golden sphere appeared, slowly manifesting from top to bottom, enveloping the bomb in a perfect seal. The Absolute Effector had no gaps, no seams. It was a flawless prison of all matter, not a single speck of air could leak out.
Then, inside the sphere, everything turned blindingly white—as if a miniature sun had been trapped inside. The light pulsed with an almost tangible intensity, a seething energy that roared silently behind the barrier. It was the raw power of a nuclear blast, condensed into a tight, golden bubble. The pressure built up steadily, the energy working its way to break free, but the sphere held it all in a delicate, if dangerous, equilibrium.
"U-Unbelievable..." Sonozaki muttered.
The scientists watching knew one thing: if even a tiny crack appeared, that pent-up energy would burst out with catastrophic force. But 715’s barrier remained unyielding, defying physics by containing this raw explosion within such a confined space.
"What a monster..." Taniyama remarked, his voice low and steady as he exchanged glances with his colleagues. "Quantum tunneling hasn't even made a dent—if even that can’t break the Absolute Effector..."
Toyoshima nodded. "Yes. He's ready for phase five."
The sphere continued to hold, a perfect, unyielding prison for the impossible energy inside. The explosion clawed at its confinement, struggling against an absolute force that denied its right to expand. It was unnatural—everything in the universe obeyed the principle that energy must disperse. But here, in this golden shell, it had nowhere to go. It could only churn violently in place, folding over itself in an endless cycle of destruction and recreation.
From beneath the harsh sunlight, 715 slowly lifted his gaze to one of the hovering drones. His expression remained blank, his voice calm, as if he weren’t holding the force of a nuclear detonation mere feet from his body.
“The condition has been satisfied,” he stated, the words clear and measured.
Back at the lab, Sonozaki immediately responded through the speakers. “Confirmed. Proceed to the next operation: energy neutralization.”
Taniyama inhaled sharply, gripping the edges of his desk. His eyes flickered between the screen and the stacks of paper in front of him. He had been the one to design the energy neutralization formula, and now, at the final moment, doubt clawed at him.
He frantically skimmed over the dense pages of calculations, scanning for a flaw, a misstep, anything he might have overlooked. There was no margin for error. If he had made even the slightest mistake, the consequences would be beyond catastrophic. A single drop of sweat traced a slow path down his temple as his hands trembled over his notes.
Because if he was wrong—if the math failed—there would be no second chances.
715's breath grew heavier, his pulse hammering in his ears. Sweat soaked through his clothes, clinging to his skin as he fought against the laws of reality themselves. The first step had been a test of strength, but this—this was something else entirely. A slight miscalculation and error in execution would mean his death. He needed to control his ability as if his life depended on it, because it did.
In the lab, Taniyama barely flinched when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Toyoshima standing behind him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“There wasn’t a mistake in your equations,” Toyoshima said, his voice flat but firm. “You checked them a hundred times, I checked them twice. If this works, it works. If it doesn’t, it’s not on us.” He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “This whole magical ability bullshit shouldn’t even involve us in the first place. We’re academics, not warlocks. If it fails, it’s on the boy. And it’s on them.”
Taniyama’s grip tightened around the edge of his desk. He knew Toyoshima was right. Logically, he had done his part—his calculations were sound, the theory checked out. But logic had nothing to do with what was happening here. They weren’t dealing with numbers on a page; they were watching a child attempt to suppress the raw force of an atomic explosion.
Even so, Taniyama couldn't pull his eyes away from the screen. Despite himself—despite the risks, despite the ethical nightmare they were tangled in—he wanted to see. He needed to see if the impossible could be made real.
[ To be continued ]