The sun is fair. It rises in the sky and shines the same light on everyone. On the faces of workers heading out to work hard today. On butterflies fluttering about in search of flowers. And on me, sprawled unattractively on a bench, unable to wake up from drunkenness. Buzz, buzz. The warm sunlight gradually stimulates my consciousness. In response, everything begins to lighten bit by bit. Eyelids. Head. Body. Arms. Legs. I rub my eyes as they begin to close again and force them open. Stretching my stiff body, I start to grasp where I am.
…
It’s strange. It’s too quiet. Not a single person passes by. I try to ignore the small sense of discomfort wrapping around me and check my current physical state.
“Damn… my head hurts…” A sharp throbbing hits like a needle piercing my brain. My body aches as if covered in bruises, and my limbs slowly plead in pain. Memories of yesterday begin to surface, and I recall mindless drinking.
I’m a madman. I’m the crazy one indeed. I bought side dishes but drank without a thought. To support that thought, five empty soju bottles roll about at my feet, chaotically scattered. No, it’s six, counting the one in my hand. “I should’ve just drunk in moderation…” Who’s ever heard of a protagonist who downs five bottles of raw soju and somehow grabs a sixth? Here I am, damn it.
Wondering if someone might be watching, I hurriedly shove the five soju bottles at my feet into the trash can. A tangy smell lingers on my hand from the sticky alcohol, but erasing my disgrace is the priority.
Just then, I heard a voice coming through a slightly open window from a nearby building. Although far away, the clarity of the reprimanding was vivid.
– “Where have you been? Research students are in a race against time; can you be this late?”
– “If you had come an hour early to research, you’d save a day. Where on earth have you been?”
– “Will you even achieve your degree like this? Hurry up and organize the research details I assigned you last evening.”
Research student. In an era where even graduate students are legally protected, they are the only wretched beings left unprotected. At the same time, they’re treated as property damage rather than personhood, even if injured. Each research student has their own reasons. Master’s or doctorate degrees. Professorships. Job preparation. Escape.
But one commonality trumps all varied reasons: they aren’t treated as people. They’re slaves. No, worse than slaves. Slaves at least get fed. I send comfort to that pitiable existence, neglected even by labor laws while growing a hatred for the fucking professors who continually scream out.
“Shut the hell up, you shithead professor. My head hurts.”
But my rising hatred quickly doused. The moment I pulled out my phone to check the date and time, another emotion instantly filled my heart. Shock. Dismay. Doubt. Denial. Urgency.
The phone showed numbers that shouldn’t ever be seen and a notification displayed on the calendar.
– 09:45 AM
– Notification: Academy D-Day
– First class start time: 9 AM
– Missed notifications (13)
I’m screwed.
*
Well, it looks like I’m totally doomed. That’s the conclusion I’ve come to after deep thought. I’ve really messed up.
The adaptation period for the academy dormitories is one week. Instead, right from day one, there’s an orientation followed immediately by classes.
But already, more than half of the first class has passed. I’m screwed. For real.
The world is meant to be lived moderately. Existing in a somewhat ambiguous state where one isn’t noticed nor ignored is the true royal road.
But now, it looks like I’m frantically trying to escape the boundaries of this ambiguous academy life. It started off tangled.
“Honestly, it actually started to get tangled from the mental hospital, damn it.”
As I chewed on my hatred for that damn librarian, I sprinted towards the classroom. Fortunately, I had previously located the class while searching for the library.
Without even glancing at the elevator, I bounded up the stairs. Thud, thud. With each sharp breath, I took two steps. I climbed the stairs relentlessly until I reached the fifth floor, just as I burst through the back door of the classroom.
I entered as quietly and discreetly as possible.
– Bang!
However, the back door opened with an unusually loud sound. Was it because I couldn’t control my accelerating body? Or perhaps it was just an incredibly unlucky day?
The one certainty was that, in an instant, heavy silence engulfed the classroom as all eyes turned towards me.
“……I’m sorry for being late.”
I cautiously bowed, glancing around to take in my disastrous state. My hair was a mess. My jeans half-torn. A black long-sleeve shirt wrinkled in disarray. Bloodshot swollen eyes. The heavy smell of alcohol coming off my breath.
And so the conclusion I drew was:
Yeah. Even if I get dragged out as a homeless person, it’s okay! I look like a homeless person!
I had already given up on sneaking in unnoticed.
Sighing, I tried to step into the classroom when suddenly, an older female professor with black hair, stopping her lecture, looked at me gently.
“Student? All students above silver rank have been present. Who are you?”
??????
Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
“Are you perhaps not a research student? Because from the student ID color on your necklace, it seems you’re not in this rank.”
Hearing that, I hurriedly dashed back outside to check the classroom sign.
First-year. Gold trim.
“Damn, it’s for the knuckleheads.”
I quietly shut the door as if nothing happened and quickly bolted out to find the right classroom.
I thought I heard someone calling me, but I ignored it.
Damn it.
*
At the very end of the hallway. A place that didn’t even let sunlight in properly, smelling musty in a way. This is where the iron-ranked classroom was located.
What’s dreadful isn’t just its location.
The rusted nameplate for first-year. Even crooked and not in place.
The walls were nearly stripped of paint, and mold was growing in various corners.
Compared to the gold-ranked classroom, the environment was drastically different and poor.
It’s just a mess.
“Even the fking life of a knucklehead is precious, you bastards.”
Of course, complaining won’t change a thing.
In the end, the alpha and omega of the hunter ecosystem is “What’s your tier?”
If you’re upset, just come strapped as a gold-tier.
Anyway, I’ve come to the classroom. This time, I won’t get caught.
Carefully, I opened the back door as if handling glass works.
As quietly as I could, I opened the front door.
It was madness.
“Why are the front and back doors switched, you bastards?”
Another silence.
But having already experienced this, I wasn’t shocked.
So, I confidently moved into the classroom.
And what came into view was a bald professor glaring at me, uncomfortable now that the lecture had been interrupted.
“I’m late.”
“Why are you so bold?”
The professor growled.
But the more he grumbled, the less intimidated I felt.
“Ah, what can I do? I’m already late, sorry.”
“Alright. I’ll let the tardiness slide. But what’s that on your wrist?”
“?…”
At that moment, I looked at the plastic bag dangling from my wrist.
Four leftover soju bottles from yesterday’s the accident, and two snacks I bought as side dishes.
Finally, a cup noodle and a wooden chopstick each.
…Damn.
“Explain what that is, student.”
“…Preparations.”
“Why the hell is that a preparation?! What!!! Why is there alcohol in the classroom?!!!”
Academy students may carry personal weapons into the classroom.
But what I brought doesn’t count. That’s obvious.
The professor’s anger multiplied correlatively to the exclamation marks.
A vein popped up on the professor’s forehead as if to bear the weight of that anger.
With gritted teeth, he began to speak.
“Preparations… preparations… fine.”
“Good, right?”
By my statement, another vein appeared on the professor’s forehead.
“I’ll make a suggestion.”
“I’m just going to walk in.”
“Shut up and get in!!”
Now the professor’s face turned red.
I had no idea who was coming in.
“If you overpower me, we’ll consider today’s tardiness exempt—”
– Clang!
Before the sentence finished, I tossed a soju bottle at the professor’s head.
But maybe because he’s bald, even after the bottle shattered, he remained unscathed.
“What the hell are you doing!!!”
“Overpowering.”
“Not now, damn it!!!”
Seemingly too excited, the professor began to bounce up and down like a child.
Yeah. Maintaining that childlike spirit is important.
That was quite a sight.
The professor’s suggestion was this.
Overpower him.
In return, being late would be forgiven, and my ridiculous actions would be tolerated for the day, a rather generous offer.
But, he added, even if I got severely injured in the process, not to blame him. It was an unspoken threat implying that he wouldn’t guarantee my safety.
Lastly, he declared he wouldn’t use any abilities, giving himself a handicap.
“Can I really hit you?”
“With what confidence are you saying that?”
If I had to cite a reason for my confidence, it’d be quite obvious.
“I don’t think I’ll lose to a two-legged creature.”
“What do you mean? I have both of my legs intact.”
The professor didn’t seem to comprehend.
I figured I’d better emphasize that.
“Two legs.”
“……This won’t end nicely. One of your limbs is going to snap.”
Watching the increasingly ferocious growl of the bald professor got me thinking.
That’s one of two common types.
Either showing off without proper ability or truly having adequate skills.
In this case, it’s the latter.
It wouldn’t make sense for him to declare he wouldn’t use any abilities otherwise.
As I gazed at my opponent, I slowly sorted my thoughts.
Weight class. He’s bigger than me. Direct confrontation is risky.
Strength. I can’t be sure. He might be similar to or stronger than me.
Stamina. I might be better, but since the outcome will likely be decided in a single bout, it doesn’t have much significance.
Hair. The professor has a bald wasteland. My hair is the Forest of Elves.
Thanks to that last condition, I had a decent chance of winning.
Bare hands versus bare hands.
Ultimately, I prepare to seize any slight advantage.
I crack open a soju.
And immediately chug it down.
The only thing that’s genuinely gone down since last night was alcohol.
I feel like I’m going to die.
This is bad.
I forcibly hold back the rising nausea.
As I endure the foul smell of alcohol clinging to my nose and mouth, the professor looked at me like an idiot and asked,
“What are you doing?”
“Uh… preparing my weapon.”
“Was there really a need to drink?”
“If I’m in a state of diminished mental capacity, the punishment lessens.”
“…Hah… hurry up and prepare.”
With a sigh, the professor covered his eyes with his palm.
It was my chance.
Taking advantage of the moment when the professor wasn’t looking, I shoved my hand into the plastic bag.
I grabbed the wooden chopsticks, breaking them in two and sharply splintering them before hiding each piece in my wrists.
“Are you ready?”
“Just a moment.”
As the professor urged me, I pulled out all the items from the bag.
I picked up an empty bottle from the bag and slammed it on the floor.
Thus, I completed my versatile weapon: a broken soju bottle.
The professor, watching the scene, looked puzzled and asked,
“Aren’t you going to throw it this time?”
“Why would I throw something while crafting it? Are you hurt somewhere?”
“Why the hell did you throw it earlier?!!!”
“That was for overpowering you.”
“Ahhhhh!!! Damn you!!!”
The professor screeched once again, though this time it didn’t even hit his head.
But if he’s causing this much of a ruckus, just how incompetent must he be?
I decided to understand it suitably.
In any case, it’s time to get to it.
