Welcome to Manbeop University

At that same moment, in the conference room of the Hunter Studies Department at Deokseong University.

"Honestly. Students these days haven't got a scrap of grit in them. Wouldn't you agree?"

Professor Park Mansu, occupying the department head's chair, clicked his tongue as he flicked a finger against the sheet of paper tossed onto the desk.

It was the withdrawal form Kim Najin had filed at the department office before walking out.

The other professors clucked their tongues over it as well.

"Kim Najin, was it? Dropping out as a third-year. I suppose he didn't think it was a waste."

Lasting to the third year meant the boy had already poured a fortune into tuition. Walking away without a diploma after all that looked, to the men around the table, like nothing but a sorry joke.

Park Mansu sneered and piled on.

"A waste? Please. He's the brat who snapped his arm fighting a handful of goblins in a low-rank dungeon and ran home with his tail between his legs. Even if he'd graduated, he never would have cut it as a hunter."

The professors seated around him all nodded along, chiming in at the mockery.

"Quite right. What kind of institution is Deokseong University? A hunter academy among hunter academies. Weeding out a student with a spine that soft is how we protect the school's name."

"Thanks to Professor Park's strict guidance, we managed to cull a defective product that would've dragged down the department average. Hahaha!"

Not one of them spared a thought for their own exploitation or the way they leaned on students. They talked over Najin's withdrawal as if it were a blessing for the school.

"That aside, the Deok-Man Rivalry is already next month."

The moment one professor changed the subject, the air in the conference room went taut.

The Deok-Man Rivalry. The name of the annual exchange match between Deokseong University and Manbeop University — two hunter academies forever lumped together as the same Tier-2 elite.

"This time we have to snap those Manbeop snobs' noses clean off. We scraped by last year. This year we take them apart and use the win as a springboard into the Tier-1 ranks."

"Of course. Those Manbeop brats? Our elite students are going to wipe the floor with them."

Park Mansu lifted his teacup with a sly little smile.

Hunting was a profession of pure, unforgiving merit. That was why the universities that produced hunters kept admission, transfer, and withdrawal so flexible — so stripped-down — that ordinary colleges couldn't begin to compare.

If you had the skill, you could drop out today and walk in tomorrow as another school's top recruit. The system allowed it.

I turned on my heel the moment I filed my withdrawal at Deokseong University and headed straight for the admissions office of our rival, Manbeop University.

Manbeop and Deokseong tore into each other every year in a blood-soaked exchange match. They were the bitterest of rivals — the kind that snarled at the mere mention of the other's name.

And this was the surest way to screw over Park Mansu and Deokseong University, the people who had treated me like garbage.

I still needed a university diploma if I wanted to be a hunter. I just didn't need one from a dump like Deokseong. I'd get into Manbeop — and I'd use it to smash the school that threw me away.

That meant wearing Manbeop's colors and grinding their future into the dirt.

"So you're requesting a special-transfer interview. Right now."

Manbeop University, admissions office. A sharp-faced assistant looked from my paperwork to my face and let out a disbelieving little laugh.

"Yes. That's correct."

"I understand you withdrew from Deokseong today, but the reason is something else. You acquired a Mythic Magic Sword, so now you're aiming for a better university? Kim Najin, this isn't a joke, is it?"

I'd expected that reaction. A third-year undergraduate who'd barely been grinding low-rank dungeons, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠claiming he'd gotten his hands on a Mythic Magic Sword that even the world's top rankers might never glimpse in a lifetime — who would believe it?

"It's not a joke. I can show you right now."

"Ha! I keep hearing hunter hopefuls these days have egos that scrape the sky. Go on, then. Pull it out. If that thing's a real Mythic Magic Sword, I'll drop to the floor and give you a full prostration on the spot."

The assistant folded his arms and snorted.

I said nothing. I simply reached into empty air and opened my trait, Scabbard.

A low hum rolled through the office. The temperature plunged in an instant, a bone-deep chill racing up every spine.

The air warped, and through an ominous blood-red mist a demonic sword with a radiant golden hilt settled into my hand.

"Huh?"

The assistant's face went rigid. The hideous pressure rolling off the blade was already closing around his throat.

"Would you like to hold it yourself?"

I tipped the hilt toward him. He reached for it as if he'd been put under.

"Y-you think I'd fall for—!"

His hand closed around the grip.

"Guhhhh—!"

The assistant's eyes rolled back. Foam welled at the corners of his mouth.

Blood and flesh. War and ruin. The eternal hatred and grudge housed inside the demonic sword punched straight into his mind, unfiltered.

"Eeeek! Blood! There's blood everywhere! They're all dying! We're all going to die!!"

He screamed and went over backward. He didn't get up. He just rolled on the floor, thrashing in a raw, animal panic.

"Waaah. Hic. I don't wanna die."

He bunched his knees together and sniveled like a child. I clicked my tongue and drew Tyrfing back.

The moment the sword left him, the assistant sucked in air in ragged, desperate gasps.

"You can skip the full prostration. What's the next step?"

"I'm sorry! Professor! I'll bring a professor right away!"

He scrambled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back to his senses with a look that said he was a breath from wetting himself, then bolted into the hallway.

A short while later, a red-faced, fierce-looking middle-aged professor stormed into the office with the assistant in tow, fuming with every step.

"For crying out loud. You're supposed to be an assistant in Manbeop University's Hunter Studies Department, and you faint at some cheap mental magic a student threw at you?"

"N-no, Professor! I'm telling you it was real! I saw hell itself!"

"Use your head. Who could possibly get their hands on a demonic sword? Bringing one here is even more absurd."

For a man with a face like that, his reasoning was almost sound.

"He probably brought in some mildly cursed blade and rigged it so the mental curse would trigger."

Similar cons cropped up in the hunter industry now and then. It wasn't a completely ridiculous theory.

In my case, it just happened to be the truth.

The assistant, who already knew better, shouted over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him.

"No. I'm telling you it's real!"

"Enough. Be quiet. I'll confirm it myself and we'll be done with this."

The professor clicked his tongue and came toward me.

"Kim Najin, was it? Looks like a cheap cursed prop you dressed up for a prank. Hand it over. I'll appraise it myself."

"You'll regret it."

"Enough chatter — hand it over!"

I shrugged and drew Tyrfing again, holding it out. The professor snatched it with a flourish.

"See? This kind of obvious trick—"

His swagger didn't last a full second.

"Ghk!"

His whole body locked up as if lightning had gone through him.

"Ghhhkk—"

He'd grabbed the hilt with such confidence that he was even slower to let go. The assistant had at least been tense, barely grazing it. The professor ripped his hand away as if he'd been burned — but in his mind, a great deal of time had already passed.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Everything was my fault…."

He finally dropped the sword and sank to his knees right there, tears running freely down his face. Pinned under the Mythic Magic Sword's killing intent, he couldn't even breathe properly. The sight of him shaking apart was almost impressive.

In the end he pulled out his smartphone with trembling hands and called someone.

Ten minutes later, the president of Manbeop University, Song Hojin, burst into the admissions office wiping sweat from his brow.

Judging by the speed, he'd taken the report in the president's office and flown straight over on his movement skill.

"Where is he?! The monster who can wield a Mythic Magic Sword!"

His gaze locked onto the Tyrfing in my hand. Unlike the assistant and the professor, he didn't reach for it. He simply stood a step back and felt the aura pouring off the blade, and that was enough. He saw the weapon's rank for what it was.

"Th-this is the real thing. A genuine demonic sword steeped in eons of blood. But how are you holding it and still sane? Still standing there like nothing's wrong?"

"My trait is specialized for suppressing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and controlling a demonic sword's curse."

I answered without much heat and slipped Tyrfing into the World of the Sword.

The dreadful killing intent crushing the room lifted as if it had never been there. Only then did the president drag in a huge, relieved breath.

"That control is perfect. An undergraduate who can fully handle a Mythic Magic Sword…"

Greed and delight flashed through Song Hojin's eyes.

"If I let a student with talent this monstrous slip through my fingers, I'd have no right to keep the president's chair."

"Thank you. And regarding the scholarship—"

"Why would you worry about a thing like that? A full ride, of course!"

He clapped my shoulder with a booming laugh. I'd been ready to take out another loan if I had to. Him coming out like this was a stroke of luck.

"Thank you."

"That said, all I can put in your hands right now is one semester's worth."

"Why is that?"

I'd heard universities didn't skimp on gifted students. Was he still suspicious?

The president lowered his voice at once, glancing around.

"If it were up to me, I'd promise you every resource we've got — but those Ministry of Education types watch university operations like hawks."

Competition among universities to land gifted students was vicious. The Ministry watched that process, and it kept a tight leash on it.

"If we stuff cash in your pocket too openly when you don't have official dungeon-clear records or a ranking to your name, the Ministry could come knocking with an audit — embezzlement of scholarship funds, predatory recruiting, that sort of thing. They might even force you back to your original university, or claw back every bit of the scholarship and support."

I'd heard that story before. The president dropped his voice even further.

"So here's the thing. The scholarship will keep coming, bit by bit — but for now, besides that…"

"You're saying there's another kind of support."

"Shh."

He was almost whispering.

"Our school runs a dormitory system, and there's a hidden VIP Royal Room we never assign to ordinary students. I'm of a mind to give it to you."

By his account, the room was fitted out like a luxury hotel — breakfast included. In practice, it was the school's way of routing support around the scholarship rules.

"And if you thoroughly, humiliatingly crush those Deokseong brats at next month's Deok-Man Rivalry — I'll fund your growth out of my own pocket, not the school budget. How about it?"

He didn't stop at the room. He was promising personal backing on top of it.

Crush Deokseong University and Park Mansu — the ones who'd treated me like trash — with my own hands, and get paid handsomely for it?

"That's an offer with no reason to refuse."

From where I stood, there was no cleaner deal in the world.