Writing the Sky, One Hue Beneath the Mountain (5)

Once my record-breaking self-introduction wrapped up, the remaining cadets took their turns one after another. By the time the last of them finished, the first period was nearly over.

"Aigoo. We're running late. We still have to form squads, you know."

Instructor Seo Ha-shin tapped his own shoulder with his clipboard.

"Since roles are essentially meaningless during the first semester anyway, we'll assign squads ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by lottery."

A squad was one of the smaller manpower units in military organization. Typically eight to sixteen personnel made up a single squad, and three or four of those squads together formed a platoon.

"Now, we'll pick in reverse order of names. This composition will shift now and again regardless, so don't get attached to your number."

For one thing, Hwadam Army's structure differed slightly: six cadets to a squad. With eighteen personnel in 1st Platoon, that made three squads in total.

The lottery settled our squad memberships in an instant.

My squad consisted of Seong Gwon, Pyo Do-hyeok, Kim To-eun, Lee Hoe-uk, and Sa Seo-yeon.

Call it good luck or bad. Having Seong Gwon with us was a definite plus, but Pyo Do-hyeok had turned openly hostile toward me after my introduction. It was only merciful that the others remained in neutral territory.

"Good. Platoon leader is... ah, right, the assistant instructor hasn't been assigned yet. In that case, Seong Gwon. You'll serve as interim platoon leader."

"Yes, sir."

"The squad leader will be the last person assigned to each squad. Seong Gwon, you'll hold the squad leader position as well. It's not normally a dual post, but since this is temporary, I'll let it slide. Once the homeroom assistant instructor is decided, they'll take over as platoon leader, so don't worry about it. Dismissed."

The moment Instructor Seo Ha-shin finished speaking, the bell rang. End of first period.

Instructor Seo Ha-shin swiftly gathered his things.

"For reference, all classes are conducted with two platoons combined, and you'll generally move to your lecture rooms for lessons. I trust none of you will show up late and drag the name of 1st Platoon through the mud? Carry on."

He waved as he left, breezy to the very end — though never once did that breeziness come across as flippancy.

"Prepare to move."

With the instructor gone, Seong Gwon, our interim platoon leader, spoke up — even as her hands were busy collecting the issued textbooks and writing tools.

"Second period is Fantasy and Mystery, third is Military English, and fourth is Otherworld Warrior. Make sure you don't grab the wrong textbooks. Move in a two-rank column. Squad leaders will verify their members' textbooks, then form up in order: 1st, 2nd, then 3rd Squad."

Seong Gwon hadn't exactly been the soft-spoken type even at our first meeting, but after the induction period, she now sounded like a genuine soldier through and through.

"Um, we're leaving already?"

"The monorail to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lecture buildings still takes two minutes, and accounting for routes overlapping with other platoons, it could take longer. That's why we're departing early. Any objections?"

"No, it's just... I need the bathroom."

"There are bathrooms in the lecture buildings too. If it's not urgent, I'd recommend using those."

Had Seong Gwon already memorized the entire layout of the academy? I'd managed a rough mental map myself, but I hadn't gotten as far as the bathrooms yet.

Watching my platoon leader — not exactly kind, but undeniably attentive — gave me a vivid sense of my own shortcomings.

The original Seong Gwon hadn't made lieutenant at twenty-five and major at thirty for nothing. If I wanted to aim for the standing she'd carved out in the original story, I had to work that much harder.

"Wow, our interim platoon leader is a total by-the-book type."

Just then, Kim To-eun, a squadmate of mine, murmured half to herself. It didn't sound like she was trash-talking Seong Gwon — more like an honest, wide-eyed admiration.

With those two tufts of hair sticking straight up like rabbit ears, she even came across as a little bubbly. The fact that her hair was lavender, of all colors, only reinforced it.

'This is the part where it feels a little unreal.'

It was still Earth, technically — but with people's hair coming in every color of the rainbow, and the occasional type who flat-out ignored the laws of physics, the whole vibe was genuinely surreal. Not that I was about to conclude this world was fake and I'd merely crossed over into it.

"Hey, hey — is it okay to call your name?"

"Hm? Oh, me?"

"Yeah. It seemed like there was something about how saying your name carelessly triggers a forced contract or whatever."

"It's fine when other people say it. The only rule is I can't say it myself. The instructor said my name just fine earlier, didn't he?"

"Oh good then! I'm Kim To-eun. You're Yahui, right? Your name's just one syllable?"

"Yep. Single-syllable name."

"It's so pretty! Looking forward to working with you."

"Same here."

Both Kim To-eun and I had everything packed and ready to go. Falling into the two-rank column honestly took all of three seconds.

So while the rest of the cadets hurriedly lined up, we chatted at our leisure. Kim To-eun had already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been sending friendly glances my way even before the introductions, which made conversation easy.

"Wow, Mr. Popular, huh? Someone's already making a move on you."

That was when a cadet from 2nd Squad cut in.

A male cadet with golden-blonde hair so bright it looked forged from actual gold, and eyes a piercing, almost vivid blue.

"What the—"

"I'm Pyo Do-seok. Looking forward to it, Mr. Popular?"

This cadet's name was Pyo Do-seok. He was the twin older brother of Pyo Do-hyeok, the cadet assigned to my own squad.

He was also, notably, a cadet whose expression contrasted enormously with his twin's. Pyo Do-hyeok hadn't cracked a smile once since entering the platoon room, while this one wore a lazy grin and chatted away with practiced ease.

"What, no hello back?"

The problem was that this one had also developed an aversion to me since the introductions.

Worse, his hostility ran deeper than Pyo Do-hyeok's. Do-hyeok had at least managed to collect his emotions quickly; Do-seok made no attempt whatsoever to hide his animosity, even now, as he initiated conversation.

As if a pleasant tone of voice were all it took to pass as friendly.

How should I handle this? Just as the question was forming, Seong Gwon sliced cleanly through the strange tension in the air.

Glancing back, I saw the column had already formed. Seong Gwon stared levelly at the two of us.

"We're moving out."

"Well, can't be helped."

Pyo Do-seok couldn't hold out against that stare either. I watched him fall back, then turned to Kim To-eun.

"You okay?"

"Y-yeah."

What is with that guy? Kim To-eun whispered under her breath. All I could offer in response was a small nod.

All things considered, it was a creaky, wobbly start.

"Pleased to meet you all. I am Choi. Ye. Na, and I will be teaching you Fantasy and Mystery."

Our first class was Fantasy and Mystery — the course that taught knowledge of Phantasms.

"What, exactly, is a Phantasm? What is Fantasy and Mystery, and what does it exist to teach?"

Scritch, scritch.

Instructor Choi Ye-na wrote on the blackboard: Phantasm. The chalk was white, so the faint, washed-out letters burned themselves into my eyes.

"The Otherworld and Dimension Gates are concepts even civilians know well — they're taught in ordinary elementary and middle schools. Phantasms are not. These beings, sloppily defined through nothing but scattered eyewitness accounts as 'summoned beasts' or 'supernatural abilities' or other vague notions — from today onward, you will learn what they actually are. Properly."

We had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠received some instruction on Phantasms during the induction period, but Instructor Choi Ye-na treated that time as if it had never happened.

Presumably, since it hadn't been taught properly, it didn't count.

"First. A Phantasm is a wellspring of power that allows humans to stand against the Otherworld and its creatures — and, if left uncontrolled, a companion every bit as dangerous as those creatures themselves."

Instructor Choi Ye-na lifted the white chalk from the blackboard for a moment and operated the remote control clutched in her palm.

A grainy, low-resolution photograph appeared on the mounted TV screen. A chaotic downtown street.

"In 1965, an incident in downtown Guangzhou, China left hundreds dead and thousands injured. Officially, it was reported to the public as a disaster caused by a Sudden Gate—"

Beep.

The slide changed.

"—but the truth was different. The perpetrator of that incident was a Phantasm that had slipped its handler's control."

The blurry figure caught in the photograph looked, at a glance, like a monster you'd readily file away as an Otherworld creature. Instructor Choi Ye-na worked the remote again.

"The Thirteenth-Day Murderer, who claimed eighty-seven victims in the United States. This case was the same. The world believed a human did it — in reality, it was the work of a Phantasm."

Beep. Beep. Beep. With every slide change, incident after incident from country after country flashed across the screen. It was enough to make me thank whatever gods existed that Korea wasn't among them.

"As you can see, a Phantasm is not a safe creature merely because we call it one. That is why we must study them. That is why this class exists."

I transcribed the instructor's every word into my issued paper textbook and the personal notepad I'd brought along. Recording devices were prohibited for security reasons, so handwriting was the best I could manage.

'Having knowledge of the original story is no excuse for coasting.'

The deeper we went, the more certain it became that details never once mentioned in the original would come pouring out. Better to study hard from the start than to regret it later.

"Open to page eight."

At some point, the instructor had finished her introduction. The rustle of turning pages filled the classroom, and there it was — a page laying out the basic definitions of Phantasms in concise terms.

"Phantasms are beings that originate from what we call 'tales' — seolhwa. Creatures from stories handed down since ancient times gained life of their own and came to exist in reality."

Instructor Choi Ye-na built her explanation on the textbook's contents, occasionally adding supplementary notes to the blackboard.

"Therefore, to understand Phantasms, you must study the old tales they emerged from. You'll be visiting Cheonlyang-gwan often from here on, so start cultivating a reading habit now."

Cheonlyang-gwan — that was probably the library, then. Given all the talk of reading, it seemed a safe bet.

Presumably because the class had drifted in a direction quite different from what they'd expected, the expressions on some of the cadets' faces began to curdle.

'But she's not mentioning artificial tales.'

That was what concerned me more.

'Is she skipping it because we're brand new?'

Truthfully, that was the most likely explanation. Bringing up artificial tales would complicate the material enormously.

It would be something like force-feeding quadratic equations to kids still learning their numbers.

'But we'll learn it someday, surely.'

Artificial tales were the sharpest blade Hwadam Army — that humanity — had ever forged.

So sharp, in fact, that every now and then it cut the hand that held it.

"Moving on to Phantasmal Aptitude. Broken down in detail, it splits into three broad categories: Perception Aptitude, Individual Compatibility, and Contract Capacity."

Whatever daydreams I was entertaining, whatever the other cadets were feeling — the instructor's lecture marched on without pause.

Perception Aptitude and Individual Compatibility were the talents I'd once compared to cooking. In simpler terms, you could call them whether (perception and contracting) was possible at all, and how well you matched with a given partner.

"Contract Capacity refers to the size of the vessel a human possesses."

The last one, Contract Capacity, meant exactly what it said: the talent governing how many beings you could contract with, and of what grade.

"This vessel is generally complete by around age nineteen, and it never grows afterward. There have been the occasional rare cases of growth, but you're lucky to see one person a decade — so treat it as if it doesn't happen."

After all, a contract with a Phantasm required mutual agreement — wanting it wasn't enough. Why? Well, suppose you had a cup and some water, and both parties said yes: you still couldn't pour two liters of water into a 500-milliliter cup.

Hwadam Army called that kind of limit 'Contract Capacity.' Manhwa readers, for their part, tended to favor the term 'cost limit.'

'The higher-grade the entity, the higher the cost it demanded.'

Because of this system, quality and quantity could never coexist. Most people contracted with a single strongest entity and stopped there, or else filled the leftover cost with low-grade beings when there was room to spare.

'I wonder where my cost limit sits.'

Contract Capacity was something you could only gauge by feel — until you actually landed a contract, there was no way to know your own ceiling.

Even if you could intuit, 'I think I could contract with that one,' it was far harder to know, 'Contracting with that one would fill my vessel halfway.'

'In other words, I have no idea how much I have left.'

Call it a blessing, maybe. My Contract Capacity hadn't been maxed out by the Twin Dragon Blades alone. Not that I knew exactly how much remained, either.

"Moving on — Phantasmal Contracts come in two types: the 'temporary contract' and the 'binding contract.'"

By then, the words Temporary Contract and Binding Contract had been carved onto the blackboard. These were important concepts.

"A temporary contract is a limited-time arrangement. By withholding your name, you maintain a connection that can be severed at any moment."

What the Twin Dragon Blades and I had right now was a temporary contract. If either side — or even just one — willed it, it could be dissolved at any time.

"Of course, the weaker the connection, the less power you can borrow or draw forth. And since even a temporary contract occupies part of your Contract Capacity, it can't be called efficient either."

Temporary contracts didn't even consume less capacity — not by a bit.

In pure efficiency terms, they really were terrible. Still better than rushing into a full contract, discovering a terrible match, and biting the dust in regret — but that was a low bar.

"A binding contract, on the other hand, is formed through the medium of a name. You can draw out a Phantasm's power in full — but once the contract is made, it cannot be broken until one of the two parties dies."

A Phantasm under a binding contract serves no human other than its Phantasmal Lord. If the being were intelligent enough, it might grant the occasional favor — but the only one who could issue it commands was its Lord, and no one else.

"For these reasons, binding contracts are only approved for fourth-years and above, once Contract Capacity is fully settled — and even then, we recommend waiting longer."

Still — irrevocable until one side dies was a heavier penalty than it sounded. Even if you discovered a new aptitude down the road, your partner couldn't be changed.

'In the manhwa, that's why plenty of cadets put it off until just before graduation.'

Not that finding the right partner was the only reason.

It was also a calculated gamble to hold out for the strongest possible Phantasm. A completed Contract Capacity didn't guarantee that a high-grade entity would agree to a contract, after all.

'Rare, sure — but apparently there are high-grade Phantasms out there who'll accept the courtship dance cadets put on for them.'

If your efforts failed and the final day arrived, you simply contracted within the hand you'd been dealt. But if your efforts paid off? You might land a contract with something far stronger. Delaying your binding contract was no loss at all.

"Most Phantasms will not force a binding contract on you simply because they've learned your name — but 'most' is not the same as 'all.' So make absolutely sure you never give your name away. Unless you'd like something to regret later."

Being locked into a contract with someone you never wanted was problem enough, but contracting before your Contract Capacity finalized was a guaranteed loss besides. After all, no one could know how far an individual's capacity might yet expand.

"And you in particular, 1st Platoon — be on your guard at this afternoon's Phantasm Selection Ceremony. Unless, of course, one of you would like to sacrifice yourself to teach the remaining platoons a lesson."

Wait — what did she just say?

We were choosing Phantasms today?

'This soon?'

In the manhwa, the selection happened a week in?

What is going on?