Hunted
The murmur was growing louder.
Beyond the training ground wall, the muffled noise that had first bled through was sharpening into clear words.
"Where'd that kid go—the one who said that thing earlier?"
"He was definitely in the back row. Just a minute ago."
"What's his name? Anyone know?"
I pressed my back flat against the wall and froze.
They were looking for me. Everyone was looking for me.
Why? Why on earth were they looking for me? I was just some guy who threw out a rude comment. They could've just ignored it and moved on.
Wasn't it a basic social virtue to pretend you never saw anything when someone said something like that?
"The instructor was staring over that way too, earlier."
……The instructor too?
Cold sweat trickled down my spine.
I spread my palm and glared at the status window floating in the air before me.
All for this. All for this measly seven.
My entire life was mortgaged for a number that couldn't even buy one stat point. A number three short of ten. It felt exactly like working an hour at a convenience store and not even earning minimum wage.
As I stared at the pitiful digits, the murmur beyond the wall continued to swell. Soon, footsteps began heading toward the training ground entrance.
They were coming this way.
I hastily closed the status window and turned the other way, slipping along the building's shadow into the narrow passage between the supply warehouse and the perimeter wall.
Cobwebs clung to my face, but I didn't care. What I needed right now wasn't dignity—it was absolute concealment.
It's fine. It's fine. Once lunchtime passes, everyone will forget. Who'd remember something like this that long?
I desperately brainwashed myself as I emerged from the end of the passage.
Meanwhile, Yoo Arin couldn't bring herself to leave the measuring device.
"That's a new record! A first-year record, no less!"
"Did you see the final strike number? Insane. Truly."
Applause and exclamations poured in from every direction. The screen displayed a staggering figure she'd never seen before—even from herself.
Yet strangely, the number refused to register.
—Your left heel lifts on the third strike.
That voice alone kept replaying in her head, over and over.
Heel.
Yoo Arin looked down at her own left foot.
Since she'd first picked up a sword at six years old, she had never once been told she had a flaw.
The family's instructors had been too busy marveling at her technique. Even her father had insisted there was nothing to fix. It was perfect.
A talent that came around once in a century in the Yoo Family's hundred-year history.
But somewhere along the way, her swordsmanship had stopped growing.
The numbers had crept up slightly, but that was purely from increased muscle strength—not from any improvement in her sword.
She knew this fact in her bones. She alone could feel it clearly: something was blocked.
She just didn't know where.
She'd asked the instructors. Begged them to tell her what to fix.
But their answer was always the same. "The young lady's sword is perfect. This plateau is a matter of the mind. Do not rush."
A matter of the mind.
The people who said that had no idea how maddening those words could be.
But today—
A nameless cadet sitting in the back corner had ended it all with a single sentence.
"Your heel lifts, so your power leaks out, and you're forcing your shoulder to compensate for the loss."
The moment she heard the critique, Yoo Arin had reflexively wanted to deny it. How dare someone—how dare anyone—critique her sword.
But before the denial could cross her throat, her body had answered first.
The faint sensation of empty space beneath her left heel, just before the third strike.
A disquiet that had been buried beneath her consciousness for over ten years had been dragged to the surface by that one sentence.
So she swung again. Planting her heel firmly into the ground.
And the result was the new record now floating on the measuring device.
Ten years of stagnation, pierced clean through by a stranger's single remark.
Yoo Arin looked down at her sword-gripping hand. It was trembling.
Whether from anger, fear, or joy, she couldn't tell.
She lifted her gaze to where he had been sitting. The seat was empty.
He had tossed out those words carelessly, left only a casual "bathroom break," and walked away as if nothing had happened.
His face came to mind.
Expressionless. Eyes half-lidded. Not a single facial muscle had moved even as the entire training ground turned to stare at him—that detached, impassive face.
It was as if he were saying:
"Shouldn't this be obvious?"
What every instructor in the Yoo Family had failed to see in ten years, he'd spotted in a single glance as he passed by.
"……Excuse me."
Yoo Arin grabbed the arm of the nearest cadet.
The male student jumped in surprise, his face draining of color at being suddenly seized.
"T-the demonstration just now was truly amazing—"
"That person from earlier."
"Huh?"
"The one who talked about the heel. What's his name?"
The boy blinked, flustered.
"Um… I'm not sure… He was in the back row. Wait, was he in our class? L-Lee Siheon? I think? Lee Siheon, probably. He's not a very well-known guy, so…"
"Lee Siheon."
Yoo Arin let the name roll around in her mouth.
"His rank?"
"Well… I'm not entirely sure, but I think I heard he's F-rank…"
F-rank.
Yoo Arin's red eyes narrowed.
An F-rank cadet spotting a flaw in the Yoo Family's direct-line swordsmanship that no one else had seen. Was that even possible?
It couldn't be.
Then there was only one answer.
That F-rank designation itself was hiding something.
Han Jiwon stood on the platform with her arms crossed, deliberately setting herself apart from the erupting applause.
Her gaze wasn't fixed on the measuring device displaying the new record. It was locked on the training ground entrance where a cadet had just slipped out.
"Your left heel lifts on the third strike."
The moment she'd heard that critique, Han Jiwon had nearly burst out laughing right there on the platform.
She'd seen it too. During Yoo Arin's first demonstration, she'd noticed the heel lifting ever so slightly on the third strike.
Eyes that had spent fifteen years as an A-rank hunter could see it. She'd been planning to point it out quietly during individual guidance time.
A genius's pride was like glasswork—it needed to be handled in the right order.
But a cadet in the back corner had tossed it out right in the middle of the silence after the applause faded.
Without a shred of hesitation. Without a hint of consideration for the Yoo Family's direct-line prestige. He'd even added the evaluation that the first and second strikes were "a pity."
What on earth is that thing?
Judging by observation alone, it was the eye of at least a senior active hunter. And stranger still than those eyes was the kid's demeanor.
With every gaze in the training ground pinned on him, his expression hadn't changed a single degree.
Tense people's shoulders stiffen. Bragging people's pupils tremble. But that cadet had done neither—he just looked… bored.
As if he'd said everything he needed to say, he'd stood up, muttered "bathroom break," and walked out.
Han Jiwon pulled a terminal from her pocket, brought up the cadet roster, and traced back to a name she'd skimmed during roll call.
Lee Siheon.
Lee Siheon / 1st Year / Mana Rank: F
Practical Exam: Bottom 8%
Written Exam: Below Average
Special Notes: None
Nothing else appeared no matter how far she scrolled. No recommendation letters, no awards, no family or clan affiliations.
It had been a while since she'd seen a roster this clean.
An F-rank with practical exam scores in the bottom 8% had spotted a flaw that an A-rank instructor had only just caught—and done it from the back corner of the room.
Han Jiwon's brow furrowed.
On the front lines, she'd encountered her share of people like this.
Those whose measuring device numbers didn't match their actual combat power. Those with reasons to hide their rank.
And those reasons had rarely been on the good side.
"Special Notes: None."
Nothing at all is the biggest special note of all.
Han Jiwon powered off the terminal.
She had no intention of confronting him right now. The more you poke at someone hiding, the deeper they burrow.
She'd just watch quietly. There were still three years of academy life ahead, and practical exams and sparring sessions happened every week.
Hidden claws always showed themselves in real combat eventually.
The cafeteria at lunchtime was hell.
The moment I stepped toward the entrance to join the serving line, a conversation from inside caught my foot.
"So he spotted Yoo Arin's flaw at a glance? And he was sitting in the back row. At the very end of the training ground, I mean."
"Pfft, is that even possible?"
"The instructor couldn't catch it, right? But he did? Then he's better than the instructor…"
"Hey, did you see his face? I was in the row right next to him. Yoo Arin was staring right at him and he didn't even blink. He looked like he'd known everything from the start."
Like he'd known everything from the start? What nonsense!
That was the face of someone whose facial muscles had died from shame!
I backed out of the cafeteria silently.
I roughed out lunch with bread from the convenience store, eating it hidden on the emergency stairs behind the main building—afraid even the sound of tearing the wrapper would draw attention.
The entire afternoon was a continuous flight.
I sat in a corner of the library, only to hear someone at the next table say, "He's been coming to the library a lot lately. Reclusive masters always read a lot, right?" and had to bolt.
Trying to cross the dormitory lounge, I heard someone ask, "Who's Lee Siheon? Anyone know what he looks like?" and hurried behind a pillar.
Within half a day, even my name had been leaked.
After being chased and chased, I ended up in an empty classroom on the third floor of the old building, used as a storage room.
Curling up behind a dusty desk, I finally felt I could breathe again.
But there was already someone there.
"……Who are you?"
A chubby male student sitting on the floor across two desks from me, curled up just like me, looked up at me in surprise. He was holding a handheld game console.
"Oh, I'm skipping afternoon physical training… You? You're…?"
"……Same thing, basically."
The bond of shared suffering was a terrifying thing—we reached a silent agreement to tolerate each other's existence in just three seconds.
He buried his nose back into his game console, and I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
About ten minutes passed. He set down his game console and suddenly spoke up.
"Hey, did you hear about it? Yoo Arin set a new record this morning."
My stomach reflexively twisted.
"……I heard."
"A first-year record, apparently. Man, the Yoo Family direct line is truly broken. Everything's decided from birth. Guys like us are just…"
That moment, a calculation ran through my head.
Subject present. Target absent. And jealousy. Jealousy didn't even need confirmation.
My stomach had been churning ever since I'd heard the words "new record."
He'd become a once-in-a-generation genius thanks to the record he set because of the flaw I'd pointed out, and the one who pointed it out was sitting in a dusty storage room picking at bread crumbs.
Ugh, I really hate saying this.
Talking behind someone's back in front of a stranger I'd never met before—that was the fastest road to becoming a person with no morals.
But I had points on the line.
I kept my eyes closed and spoke as nonchalantly as I could.
Talking Behind Back
Jealousy Points +1
Jealousy Points: 8
It came in. One point. A heartbreakingly meager one point.
But there was no reply from beside me.
I opened my eyes to find him staring at me, looking like he was about to drop his game console. His eyes were wide.
"……Heel."
"What."
"You said heel. You said she still has a long way to go… Yoo Arin's…"
His gaze swept up and down my face.
And in those eyes, the same look that had been chasing me all day began to fill.
"You… you're the one from this morning, right?!"
"You've got the wrong person."
"That's you! Messy hair, skinny build, expressionless face…!"
"You've got the wrong person."
I shot up and bolted out of the storage room.
A voice followed from behind—"W-wait! Autograph… no, not an autograph, wait!"—but I didn't look back.
There was no safe zone in this school.
It wasn't until evening roll call approached that I decided to head back to the dormitory.
By this time, everyone would be in their rooms or lounges.
There was a connecting passage on the old building side that let me enter through the back door without running into anyone. A route I'd memorized from running around all day.
To become so familiar with the campus layout in a single day—what a tear-jerking rate of growth.
The corridor in the connecting passage was empty, just as expected.
It was already dark outside, and half the corridor lights were off. Only my footsteps echoed.
As I walked, I mulled over my status window.
Eight points. Just two more and I get one stat point. I should put it into mana. From 8 to 9… E-rank is 12, so I still have a long way to go…
Lost in calculation, I turned the corner of the corridor.
And froze.
Beyond the corner, beneath the dead lights—
Black straight hair reaching to the waist. A posture standing straight without a single strand out of place. A rapier at her hip, engraved with the family crest.
Yoo Arin was standing there.
Blocking the center of the corridor, her red eyes fixed straight ahead—on me.
Why.
Why are you here.
This is a path nobody uses. I confirmed it myself, putting in a full day's worth of footwork. Could it be you also spent the whole day…?
While questions exploded in my head like fireworks, my body froze solid, just as it had in the training ground. My face, my legs—everything.
I frantically rolled my eyes. To the left, a locked lecture hall door. To the right, a window.
But this was the third floor. Turn around and run? With F-rank legs worn out from a full day of fleeing, against a B-rank mana-speed-type swordsman?
There was no retreat.
The numbers, the odds, common sense—they all pointed to the same conclusion. None. There was none anywhere.
And toward me, frozen like that, Yoo Arin took one step. Straight toward me.
Her lips parted.
"Found you."