What Is a Fair Society

Afternoon.

An electronic billboard was mounted on the central building downtown, where the crowds surged and jostled. And up on that screen—

It was not the usual run of advertisements. A news bulletin had cut in, live. The screen showed the gutted interior of the building, a lobby soaked in blood, bodies carried out one after another on stretchers. There was no background music. Only the anchor's voice, ringing heavy.

A blood-drenched corridor blurred under mosaic, a wrecked office, a name badge smeared red. News captions crawled slowly across the bottom of the screen.

The camera cut. A woman appeared, heavily made up, dressed in black. She held up a brightly smiling ID photograph of a little girl and said it was her child. Pale skin. A neat bob. In the corner of the screen, a caption came up.

She fixed her eyes on the camera, and with a face like someone crushing an emotion down until it burst, she opened her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouth.

"Our Jisu... she can't even read properly yet... She cries if she sees something scary. And a child like that, a child like that... why would you kill her..."

The photograph jerked in her hand. In the end, she wept.

"We both work, so we had no choice but to leave her at the company daycare. Is that a crime? I stepped away for one cup of coffee, and... my daughter... she's dead... They say she's dead...!"

What covered the grief was rage. A savage hatred for the man who had killed her little girl.

"That bastard, that man... he was just a monster. He tore through the shutter and came in... and my baby, Jisu... a perfectly healthy child..."

"I want him dead. That bastard—send him to hell. If the devil is real, I'll offer up my soul, please... please..."

The mother broke. She sank to the floor and began to sob. Around her, a caption drifted past, and the image blurred into a soft smear before the broadcast cut away.

In front of the street billboard, the people watching the news shook their heads.

"The world's gone to hell. How do you kill a poor kid like that..."

"That thing isn't even human. If they catch him, execution's too good. They ought to tear him limb from limb."

"Han Seungwoo? They even put the name out. Isn't that a complete psychopath?"

"I hope they grab him fast. I'm too scared to even walk the streets."

Rage. Tears. And a manufactured sense of justice spread over the entire city.

No one asked. Whether that child had really been a child. Whether that mother had really been a mother. They only wept, and raged, and threw kindling onto a witch hunt.

"..."

And I was walking that street, paved over with fury. My photograph, blown up huge, was pasted across the billboard, the press, every corner of the city, and I passed beneath it without a change of expression.

Even so, not a single person who went by recognized me. They couldn't have.

The Karma I had gained while clearing out Seongjin Group had passed 300,000. Because of that, after transcending Agility, I had transcended Stamina as well.

The reason was simple. As it stood, my Strength was already enough to tear a security shutter apart without effort. It was power you could fairly call monstrous, and I had judged that anything beyond it was excessive for killing human beings.

So I had transcended Stamina instead—a kind of durability, something that could shield my body if an enemy's attack ever came.

Transcended Stamina, together with the existence of Qi, had given rise to realized techniques of the same order as Double Jump.

That was Muscle–Skeletal Control. And by using the technique, I was no longer Han Seungwoo. I had become someone else.

An ordinary man in his twenties, the sort every neighborhood has one of. A face so plain that you could pass it and never register who it belonged to.

Qi. This is the center of every technique.

What I understood all over again was this: Qi, that special stat, fused with the ordinary ones and produced all manner of techniques.

If I transcended Strength as well, another technique would probably be born. For now, that was impossible. The Karma I had obtained at Seongjin Group was already invested in Agility, Stamina, and History of Judgment.

In any case, the government's lies and the operation built upon them changed nothing. I could stroll the heart of the city without a flicker of concern. No one would be accounting for a disguise this perfect. No—a transformation.

They might imagine they could control me, suppress me. Not in the slightest. I was no ordinary human. The only trait-holder in the world. An Awakened.

Unless they understood my world, nothing they did would ever bring me to heel.

And—

My revenge as well.

I had annihilated the bribed police, and the Seongjin Group standing behind them. Seongjin had been a detour. My revenge was not finished.

I drew the thoughts back in and stopped.

Straight ahead.

Past the main gate, what met me was a neatly kept lawn and an assembly platform. The motto was engraved on a marble plaque, and at the center a statue of a man with an authoritative face held a textbook.

The grass was green. The buildings had a stately, old-money grace. The students' uniforms were crisp, and the teachers' faces were dressed to the hilt in moral hypocrisy. But what lay hidden beneath that scenery was the ugly appetite of those who had, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hell for those who had not.

Fifth period. Life and Ethics.

A chime announced the hour, and the classroom door opened. The man who came in was the head teacher, Park Geuntae. An expensive watch, shoes chosen as if to match it, a voice pitched thoroughly overbearing. He strode up onto the platform and looked down at the students.

"Honestly. Every time I walk into this class, my mood sours."

Park Geuntae set his coffee on the lectern and turned his head slowly. His gaze landed on the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠student seated in the very front row.

"Jung Taesik."

In an instant the whole classroom went cold.

"Come up here."

"...Yes."

Jung Taesik. A uniform worn to threads, sneakers rubbed through. At that shabby figure, Park Geuntae let out a thin smirk.

"You want to know why I feel sick every time I come into this class? Smell that. How am I supposed to be in a good mood when it smells like this?"

A blatant personal attack. The rest of the class, however, kept smiling, as if they found it entertaining.

"I told you before, didn't I. Keep your conduct decent. And look at the state of you. Did you even shower? Don't tell me the hot water doesn't work at your house."

Laughter broke from the back of the room.

"Hahahaha—"

"Oh, come on. No hot water? That can't be real."

"Wait, this kid was in our class?"

At the insult, Jung Taesik's shoulders drew in.

"And you. Why didn't your parents come to the conference this time?"

"..."

"Can't answer? Oh, right. Both of them are unwell, wasn't it? One limps, and the other's got a bad back?"

"...That's..."

"There. You see?"

Park Geuntae swept his eyes once over the class and went on.

"This is why you shouldn't be born like this. If the parents are poor, they simply shouldn't have children. Poverty is a sin, and your very existence is a nuisance."

At those naked words—

"..."

Jung Taesik's lips trembled. His eyes began to shake, unfocused.

"How is a kid like this sitting here in our school's uniform? Oh! This was a hand-me-down too, wasn't it?"

"Can't even buy a single uniform, and you call yourself a student."

"Honestly, kids like you are why our school's standards keep dropping. Poverty, you see, is like a disease. Because of you, the kids around you are catching it, and the school's image is already rotting."

"..."

"Be honest. You come to school because you're starving at home, don't you? Since the lunch is free."

"That's not..."

"Kids like this always steal from the snack bar. The owner said so just the other day. Someone's been taking things lately. We all know it's you."

"Th-that was something I bough—"

"Shut your mouth. Who said you could talk back?"

A stick of chalk smacked into Jung Taesik's cheek.

"Whoa, nice shot, Teach!"

"There's a chalk mark on his cheek. Heh heh."

"I can't, I'm dying."

The room brightened with the roar of laughter.

"Still, I suppose you have a use. The mood in here is great because of you, isn't it? Be grateful you contributed at least that much, and get back to your seat."

"..."

Unable to answer, unable to resist, Jung Taesik trudged toward his desk. But—

"Teacher, I can't sit there, he smells. The seat next to that kid is seriously stressful."

She had gone out of her way to sit as far from him as she could, and still the girl in the neighboring seat spoke.

"Yeah? Then we'll switch. Taesik, back of the classroom. Next to the trash can."

Forced into the humiliating move, Jung Taesik sat down beside the trash. And then—

Thud. Smack. Garbage flew at the can—no, precisely at him—and struck his body.

"Ah, sorry. There was trash, so I thought it was trash."

"Trash next to the trash can. Suits you."

Jung Taesik could not lift his head. His eyes were already gone. The soul had left them.

"..."

Park Geuntae watched that figure with care.

"Listen well. If the rest of you don't want to end up like Taesik, you'd better study hard. Poverty is a sin. Don't you dare blame the system. Study hard, make plenty of money, and become someone who contributes to society."

He let the last of it fall and scanned the children's faces one by one. They were smiling. As if they agreed. As if they were enjoying it. Watching those expressions, he took a sip of coffee. A bitter taste spread through his mouth.

But his eyes had gone cold.

Good. One step further today.

His gaze turned to Taesik. The boy beside the trash can, head buried on his desk. A face with no strength left to cry, and no courage left to fight back.

Most people would have felt at least a cheap pity at the sight. But—

If I were going to feel guilty over something like this, I never would have touched a deal like that in the first place.

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly.

A hundred thousand if the brat drops out within a month. A million if he kills himself.

A simple condition. A bet with the son of a National Assembly member, the highest power in this school. It hadn't been an open transaction. Just something spilled over drinks, in private. A sneer—can't you even get a kid like that to drop out?—and a number offered like a joke.

At that number, Park Geuntae had not laughed.

A million dollars is a storefront in the middle of Seoul. Next to money like that, a teaching career isn't worth shit.

So he had begun. Every class, he made the boy a target and set the mood for the others: collective mockery built on poverty and smell. He dragged the parents in to break the boy's character, fouled his private life, and spread the rumors.

Yeah. Whether the kid dies or not, what do I care? That's how the world works. If you're weak, you die.

He drank his coffee again. This time a little deeper, a little slower.

Withdrawal isn't far off... If I want him dead, I'll have to drive him harder.

When he opened his eyes again, Taesik's face had gone white.

The real work starts now.

Park Geuntae smiled. There was nothing human in his eyes. Only a calculated number, and a single target meant to produce it.

But a moment later he wiped the vile smile away and, unruffled, opened the textbook. He was an ethics teacher.

"Today's topic concerns what a fair society is..."

He was about to proceed with the lesson when it came.

Tok.

From beyond the classroom, down the long corridor, an unfamiliar sound spread. At first no one paid it any mind. But the sound did not break. It approached the room at a steady interval.

Tok. Tok.

Not sneakers. Not slippers. It was the footfall of dress shoes, weight set into them on purpose.

"What...?"

One student murmured. Without a word, the children turned their eyes to the door. Park Geuntae, too, had just frowned and looked toward the hall.

The classroom door rattled open.

"Who...?"

Park Geuntae asked it with a teacher's dignity for company, the way one rebukes an intruder with no manners.

"..."

There was no answer. The man who had entered the room looked to be in his early twenties. A face that was unfamiliar, and yet ordinary. But his eyes—no anger showed there, no hatred, no feeling at all.

"I asked who you are!"

Once he had placed the intruder as younger than himself, Park Geuntae dropped into blunt speech, shoved his chair back, and stood. Behind him, the students held their breath, tense.

"..."

And the stranger quietly opened his mouth.

"...What a fair society is."

"What?!"

"I came to answer that question."

"..."

At those words—at that single line—the classroom sank into silence.

Why? He couldn't have said. Something, something, had gone wrong. Everyone in the room, Park Geuntae included, felt it on instinct. That this classroom was no longer safe.

The man slowly turned his head. That gaze met Park Geuntae's eyes exactly.

The door slid shut with a bang.

No more class would be held here. There would only be judgment—for that filthy sin of shattering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the souls of children who ought to have been growing into their dreams, evil committed from the past straight through to the present.