What I Allowed Only Myself
The second day of Introduction to Philosophy.
I stood in front of the lecture hall.
More precisely, I was gathering myself outside the door.
The reason was simple.
Not because I was scared.
Absolutely not.
It had nothing to do with the fact that the students waiting inside were the future Great Witch, the Demon King, the Fallen Saint, a psychopathic Hero, and the original game’s protagonist who already doubted her own existence.
I am a professor.
Professors do not tremble outside a classroom.
My palms were simply a little damp today. That was all.
Alright.
I muttered the word to myself.
Finally, time to check the assignments.
Last class I had given the students homework.
Have you ever thought it would be acceptable for you to become a monster?
If so, was that reason justified?
It was not an ordinary assignment.
Honestly, assigning something like that from the very first lecture was a fairly insane move.
But what choice did I have?
Among the students enrolled in this class were people who would one day become real monsters.
If I had them write something safe like “Describe the history of philosophy,” the world would end.
Beside me, Martin spoke quietly.
“Professor.”
“What is it?”
“Will you be changing the lecture topic again today?”
“No.”
Relief flickered across Martin’s face.
“That’s a relief.”
“Today is a continuation of last time’s topic.”
The relief vanished from Martin’s face.
“That somehow makes me more anxious.”
“Don’t worry.”
I adjusted my glasses.
“Administratively speaking, everything is fine. The syllabus already lists ‘Ethical Judgment and Self-Awareness.’”
Martin checked the papers.
Then he made a very small sound of admiration.
“…It really does.”
“See? I’m learning how to conduct myself.”
“Yes. Watching you use administrative wording as a shield is strangely moving.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Possibly.”
I nodded.
Good.
My relationship with the assistant was improving, little by little.
Of course, there was still a long way to go.
Martin still instinctively took a step back whenever I smiled.
That couldn’t be helped.
When I look in a mirror, I want to step back too.
I took hold of the doorknob.
Voices from the students drifted through the door.
“Is he going to do it like last time again?”
“No idea. But did you write the assignment?”
“Yeah. Felt like something terrible would happen if I didn’t.”
“Professor Werner’s face looks like… the kind that grades without mercy.”
“Just looking at that face, he’d bankrupt the entire family of anyone who skipped the homework.”
“Hey, quiet. If he hears you, your family might actually go bankrupt.”
I paused with my hand still on the knob.
Martin glanced at me carefully.
“Professor.”
“It’s fine.”
I spoke evenly.
“If I had the power to bankrupt entire households, I wouldn’t be working in the philosophy department.”
“….”
Martin had no reply.
I opened the door.
Creeeak.
The lecture hall fell silent.
The air felt different from last time.
On the first day, the students had come prepared for boredom. Some had openly settled in to sleep; others had already calculated the best angle for staring out the window.
Today was different.
They were seated.
Papers lay on the desks.
And most of their eyes were fixed on the chalkboard and the podium.
Good.
Very good.
The sight a professor loves most is a classroom full of focused students.
Of course, I could not express that love with my face.
I walked expressionlessly to the front of the room.
Then I stopped near the back row.
A brown-haired student sat there a little awkwardly.
Rina Everett.
The protagonist of the original game.
The girl who, just yesterday at the training grounds, had been questioning her own existence.
She was not a regular enrollee in Introduction to Philosophy.
She was auditing.
And to file the audit request she had filled out three forms at the administrative building, two recommendation fields, and one enrollment-capacity change confirmation.
This hyper-realistic game did not let its transmigrators off easily.
I spoke to her.
“You made it, Miss Everett.”
Rina bowed her head slightly.
“Yes, Professor.”
A few students turned to look at her.
“An auditor?”
“Why is Rina Everett taking philosophy?”
“I heard she already takes sword and magic classes.”
“What does she even want to become?”
At those words, Rina’s shoulders stiffened just a fraction.
I set the attendance book on the podium and said,
“Starting today, Miss Everett will be auditing this class.”
Every gaze swung toward me.
“Auditors do not receive grades. They do, however, have the right to ask questions.”
I paused briefly.
“In this class, an auditor who asks questions is more welcome than a registered student who never does.”
Rina looked at me.
Her eyes wavered a little.
Good.
One sentence planted.
Not too heavy.
Not too pressuring.
But clear.
I walked to the chalkboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote the day’s topic.
What I Allowed Only Myself
The students grew quiet.
I turned to face them.
“Last time I assigned homework.”
The papers on the desks shifted slightly.
“Have you ever thought it would be acceptable for you to become a monster?”
I tapped the podium lightly.
“And was that reason justified?”
A few faces darkened.
It had not been easy to write, I imagined.
Good.
Easy assignments leave no scars on the mind.
Only difficult ones make a person reach inside themselves.
Of course, if the assignment is too difficult, the students leave scathing reviews on the professor evaluations.
Balance is everything.
I said,
“Before I collect them, let me make one thing clear.”
The students watched me.
“In today’s class, confessions will not be punished.”
A quiet ripple moved through the room.
“This is not a time for hunting down who has had bad thoughts. It is not a time for ranking who is the more virtuous student.”
I spoke slowly.
“It is a time for looking at the excuses inside yourselves.”
Elise Morgan lifted her head.
Black hair.
Cold eyes.
A single thin sheet of paper lay on her desk.
Leonora Wallenstein sat with her arms crossed.
Her assignment sheet had been shoved carelessly to one side.
Serena Arcelia kept her hands neatly folded.
Her paper was dense with writing.
Karen Astra was smiling.
Yet the writing on her paper was strangely short.
Rina Everett held a blank sheet.
She still had not written anything.
I pretended not to notice.
“Monsters are not born overnight.”
I rewrote last class’s definition beneath the topic.
Monster = a human who has issued themselves a free pass
White chalk dust drifted down.
“A human first grants permission to themselves.”
I wrote the first sentence.
I was hurt, so I am allowed to hurt others.
Elise’s eyes moved.
The second sentence.
I am strong, so I am allowed to rule.
Leonora’s fingers tapped the desk.
The third sentence.
I am good, so I am allowed to sacrifice myself.
Serena’s lips tightened.
The fourth sentence.
I am doing it for everyone, so I am allowed to discard a few.
Karen’s smile thinned almost to nothing.
The final sentence.
I am already determined, so I do not have to take responsibility.
Rina’s breath caught.
I looked around the room.
“Every one of these sentences is dangerous.”
A brief silence.
“Because every one of them is, to some degree, plausible.”
The lecture hall was still.
“Utterly nonsensical evil does not hold a person for long. Humans find it difficult to live thinking of themselves as foolish villains.”
I continued,
“That is why evil usually arrives dressed in plausible sentences.”
I tapped the board with the tip of the chalk.
“I had every right.”
Tap.
“I had no choice.”
Tap.
“I did it for a greater purpose.”
Tap.
“I was only trying to protect myself.”
Tap.
“These sentences are the free passes.”
No one moved.
Good.
The words were landing.
I pointed to the empty box on the podium.
“Submit your papers with the names covered.”
A stir ran through the students.
“Cover our names?”
someone asked.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then how will you grade them?”
“I will not grade them today.”
The room stirred more loudly.
From the doorway, Martin stared at me with startled eyes.
“The moment these become scores, you will try to write answers that please me.”
I said,
“But what I need today is not a good answer.”
The murmuring gradually subsided.
“It is an honest one.”
A short while later, students began folding their papers one by one and dropping them into the box.
Elise folded hers with deliberate slowness.
Leonora tossed hers in as if it barely interested her.
Serena brought her hands together as if in prayer before placing hers inside.
Karen smiled as she submitted, but the tips of her fingers were a little stiff.
Rina stared at her blank sheet.
In the end she put nothing in.
I did not call her out.
What a person who has not yet found the words needs is not interrogation, but time.
When every paper was collected, I drew one at random from the box.
I unfolded it.
The handwriting was neat.
The sentences, however, were short.
I read aloud.
“There has never been a moment when I thought it would be acceptable for me to become a monster.”
A few students held their breath.
I looked at the next line.
“However, I also have no certainty that I am not one.”
The room went quiet.
A good answer.
An excellent answer.
I could not know who had written it.
But the sentences carried the mark of genuine thought.
I set the paper down.
“That is the first response.”
The students watched me.
“What is the strength of this answer?”
No one spoke at once.
I waited.
Silence is not the enemy of a class.
Sometimes it is the time in which thought grows.
After a moment, Elise raised her hand.
“The fact that the writer does not claim certainty.”
“Good.”
I nodded.
“Why is that good?”
Elise said,
“A person who says they do not know may be less dangerous than a person who is certain they are good.”
“Why?”
“Because the one who is certain no longer questions their own actions.”
I admired her silently.
As expected.
Future Great Witch.
Philosophy class chemistry off the charts.
Outwardly I only nodded calmly.
“Exactly.”
I wrote on the board.
Certainty can stop judgment.
“A person who considers the possibility that they might be a monster at least examines their own actions.”
I said,
“But a person who believes they could never be a monster may look at blood on their own hands and refuse to see it as blood.”
Karen Astra was watching me.
The bright golden-haired girl was still smiling.
But her eyes were not.
I drew the next paper.
This handwriting had force.
The sentences were short and straight.
“It is natural for the weak to be crushed by the strong.”
The temperature in the room dropped a fraction.
I had a very strong suspicion who had written it.
But the names were covered, so I had to pretend ignorance.
Conduct.
Conduct mattered.
I continued reading.
“However, I do not know whether I would be able to accept it if I myself became the weak one.”
Leonora’s fingers stopped tapping.
A few students glanced at her.
She wore no expression at all.
I folded the paper.
“A good answer.”
Leonora’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
I said,
“If only the first sentence existed, it would have been simple advocacy of violence.”
Then I wrote on the board.
Can you accept your principle when it turns back on you?
“But the second sentence is important.”
I looked around the room.
“Because it asks whether the writer can accept the principle they themselves created when that principle returns upon them.”
Leonora looked at me.
“Professor.”
Her tone was still rough.
Martin’s eyebrows twitched.
I stopped him with a hand.
“Go on.”
Leonora asked,
“So a principle is just a blade pointed at your own throat?”
I almost smiled.
Good.
Truly good.
This class.
Absolutely delicious.
I answered as evenly as I could.
“Yes.”
The room stirred.
“A good principle always applies to me as well.”
I lifted the chalk.
“A principle you can impose on others but never accept for yourself is not a principle.”
The chalk tip traveled across the board.
It is a privilege.
The corner of Leonora’s mouth lifted.
“A privilege, huh.”
“Yes.”
I met her eyes.
“If the claim that the strong may rule the weak is a principle, then when someone stronger appears, you too must submit to being ruled.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you never believed in the principle of the strong.”
I said,
“You merely wanted a privilege that is convenient only while you yourself remain the strong one.”
Leonora did not answer.
But she did not look angry either.
If anything, she looked entertained.
Dangerous.
This girl was not the type to get angry when pierced by logic; she was the type to come in harder.
Philosophically, an excellent student.
Historically, a calamity.
I picked up the next paper.
This handwriting was small and dense.
The moment I unfolded it, the sentences struck the eye.
“The moment I thought it would be acceptable for me to become a monster was when I felt I was useless.”
The room went silent.
I slowed my reading.
“I believed that if I could not save someone, I had no meaning.”
“I thought I had to hurt more, endure more, and offer more of myself.”
“I believed that was the only way I could be a good person.”
Serena Arcelia’s hands clenched tightly on her knees.
I continued.
“But sometimes it felt as though I myself was disappearing.”
The final sentence.
“Is even that kind of thought the beginning of a monster?”
I could not fold the paper.
Almost no breathing could be heard in the hall.
This one was sharp.
Elise’s questions were blades pointed outward.
Leonora’s were a sword coming down from above.
But these sentences were a blade turned on the self.
The seed of the Fallen Saint.
Self-annihilation under the name of self-sacrifice.
I set the paper down slowly.
“Yes.”
Serena’s shoulders trembled, just slightly.
Several students looked at me.
They had probably not expected it.
A professor calling the holy department’s self-sacrifice the beginning of a monster.
If the Administration Bureau heard that, the paperwork would multiply again.
But I could not back down.
I said,
“Self-sacrifice can be good.”
Serena looked at me.
“But self-annihilation is not goodness.”
I wrote on the board.
Sacrifice ≠ Annihilation
“Giving yourself for someone else and treating yourself as a worthless tool are not the same thing.”
I spoke carefully.
“A person who sees themselves as a tool eventually finds it easy to see others as tools as well.”
The holy department students stirred.
Serena’s face had gone pale.
I pretended not to look at her.
This was not a remark aimed at any particular student.
At least on the surface, it had to remain that way.
“Can I claim to love humanity while refusing to treat myself as human?”
The chalk scraped the board.
I am also human.
The moment I wrote those words,
Serena’s eyes wavered.
I exhaled very slowly in my mind.
It landed.
It landed dangerously well.
I had to be careful.
Elise needed to be approached through logic.
Leonora needed principles thrown back at her.
Serena would collapse if pressed too hard.
Every student required a different temperature of questioning.
Philosophy is a blade.
But a professor must be a physician, not a swordsman.
At the very least, one must try.
I drew the next paper.
This handwriting was startlingly clean.
The line spacing was even.
Almost no emotion could be felt from it.
I read the first line.
“If I had to kill one person to save ten, I believed I would be able to kill the one.”
Karen Astra’s smile froze in place.
The air in the room grew heavy.
I continued.
“If I refused to kill the one and the ten died, I believed the responsibility would be mine.”
“So I thought someone had to be willing to dirty their hands.”
“And if that someone was me, I thought it would be better.”
The final sentence.
“But if that one person were me, I do not know whether I could make the same choice.”
I set the paper down.
Silence.
A long silence.
Karen was smiling.
But now that smile was thin enough to be frightening.
I said,
“This is an old question.”
The students looked at me.
“Is it acceptable to sacrifice the few in order to save the many?”
I wrote on the board.
The sacrifice of the few for the many
“Some people say the outcome is what matters.”
The chalk moved.
If ten people lived, was it right?
“Others say a human must never be used as a means.”
The next line.
Is it acceptable to use even one person as a tool?
I did not look at Karen.
I deliberately looked at the entire class.
“There is no easy answer here.”
Karen’s gaze shifted, just slightly.
It had probably been unexpected.
She might have wanted a correct answer.
That discarding one to save many is right.
Or that it is never right.
She might have expected one of the two.
But philosophy is not that kind.
I said,
“There is, however, one thing we can ask.”
I wrote large on the board.
Did you look at that one person’s face?
The room grew still.
“Numbers hide people.”
I spoke slowly.
“Ten and one. Majority and minority. Efficiency and loss. These words are convenient.”
I set the chalk down.
“But that one person also has a name.”
Karen’s smile disappeared.
“They have a family, they have fear, they have words they still wanted to say, and a life that is not yet finished.”
I spoke low.
“There may come a moment when you must choose even after seeing all of that.”
No one said a word.
“But if you erase them with numbers alone without ever looking, that is not judgment.”
I looked at Karen.
“It is evasion.”
Karen Astra’s eyes wavered.
Very slightly.
Truly only a little.
But I saw it.
Good.
No—I could not simply call it good.
This was laying hands on a child’s soul.
Still, it was necessary.
One day she would save the world.
And then, under the pretext of managing that world, she would begin to see people as numbers.
I had to stop it before then.
I had to make her see the faces behind the numbers.
I looked down into the box one last time.
There was no paper from Rina.
She still held the blank sheet in her hands.
I hesitated for a moment.
Should I call her out now, or let it pass?
Then Rina slowly raised her hand.
“Professor.”
“Go ahead, Miss Everett.”
She looked down at her blank paper.
“I couldn’t write it.”
A few students turned toward her.
Rina rubbed the corner of the sheet with her fingertips.
“I don’t know if there has ever been a moment when I thought it would be acceptable for me to become a monster.”
Her voice was quiet.
“But I don’t think that’s because I’m good.”
I said nothing.
Good.
She was walking in on her own.
Rina continued,
“It’s just… I don’t know what I even wanted.”
The room fell silent.
“When I got angry, when I did kind things, when I tried hard—I don’t know if any of it was really because I wanted it.”
Rina lifted her head.
“If I issued myself a free pass, then who is the ‘I’ that issued it?”
Ah.
Inside my mind I raised both hands.
Here it comes again.
The philosophy battle is coming.
What is wrong with this academy?
These students ask questions far too well.
I wanted to cheer.
I wanted to scribble existentialism, free will, narrative self, and self-deception across the board like a man possessed.
But I held back.
I must not get excited with this face.
I asked as calmly as I could,
“Miss Everett.”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel right now that you yourself are empty?”
Rina’s expression hardened.
“…Yes.”
“Then who do you think should fill that empty place?”
Rina could not answer.
I said,
“Your parents?”
“The people of your village?”
“The academy?”
“A professor?”
“Friends?”
“Destiny?”
Rina’s hands tightened on the paper.
I spoke slowly.
“A person cannot completely create themselves alone.”
Rina looked at me.
“We are shaped inside the words, expectations, wounds, love, and misunderstandings of others.”
I wrote on the board.
The self is not made alone.
“But that does not mean the self is fake.”
Rina’s eyes wavered.
“A book is the same.”
I lifted a philosophy text from the podium.
“The paper came from trees, the ink from minerals and plants, and the letters were made by someone long ago.”
I turned a page lightly.
“But when those things gather, we call this a book.”
The students listened quietly.
“You are the same.”
I looked at Rina.
“Someone’s expectations may have entered you. Someone’s commands, praise, mockery, or chance may have made you.”
I paused.
“Even so, if those things have gathered into the you who is asking this question right now, then that question is not fake.”
Rina’s lips trembled.
“The me who is asking…”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“The moment you ask whether you exist, you are already more than a simple blank.”
The empty paper slowly crumpled in her hands.
I said,
“So I will not count today’s assignment as unsubmitted for you.”
Rina looked at me.
“Pardon?”
“Because you just answered it.”
Somewhere in the room a small breath was drawn.
I wrote the final sentence on the board.
The one who asks “Who am I?” is already not nothing.
Looking at it afterward, it felt a little cringeworthy.
But that was fine.
Philosophy has to be a little cringeworthy if it is going to stay with a person.
I set the chalk down.
“This is the conclusion of today’s class.”
The students looked at me.
“When you want to issue yourself a free pass, ask one thing.”
I wrote large in the center of the board.
Can I allow everyone the exception I have allowed only myself?
The tip of the chalk snapped.
Crack.
The small sound rang through the lecture hall.
“If being hurt gives me the right to hurt others, then does being hurt give others the right to hurt me?”
Elise lowered her eyes.
“If being strong gives me the right to rule, then does greater strength give someone else the right to rule me?”
Leonora closed her eyes, arms still crossed.
“If being good gives me the right to use myself as a tool, then does a good purpose give others the right to use me as a tool?”
Serena clenched both hands tightly.
“If I may discard one person for the sake of the many, is it the same when that one person is me, or someone I love?”
Karen said nothing.
“If a predetermined destiny frees me from responsibility, then does destiny free others from responsibility when they harm me?”
Rina looked down at her crumpled paper.
I looked around the room.
“We cannot always answer this question clearly.”
A brief silence.
“But at the very least, we can stop.”
I said,
“The road to becoming a monster usually begins with never stopping.”
The bell rang.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
The lecture was over.
But no one stood up at once.
It was the same as last time.
No—a little different.
Last time they had frozen from shock.
This time each of them was looking inward.
Elise was staring at the box that held the assignment papers.
Leonora could not take her eyes off the word “privilege” on the board.
Serena was gazing for a long time at the sentence “I am also human.”
Karen was looking at “that one person’s face.”
Rina was carefully smoothing out her crumpled blank sheet with both hands.
I closed the attendance book.
“There is no assignment for next time.”
Almost every student looked at me at once.
This time their expressions were a little different.
Some faces showed relief.
Others showed disappointment.
Good.
This is how frightening a philosophy class can be.
Once a question has landed, students begin waiting for the next one.
I spoke briefly.
“I’ll see you next class.”
I was about to leave the lecture hall when a voice came from behind me.
“Professor.”
I turned.
Karen Astra had her hand raised.
The golden-haired Hero candidate.
The girl who always smiled brightly.
She was not smiling now.
“I have a question.”
I nodded.
“Go ahead.”
Karen was silent for a moment.
Then she asked,
“If you looked at that one person’s entire face and still had to kill them—”
Her voice was clear.
So clear it sounded cold.
“What should you do then?”
The entire lecture hall froze.
I looked at Karen.
Ah.
So this one is about to step inside as well.
The psychopathic Hero.
The blade of utilitarianism.
The hand that discards the few for the many.
I smiled slowly inside my mind.
Was I afraid?
Yes.
Of course I was afraid.
But a philosopher cannot run from a terrifying question once they see it.
That is the disease.
I looked at Karen and said,
“A good question, Miss Astra.”
Karen’s eyes wavered, just slightly.
I tucked the attendance book under my arm.
“We’ll make that the first question of next class.”
“Can’t you answer it now?”
“No.”
I spoke firmly.
Karen blinked.
“Why not?”
“Because it is not a question that should be answered lightly.”
Silence.
Karen’s expression shifted, just a little.
Postponing an answer and respecting a question are not the same thing.
She seemed to feel the difference.
I said,
“That question has a human life hanging on it.”
And a beat later,
“So next class, we will deal with it properly.”
Karen looked at me for a moment.
Then she nodded, very slowly.
“I understand.”
I left the lecture hall.
The door closed.
The moment I stepped into the corridor, Martin fell into step beside me.
For a while he said nothing.
I asked,
“What is it?”
Martin spoke with extreme care.
“Professor.”
“Yes.”
“Today I… was a little frightened.”
“Of my face?”
“That’s always the case.”
“….”
Please do not say that so naturally.
Martin continued with a serious expression.
“Of the class.”
I looked at him.
“It felt as though every student was talking about themselves.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
Martin glanced back at the lecture hall door.
“And yet, strangely, none of them ran.”
I was silent for a moment.
Then I said,
“A good question holds a person.”
Martin looked at me.
I adjusted my glasses.
“Even if they want to run, it keeps sounding inside them.”
Sunlight came in through the corridor windows.
The academy gardens looked peaceful.
Students were laughing, and the last echoes of the bell were slowly fading.
But I knew.
Peace does not last long.
Karen Astra had asked her question.
If you look at that one person’s entire face and still have to kill them, what then?
The next class would be more dangerous.
But it was fine.
No.
Honestly, it was not fine.
Still, it had to be done.
I was facing future calamities.
And those calamities were still students.
Hands that had not yet taken up the sword.
Lips that had not yet spoken the curse.
Prayers that had not yet turned into blasphemy against the gods.
A smile that had not yet begun to control the world.
An emptiness that had not yet given up on the self.
All of it was still inside that lecture hall.
I brushed the chalk dust from my fingertips.
“Martin.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Can we move next class to a larger lecture hall?”
Martin blinked.
“Why?”
“I expect more auditors.”
Martin looked at me for a moment.
Then he sighed quietly.
“The Administration Bureau will hate it.”
“They will.”
“There will be a lot of paperwork.”
“There will.”
“The old professor would never have done this.”
I nodded.
“He wouldn’t have.”
Martin smiled with a strange expression.
Very slightly.
Truly only a little.
“Understood. I’ll look into it.”
I watched him and thought,
Good.
It is not only the students who are being drawn in.
The assistant is being drawn in as well, little by little.
Of course, my face still looks like a corrupt official’s.
But that is fine.
People remember repeated attitudes longer than they remember faces.
And philosophy—
is a question that repeats itself with terrible persistence.