Unnecessary Resources
The conference room reserved for expulsion candidates was always quiet. More than quiet—it held a deliberate, polished silence. The walls were thick, the door heavy, the windows sealed shut. Blinds hung halfway down, slicing the sunlight outside cleanly in half. Because of that, the air inside never changed. Temperature, humidity, even the brightness of the lights stayed constant. Whatever happened beyond those walls—students laughing, mana exploding on the training grounds, someone crying in the hallway—none of it reached this room. Everything here remained frozen at the same tone.
Teachers sat along the long table. Homeroom teachers from each class, practical training instructors, administrative staff. At the head sat Seo-mun Hyeok, Dean of Korea Academy. He flipped through the tablet in front of him without a word. His fingers were neatly arranged, his wrist moving only when necessary. Each page turn produced a soft tap. That was the loudest sound in the room.
The screen displayed student names in order. Beneath each name were categories: Potential. Current Ability. Special Notes. Every item carried a grade—S, A, B, C, D, E, F. Instead of numerical scores, it offered a more intuitive hierarchy. A way to summarize both possibility and present reality in a single line. The homeroom teachers had seen this chart so often that their expressions barely shifted anymore. Only their eyes reacted. When “Rare” appeared in the notes, their breathing grew slightly shallower. When potential reached S, they swallowed.
Seo-mun Hyeok knew all of this. That was why he showed no emotion. He had never once said “well done,” nor had he ever said “what a shame.” Keep what is necessary. Erase what is not. That was the Dean’s way.
“Start with the first-years,” he said. His voice was low and stripped of feeling.
The Class A homeroom teacher nodded and continued. “Overall, they’re excellent. This cohort is above average.”
The tablet screen changed. One name appeared prominently.
Lee Tae-geon
Potential: S
Current Ability: B
“His combat sense is outstanding. Not only his output, but his judgment speed is fast. He was already a practical fighter by the latter half of middle school.”
Practical fighter. The phrase lingered briefly in the conference room. If someone had been practical since middle school, their growth in high school would be even greater. Seo-mun Hyeok nodded silently. Next.
Park Eun-seo
Potential: S
Current Ability: B
Special Notes: Healing & Support Type
The homeroom teacher chose her words more carefully. Healing and support types were strategic assets, separate from raw combat power.
“Her skills are essential in the healer category. Stability is high, and her growth curve is excellent. Long-term, we can expect her to reach S-class.”
Several people in the room swallowed quietly. A healer was a card that changed tactical possibilities. Bones broken at the front could be mended from the rear. Bleeding could be stopped. The line would not collapse. She was not merely a student—she was the survival rate of an entire unit.
“These two require close supervision,” the Dean said. “Class A will handle their management.”
“Understood,” the homeroom teacher replied at once.
The reports continued.
Yoon Se-ha
Potential: A
Current Ability: B
Class A, male student. “Technique-focused type. Stable mana control and high tactical understanding.”
The homeroom teacher added, “His personality is calm, and he doesn’t neglect team play.”
The Dean moved his finger once. A marking appeared on the screen.
Baek Ha-rin
Potential: A
Current Ability: C
Class A, female student. “Her current numbers are low because she only recently awakened, but her growth potential is high.”
“Her mental stability is shaky, so guidance will be important.”
The instructor beside her nodded slightly. Numbers only rose when both body and mind moved. The Dean flipped through the report and said, “Keep an eye on these students as well. Managing them from the first year means fewer problems later.”
The meeting flowed smoothly. Awakeners. Promising talents. Resources worth expecting. Up to this point, it had been a normal conference. But the moment the order reached Class D, the air in the room shifted—just slightly. It was an imperceptible change, yet everyone knew what it meant. Class D was where things were sorted. Growth gave way to classification and disposal. Expectation gave way to reality checks.
Kim Young-soo, Class D homeroom teacher, opened his mouth a beat later than the others. Not because he was slow, but because he naturally dragged out the time, as if speaking held no value.
“Class D… is mostly the same,” he said in his usual indifferent tone. “Potential between C and D. Current ability at D level. No standout students.”
The air in the room cooled subtly. The faint warmth of expectation left over from the Class A reports vanished in an instant.
The Dean lifted his head. “Special notes?”
Kim Young-soo paused for a moment. “There is one.”
At those words, several heads turned. Special notes in Class D rarely meant anything good.
The tablet screen changed. One name.
Han Do-yoon
Potential: S → F
Current Ability: F
Special Notes: Unawakened
The room fell silent. A different kind of silence—sharp and abrupt. One instructor unconsciously picked up a pen. A homeroom teacher swallowed. Seo-mun Hyeok slowly looked at the screen. His eyebrows moved, ever so slightly.
“…Han Do-yoon.” His voice was low. “I’ve heard that name before.”
The Dean flipped further through the report. The parent section. Two names. At that moment, Seo-mun Hyeok spoke briefly.
“He was under management.”
Several teachers looked up. Management target. That phrase rarely appeared in this room. It implied surveillance more than attention.
Seo-mun Hyeok lowered his voice while maintaining the meeting’s tone. “The fact that he slipped from my memory means his priority has already dropped.” His gaze turned to Kim Young-soo. “Is it appropriate for an unawakened student to remain at Korea Academy?”
Kim Young-soo shrugged. “He met the admission requirements. His grades reached the baseline, and awakening status isn’t part of the entrance conditions.”
A thin, mocking atmosphere spread through the room. Of course there was no condition for awakening—because everyone was supposed to awaken. Their expressions said as much.
Seo-mun Hyeok spoke coldly. “That’s only because they never considered the possibility of someone failing to awaken.”
With that single sentence, the air in the room locked back into place. Seo-mun Hyeok was not someone who displayed emotion. The fact that he had grown cold meant the conclusion had already been reached.
“Then what do you intend to do?”
Kim Young-soo answered calmly. “We can sort him out at the midterm evaluation for insufficient ability.”
Someone in the room nodded. Regulations. Procedure. Justification. All perfect.
Seo-mun Hyeok thought for a moment, then said, “Do it that way.”
He looked at the tablet screen once more. Han Do-yoon. The name whose potential had fallen from S to F. The two names remaining in the parent section. He spoke without emotion.
“He’s different from his parents.”
The words fell like the conclusion of a classification rather than a rebuke. “If he’s a resource that cannot be used, there’s no reason to keep him around any longer.”
Resource X. Disposal target.
The meeting ended there. The door closed. The sunlight beyond the blinds remained unchanged, but the conclusion had already been stored inside the room—along with where that conclusion would lead.
A few days later. It was hard to say exactly when; every day flowed too similarly. Attending classes, training, checking a status window where nothing ever happened. That day was simply another link in the chain.
Near the end of lunch, the classroom door opened.
“Han Do-yoon.”
A familiar voice. Kim Young-soo. He swept his gaze across the classroom once, then continued in his usual annoyed tone. “Come to the staff room this afternoon after class.”
He gave no reason. But there was no need to hear one—I could already guess. The air in the classroom shifted ever so slightly. Some students looked at me with “what now?” expressions. Others averted their eyes, pretending disinterest. Most wore the look of “ah, so he finally caused trouble.”
In a school like this, the reason for being called was obvious. Praise was announced publicly. Summons were rarely good news.
The hallway to the staff room felt especially long. Outside the windows, several students were practicing on the field. The sound of mana bursting. The impact of collisions. All of it felt like something happening beyond the glass.
When I opened the staff room door, cold air greeted me first. Kim Young-soo was already seated, leaning back deeply in his chair while casually organizing a few documents. Without even looking up, he said, “Sit.”
I quietly took the seat across from him. A brief silence. Kim Young-soo set the papers down and finally looked at me. His gaze carried the same indifference as always, but today it felt sharper.
“The midterm evaluation is coming up soon,” he said, as if making an announcement. As if simply stating a fact. His tone was flat. “If your performance is insufficient, the school will recommend expulsion.”
Recommend. But the meaning behind that word was far too clear. It was essentially a decision. Refusing the recommendation would only create more procedures, more eyes watching. And in the end, the conclusion would be the same.
I lowered my gaze for a moment, then raised it again. My throat was a little dry, but I kept my voice as calm as possible.
“Even if I haven’t awakened—”
Kim Young-soo’s eyes moved slightly. “If you can beat an awakened student—”
Before I could finish, he cut in. “Then you’ll stay.”
It was said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Like saying you use an umbrella when it rains. After a short pause, he added honestly, “Though that’s probably impossible.”
There was no mockery in his words, no malice. That made it hurt more. He was simply stating reality. I paused, chewing on those words. Impossible. I had heard that word countless times. In middle school. During practical classes. Maybe that was why it didn’t shake me as much this time. Inside me, the word had already dulled to the point of numbness.
I nodded. “Understood.”
Kim Young-soo said nothing more. No explanation, no comfort, no advice. I already knew he wasn’t the type to offer those things. Instead, he tossed out one final sentence, almost as an afterthought.
“Prepare however you see fit.”
Prepare. I couldn’t tell if it was encouragement or an attempt to shift responsibility. But the moment those words left his mouth, the conversation felt over.
“You can go.”
I stood up. Before stepping out the door, I glanced back, but Kim Young-soo was already looking at another document. His interest had ended.
The staff room door closed. Standing in the hallway again, it felt even quieter than before. My footsteps echoed loudly. I walked slowly. My thoughts were strangely simple. If I don’t awaken, it’s over. If I can’t beat an awakened student at the midterm evaluation, I’ll be expelled. There was no way to run, no justification to avoid it. Now there were no choices left.
Awaken. Win. Or leave.
Those were the only three options.
I didn’t stop walking. My body naturally headed toward one place. The training grounds. The place I had already visited countless times. The place I would spend the most time today, and tomorrow as well.
The moment I opened the door, the familiar smell hit me. Metal. Mana. Sweat. I drew in a slow breath. I wasn’t finished yet. I had no intention of finishing. Even if everyone said it was impossible. Even if no one expected anything from me. At the very least, I had no reason to give up first.
I walked back into the training grounds.