A Single Gamble
The lingering thrill of that one successful gamble faded faster than expected. The sensation had still been vivid at my fingertips when I left the training grounds, but the moment I stepped out the door, it began to cool. The same thing happened on the way home. I walked along, staring blankly at the passing lights, yet my mind kept replaying an entirely different scene on loop. Tae-geon swinging his sword. The distance closing in an instant. The feeling of the blade grazing my shoulder. And then the single step I had taken afterward.
People were passing by all around me, but I couldn’t even hear them properly.
It worked.
There had been that clear sensation at the time. My body had reacted first, and my mind had caught up a moment later. But what rose even faster than that sensation was a strangely cold, settled question.
Could I do it a second time?
The question didn’t disappear even after I got home. Not while I took off my shoes, set down my bag, showered, or lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The answer only grew clearer the more I thought about it.
Twice would be difficult. No—nearly impossible.
I let out a slow breath. My body was definitely tired. My muscles felt heavy, and my joints ached with a dull throb. Yet my eyes refused to close.
More than the fact that I had succeeded, what bothered me was how many new things that success had revealed.
The tactic wasn’t complete. It wasn’t even structured to be completed. When you use a skill, your mana concentrates in one direction. So does your awareness. Your gaze. Your judgment. Everything focuses on that single moment. And the instant the skill ends, everything releases. The flow of mana cuts off, and your body returns to its normal combat state.
That transition. That fleeting gap. That was what we were aiming for.
The theory was simple, and it had worked once in practice. The problem was what came after.
The timing was never the same. It changed depending on skill proficiency and mana control. It shifted subtly with the day’s condition, the distance, the angle. If you were even slightly off, the gap vanished. And once an opponent had been caught once, they wouldn’t be caught again. Unless they were an idiot, they would either create distance right after using a skill, follow up immediately after a slash, or adjust their output to shrink the transition gap entirely. If that happened, the tactic might as well not exist.
In the end, I closed my eyes.
This wasn’t a stable strategy. It wasn’t a technique you could use repeatedly, nor did it overwhelm the opponent with raw power. It was a move that worked exactly once. Truly, only once.
The moment I acknowledged that fact, a chill spread through one side of my chest. At the same time, it became painfully clear that there were no other options.
The next day, after class, Tae-geon and I were back in the training grounds. We didn’t spar as intensely as the day before. With our swords set aside, we simply drew a few lines on the floor and stood facing each other.
“I thought about it yesterday,” I said first.
Tae-geon nodded with his arms crossed. “Me too.”
A brief silence. Without needing to say who had realized it first, we both knew we had reached similar conclusions.
“This thing,” Tae-geon spoke first. “The risk is too high. It really feels like you have to stake everything on one shot.”
I nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Honestly, the opponent can prepare for it after seeing it just once.” Tae-geon lightly kicked the line drawn on the floor with his toe. “They just have to create distance right after using a skill. Or adjust their output to eliminate the gap entirely.”
He looked straight at me. “To be honest, this isn’t really a tactic. It’s more like a trick, isn’t it?”
It was a cold assessment. And it wasn’t wrong.
“You could use it once during the midterm evaluation,” he added. “But that would be it.”
I stayed quiet for a moment. Tae-geon didn’t wait for my reaction and kept going.
“What if that one shot doesn’t finish it?” He exhaled shortly. “Then there’s really no answer after that.”
The air in the training grounds grew heavier. Even without saying it aloud, the conclusion was already clear.
There were only two choices: give up, or gamble.
Taking the midterm evaluation without awakening was essentially a game with a predetermined outcome. On the other hand, using this tactic meant staking everything on a single moment. Success could turn the tide. Failure meant the end. There would be no second chances. No excuses.
Tae-geon spoke in a slightly lower voice. “That’s why I’m asking.” His gaze turned toward me. “Are you really going to go with this?”
The question felt strangely heavy. I looked down at the floor for a moment—the lines we had drawn, the distances, the angles, the scenes we had repeated countless times.
There had never been a safe path to begin with.
I lifted my head. “I have to.”
It was a short answer. Tae-geon let out a sigh. “It’s insane, though.”
I gave a small smile. “The only choices left were insane ones anyway.”
Tae-geon looked at me for a moment, then chuckled. “That’s true too.” He raised one finger. “If we’re doing this, there’s one more thing we need to decide.”
“What is it?”
“When to use it.” He looked down at the line on the floor. “It could be the first clash, or the second. We might not use it at all in the beginning.”
I nodded. “Right. So…” I continued quietly, “I’m not going to memorize a timing. I’m going to choose the situation.”
Tae-geon’s eyebrows rose slightly. “The situation?”
“Yeah.” I looked at the lines on the training ground floor. “The moment the opponent is most off guard. The moment they’re relying on their skill the most.” I paused, then added, “That’s when we strike.”
Tae-geon gave a short laugh. “That definitely has the highest chance of working.” He picked up his sword. “If that’s your answer, let’s sharpen it to the end.”
I didn’t pick up my sword right away. Instead, I steadied my breathing and stood on the floor again.
This wasn’t a technique. It was a choice. The choice of someone who had endured this far without awakening—the final method I could still select. The decision to stake everything on a single opening.
The midterm evaluation was drawing closer. And I was ready to pour every remaining moment into that one chance.
The next day, the morning air was unusually cold. When I entered the classroom, I instinctively scanned the room. Nothing was different from usual. The same desks. The same chairs. The same noise. Yet the atmosphere felt subtly off. The whispers were a little more blatant.
“Hey, did you hear? They say if you don’t meet the standard during the midterm evaluation, you get expelled right away.”
“Really?”
“Then that guy who hasn’t awakened is done for.”
I set down my bag and took my seat. Even without looking up, I could feel the stares. Among them, one was particularly sticky.
“Hey.” It was Min Jae-hoon. He sat slouched in his chair with his arms crossed, his lips curled in an obvious smirk. “You. Is the midterm evaluation thing true?”
The students around us slowly turned their gazes our way. I didn’t answer. Jae-hoon laughed as if he had been waiting for that.
“Yeah, it’s written all over your face.” He nodded slowly. “Ah, maybe you heard it when you got called in last time? The expulsion notice.”
Snickers rippled through the classroom.
“Well, it is pretty amazing that you made it this far without awakening.” Jae-hoon pushed himself up from his chair. “Honestly, isn’t it corruption that a defective product like you even got into Korea Academy?”
He walked over to my desk. “Be honest.” He tilted his head. “You know it too, right? Once the midterm evaluation ends, you’re expelled.”
His words were full of certainty, as if he had already seen the result. “Wouldn’t it be better to just drop out now? Your opponent’s going to be an awakened anyway. No point getting beaten up for nothing.”
His gaze swept over my hands, my desk, my face. “Don’t tell me you’re still hoping for some kind of miracle?” He sneered. “What exactly do you think you can do without awakening?”
At that moment, my fist clenched. But I didn’t move. Clashing here and now would mean nothing. Jae-hoon saw that and laughed harder.
“What, are you already this scared? The evaluation hasn’t even started yet.”
“Hey, your midterm opponent’s lucky,” he said, looking around. “It’s basically a free win.” Then he added meaningfully, “If I were your opponent again, we could have some real fun.”
The air around us seemed to freeze slightly at those words. Jae-hoon leaned toward me. “Still, as your classmate, I’ve got some loyalty. Wouldn’t it be better if I personally expelled you?”
I slowly raised my head and met his eyes directly. For just a moment, Jae-hoon’s smirk wavered slightly. He had realized there was no anger or panic in my gaze—only a coldly settled resolve.
“Yeah,” I said, speaking for the first time. My voice wasn’t loud, which only made it clearer. “I’m hoping for that too.”
Jae-hoon’s eyebrows twitched. “What?”
I continued without looking away. “The midterm evaluation.” I paused to steady my breath, then added quietly, “We won’t know what happens until then.”
Jae-hoon stared at me for a moment, then snorted. “Ah, sure. Keep running that hope circuit of yours.” As he returned to his seat, he tossed out one last line. “You’re getting expelled anyway. Might as well enjoy yourself while you can.”
The bell rang. Class began, but the stares in the classroom didn’t easily disperse. I took a slow, deep breath.
The midterm evaluation was drawing closer. And without realizing it, I could already feel who my opponent that day would be.
A single decisive match. There was nowhere left to run.