Team 17

Before long, it was time to prepare for the final evaluation. The notice didn’t come through any announcement. The moment morning assembly ended, every student’s phone vibrated at once. A short alert tone followed, and the classroom fell silent.

Some sighed the instant they saw the screen. Others bit their lips. A few glanced sideways for no reason. I tapped the notification out of habit.

The message was a stiff, formal notice.

“Team evaluation.”

That single phrase changed the air in the room. In an individual match, I only had to endure as long as I had prepared. A team, however, introduced variables I couldn’t control. Who I was paired with. Who would take the lead. Who would freeze and collapse. Who would ruin everything with an “I’m better than you” attitude.

I lowered my phone. A low murmur rose from one corner of the classroom.

“Team evaluation… we’re screwed.”

“Hey, if we’re with Class A, we just get carried, right?”

“No, being with Class A is worse. They’ll just do everything themselves and leave us hanging.”

The words sounded like jokes laced with laughter, but no one’s eyes were smiling. Especially the students from Class D kept their remarks short and cautious. After the midterm incident, this class had changed. The bullying had stopped. Instead, they avoided me. The student sitting in front of me would quietly push their chair aside whenever I entered, and they would look away in the hallway. They didn’t openly insult me. They didn’t openly laugh. Sometimes that was more uncomfortable. Still, I didn’t bother clinging to the discomfort.

Better than insults.

That was enough to move on. It was far less tiring.

Today was no different. I felt someone glance at me before quickly looking away. I packed my bag as if nothing had happened.

Final evaluation.

What needed organizing wasn’t people’s stares. It was the dungeon.

Right after lunch, all first-years were summoned to the auditorium. Strangely, the hall was even quieter than during the midterm. Back then, tension had mixed with anticipation. Now only tension remained, stripped of hope.

Instructors stood in a line on the stage. A map of the dungeon glowed on the screen behind them. Cave type. Irregular passages. Blind corners. Sound and scent trapped inside the structure.

“This final evaluation will take place inside a training dungeon modeled after a real dungeon environment,” an instructor said, voice flat. “The terrain is cave-type, with limited visibility, narrow passages, and elevation changes.”

The screen zoomed in, marking several zones. Red: trap areas. Yellow: expected combat zones. Black: boss room.

“The traps are not designed to cause fatal injuries. However, a single mistake can still render you unable to fight.”

The next slide displayed the monster list.

Goblins (D-class level) — Manageable by a single D-class Hunter.

Goblin Warriors (D~C-class level) — Use defense and tactics; danger rises in group fights.

Orcs (C-class level) — High stamina and strength; frontal engagements are taxing.

Orc Warriors (C~B-class level) — Combat veterans; wield weapons and pose critical-hit threats.

“Training entities have their output adjusted to roughly 80% of real monsters. However—” The instructor paused. “Eighty percent does not mean ‘it won’t hurt.’”

The auditorium grew even quieter.

The instructor turned and pointed at the screen. “The trash-mob section is mostly goblins. The mid-boss section mixes goblin warriors with regular goblins. The next area combines orcs and goblins. The final boss room contains orcs and orc warriors.”

Finally, the scoring criteria appeared.

Team clear time

Team survival rate

Team damage minimization

Individual combat contribution

Individual judgment / command / cooperation

Individual mana control stability

“This evaluation does not end with the team score,” the instructor continued. “Even if the team fails, individual scores remain.”

That statement felt crueler than the rest. It created a structure where individuals could shine while their team collapsed. In that case, who would bother saving the team? Most people would think of their own score first. Especially students from Classes A and B. That wasn’t prejudice. It was the reality I had seen so far.

The moment we were dismissed, phones vibrated again. This time it was the team assignment notice. Students walked down the corridor with their eyes glued to their screens. Some exhaled. Some swallowed curses. Some smiled. I stopped walking and opened my own screen.

My fingertips stiffened, just slightly.

…Team 17.

The number itself didn’t matter. The names did.

Kang Hyun-woo from Class A. I had heard the name before. He was the one everyone in Class A called a “surefire prospect.” Among students with plenty of talent and plenty of talk, his name always came up first.

Oh Se-rin from Class B. The typical “grade-obsessed” type. She didn’t stand out in sparring, but she always performed well on evaluation sheets.

Park Jun-ho from Class C. The name was unfamiliar. Class C had never been a group I had the luxury of paying attention to. Just a collection of students hovering between average and failing.

And me.

I closed the notification and drew a slow breath.

So it begins.

I had thought the midterm was the end of it, yet the academy had simply moved on to the next evaluation. People avoiding me, the fact that I had awakened, the incident being swept under the rug—none of it mattered. Everything always came back to scores. Korea Academy had always been that way.

The team’s first gathering was on the second floor of the training building. A sign with our team number stood outside the door, and an instructor checked everyone who entered. I stopped in front of the Team 17 sign. No one else had arrived yet.

Footsteps soon echoed down the hall. The first to appear was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Oh Se-rin from Class B. She wore a short tactical vest over her uniform, her hair neatly tied back. When our eyes met, she paused for a moment. Her expression was closer to “Ah, it’s you” than anything else. There was no surprise. Only wariness.

“Han Do-yoon,” she said, as if confirming the name, then immediately returned her attention to her phone. It looked like a habit of withdrawing emotion.

“Oh Se-rin.”

She spoke her own name as a formality. Not an introduction, just confirmation. We are on the same team. That was all.

I nodded. That was all there was to it.

Oh Se-rin didn’t add anything else. Instead, she quietly moved to the wall and began scanning the dungeon briefing. Her eyes moved quickly. Her fingers tapped often. She seemed less like someone planning strategy and more like someone organizing data.

Grade-obsessed type. Exactly the impression I got.

Next came Park Jun-ho from Class C. He took a deep breath outside the door before stepping inside. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept properly. When he saw us, his shoulders tensed.

“Ah… hello.”

Even his greeting sounded cautious. Oh Se-rin gave a slight nod. I did the same. Park Jun-ho fiddled with his bag strap, clearly unsure where to stand.

The most unstable variable in this team…

It was probably Park Jun-ho.

Kang Hyun-woo still hadn’t arrived. The person who would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠decide the team’s hierarchy. Only when he showed up would the atmosphere truly settle.

Then the door opened.

The air genuinely shifted.

Kang Hyun-woo from Class A. He was tall—not just tall, but solidly built, with a center of gravity that felt unshakable. The tactical gear over his uniform didn’t look like something he had put on; it looked like his body had always been meant for combat. He swept his gaze over us from the doorway. His eyes weren’t looking at people. They were assessing the team’s composition. A. B. C. D. His stare passed over each in order, pausing for the briefest moment when it reached me.

“Kang Hyun-woo,” he said.

It was the first time I had heard his voice, yet it felt strangely familiar. The voices of strong people all sounded similar. Not confidence, but certainty.

His self-introduction was short. Then he continued immediately.

“Since it’s a team evaluation, let’s skip the small talk and divide roles.”

Oh Se-rin answered at once. “I’ve already organized the data.”

She held up her phone, displaying the dungeon map and monster information.

“Hyun-woo will be the main combatant. I’ll handle rear support and situational judgment.”

The way she said it made it clear she considered his position obvious. Kang Hyun-woo nodded, satisfied.

“Good.”

His eyes moved to Park Jun-ho.

“What about you?”

Park Jun-ho opened his mouth, flustered. “Ah… I—”

The words stuck. Kang Hyun-woo didn’t wait.

“What’s your skill?”

Park Jun-ho’s throat bobbed. “…It’s Guard Up. A defense-enhancement skill… yeah.”

“Then tank appropriately,” Kang Hyun-woo said. “Stand in the front line.”

Park Jun-ho’s face went pale for a second, but he nodded. “Okay…”

Finally, Kang Hyun-woo’s gaze landed on me. His eyes already held a conclusion.

D-class. Incident. Awakening. Uncertainty.

“What’s your skill?” he asked.

“Crimson Trace,” I answered shortly.

Kang Hyun-woo’s eyebrow twitched, barely. Oh Se-rin looked at my face properly for the first time. Park Jun-ho’s eyes widened.

“What… kind of skill is that?”

I hesitated. A long explanation would give unnecessary information. A short one would cause misunderstandings. Still, we were a team. Some sharing was necessary.

“It creates a trajectory only I can see. If I hit that trajectory precisely, my cutting power increases significantly. If my accuracy is low, the damage is halved.”

Kang Hyun-woo summarized at once. “So it’s a conditional skill. Especially unstable, right?”

“Correct.”

He didn’t ask anything else. It wasn’t disinterest; he had simply finished his assessment for now.

“All right,” he said. “Park Jun-ho holds the front while I break through. Oh Se-rin covers from behind. You—”

His eyes fixed on me.

“Only join in when an opening appears.”

Park Jun-ho drew a tiny breath. Oh Se-rin’s expression remained blank. I turned the words over in my mind.

Only when an opening appears.

It was accurate. My skill required time to secure accuracy, and that time only came during openings in combat. Yet the words carried another meaning.

Don’t overstep.

Kang Hyun-woo had already taken the center of the team. He saw me not as a teammate, but as a risk. Oh Se-rin leaned toward him. Park Jun-ho was already suppressed. In that case, there was only one thing I could do in this team.

Survive my role. And deliver the finishing blow.

It wasn’t the position I wanted, nor the one I was comfortable with, but the team’s situation left no choice.

A brief silence settled over the preparation room. It wasn’t the awkward quiet of strangers meeting for the first time. It was the silence after everyone had finished sizing each other up.

Kang Hyun-woo spoke. “Leave emotions out of it. Mistakes will deduct points from the entire team.”

Oh Se-rin added calmly, “Especially… if anyone overdoes it.”

Her sentence ended while looking at me. She hadn’t said it outright, but the target was clear enough.

Park Jun-ho suddenly blurted, “I… I’ll do my best.”

The words were so desperate that they only made him sound more unreliable. Kang Hyun-woo merely nodded instead of answering.

“Don’t just try hard. Do it well.”

It didn’t sound like a joke. This team’s standard wasn’t simply clearing the dungeon. It was securing points without incidents.

I glanced down at my hands. Unlike before my awakening, the flow of mana was definitely stable. But stability didn’t mean familiarity. My skill still felt foreign. The sword I wielded was the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠same weight, yet the results layered on top of it had changed. No one else knew that difference. Only I did. And that was the most dangerous part.

At that moment, my phone vibrated once more.

Kang Hyun-woo checked his screen. “In other words, we’re on our own.”

“As long as no one does anything stupid, it should be easy,” Oh Se-rin replied shortly.

Park Jun-ho muttered under his breath, “…It’ll be fine, right…”

The honesty in his voice almost made me laugh. No one did.

I drew a quiet breath. Cave type. Traps. Goblins. Orcs. Team. Roles. Point deductions. And my skill.

Crimson Trace.

There was only one thing I could do now. Accuracy. No ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠matter how people looked at me, no matter how the team saw me as a risk—inside the dungeon, I would have to speak with results. That was the rule at Korea Academy.

Kang Hyun-woo moved toward the door. “We’ll stop here for today. Everyone prepare on their own.”

Then he glanced at me and added, “Don’t overdo it.”

It wasn’t concern. It was a warning.

I nodded instead of answering.

Once the door closed and the team dispersed, I was left alone in the preparation room. It was quiet. That only made my thoughts sharper.

This final evaluation…

It wasn’t a test of fighting. It was a test of combinations. And this particular combination was already creaking.

I picked up my bag strap. It still wasn’t over. This time, I was simply stepping into a different kind of battlefield. One called “team.”

And on that battlefield, the only thing I could do was maintain unwavering accuracy. That was all.