The Line We Follow

The training ground for the final evaluation wasn’t as noisy as before. As the exam drew closer, it wasn’t that people disappeared so much as they grew quiet. They conserved their energy. They avoided unnecessary injuries. They kept their nerves in check. Everyone managed their tension in their own ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way. I was no different. And today, our team was gathering again.

We’d already practiced once. Positions had been assigned, basic movement patterns mapped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out. Still, we met again. The whole team carried the same uneasy feeling: At this rate, we’ll fall apart.

When I arrived, Kang Hyun-woo was already there. From the first time I saw him, he carried the unmistakable air of Class A. It wasn’t just his tone—it was the certainty in his posture. Shoulders squared, gaze steady. Oh Se-rin stood beside him. The type who nodded almost reflexively whenever he spoke. It wasn’t a bad trait, but it made the team atmosphere feel predictable.

Park Jun-ho arrived a little late. The moment he opened the door, he glanced around first, reading the room. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his gear. The instant I walked in, three pairs of eyes flicked toward me. Not overtly. Not naturally, either. They already knew. After the incident, I had become that guy, and a late awakener was still a late awakener. On top of that, Class D. That combination led straight to one conclusion in everyone’s mind.

—Low skill.

—No experience.

—No point listening.

I didn’t think that conclusion was entirely wrong. So I stayed quiet.

Kang Hyun-woo swept his gaze over me once and spoke.

“You remember last time?”

The words already set the tone. Not “Let’s adjust positions again,” but a declaration: “We’re doing exactly what we decided last time.” No redundancy. Just the will to make it stick.

Oh Se-rin jumped in immediately. “Yeah. Let’s do it properly today.”

Park Jun-ho gave a small nod. “I… missed the timing a few times last time. Today—”

“Today, there are no mistakes.”

Hyun-woo’s tone was ordinary, yet the single sentence pressed down on Jun-ho. Jun-ho closed his mouth and lowered his head again.

I said nothing. I knew well enough by now that “Let’s do it properly” could become a blade for someone.

Hyun-woo pointed at the lines on the training ground floor with his fingertip. “Same movement pattern as last time. I open the front, Se-rin takes angles from the right, Jun-ho maintains position and covers. Do-yoon, you… same as before.”

Same as before. The words were clearer than any order. Just follow quietly like last time.

I gave a short nod. “Got it.”

Training began. Mana-reactive targets and dummy figures installed in the training ground. It wasn’t the actual final exam dungeon, just the best we could manage here. We moved as if we were inside a dungeon—assuming narrow cave terrain, limited visibility, and the need to divide attention in a multi-enemy fight.

The problem was that assumptions alone couldn’t change people’s attitudes.

First cycle. Hyun-woo opened the front. His movements were clean, no wasted strength. His positioning made the team feel comfortable. Se-rin grew bolder the moment she saw it. “Good, this angle works.” She executed the motion for a mana projection and struck the target cleanly. Jun-ho moved from the rear, filling gaps. On the surface, it looked fine. Textbook practice.

But in my eyes, small cracks showed. Se-rin’s timing was slightly early. She felt like she was “exploding” before Hyun-woo could “pull.” And in that moment, Jun-ho was a beat late. Rear coverage lagged by one step. In a real dungeon, that single beat could trigger disaster. A goblin could slip through the flank. An orc could charge suddenly. A trap could activate.

I opened my mouth. “Se-rin, just now—”

Before I could finish, Hyun-woo turned his gaze. The look said, Why are you butting in? Se-rin followed suit and looked at me.

I tried to continue. “The timing was a little…”

Hyun-woo cut in. “What does a guy who awakened late know about timing?”

The air in the training ground shifted at once. He hadn’t raised his voice, which only made it sharper. It wasn’t meant to tear someone down—it was a reminder of my place. No matter what I did here, the frame of “late-awakened Class D” would cover it first.

Se-rin immediately took his side. “Honestly, our way is better, right? Dungeons are about the team. If you judge on your own, everything falls apart.”

Jun-ho started to open his mouth, then swallowed it back. He glanced at me for a brief moment. Guilt mixed in his eyes. That made it worse.

I drew in a breath. If I pushed back here, the team would break. This wasn’t about who was right. The final evaluation was a team event. If the team shattered, none of us would survive from that point on.

I nodded. “Understood. Sorry.”

Hyun-woo’s expression softened slightly. He probably saw this as victory. And he wasn’t wrong—at least within the team, I had taken a step back.

“Good,” he said. “Then again.”

Second cycle. I moved only within the assigned positions. Even when I saw problems, I didn’t act first. If Se-rin was early, I let her be early. If Jun-ho was late, I let him be late. When Hyun-woo opened the front, I followed as the front opened. I kept the promise: I’ll match your way.

But that was the problem. The more we repeated the drill, the more uncomfortable my body felt. This isn’t my movement.

I never fought like the “correct answer.” I watched the opponent’s breathing, read their rhythm, struck the opening, and withdrew. That was my style. The team’s style hated it. Predictable movements, predictable paths—that was what a team needed. I knew that, yet sometimes my body moved on reflex.

Se-rin’s timing was too far ahead, leaving a brief gap in the front. I stepped in to fill it, then immediately pulled back. A clean strike-and-withdraw motion. To me, it was damage control. Hyun-woo’s face hardened the moment he saw it.

“Hey,” he said. “Moving on your own again?”

I turned my head. “I saw a gap—”

“That’s the problem,” Hyun-woo cut in. “You don’t share what you see with us, yet you decide and move alone. That ruins the team.”

Se-rin nodded at once. “Right. I was surprised just now, too.”

Jun-ho shrank even smaller. “Sorry… I was late.”

Hyun-woo didn’t look at Jun-ho. His eyes stayed on me. “You. You don’t understand what a team is, do you? If you’re going to fight alone, then do it by yourself.”

The words were so accurate that I almost laughed. He was right. I did fight alone. I had survived until now by fighting alone. What I possessed wasn’t an awakening or a skill—it was only the method of enduring by myself.

I thought for a moment. Then I reached a conclusion.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it your way.”

Hyun-woo’s eyes wavered slightly. He had expected resistance. But I didn’t resist. The final evaluation wasn’t about my pride. It was about survival.

Hyun-woo nodded a beat late. “Good. Then just match our tempo. You… don’t think about anything else. You’re last.”

Se-rin spoke with satisfaction. “Yeah, that’s much better.”

Jun-ho simply nodded without a word.

I gripped my sword again. The handle felt slightly slippery. Not from sweat. Maybe from emotion.

Training continued to the end. On the surface, it grew more plausible. Hyun-woo opened the front, Se-rin matched the timing, Jun-ho covered the rear, and I followed quietly. No major mistakes occurred. Hyun-woo wasn’t satisfied, but he spoke less.

“This should be enough.”

Se-rin nodded. “Yeah. At this rate, we should be fine.”

Jun-ho let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness…”

At those words, Hyun-woo added one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠more line. “When we finally enter the dungeon,” he said, “listen to me. Don’t judge on your own.”

Se-rin immediately agreed. “Right. Hyun-woo’s correct.”

Jun-ho nodded. I answered briefly. “Understood.”

The moment I said it, something inside me bent. Match them. Follow them. That was the best option right now.

People left one by one. Hyun-woo and Se-rin went first, walking side by side all the way to the exit. Their voices faded. Jun-ho glanced at me, hesitated, then spoke.

“Do-yoon… earlier—”

“It’s fine,” I said first.

Jun-ho lowered his head with an even guiltier expression. “Still… sorry. I’ll do better, too.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

That was all. Jun-ho turned and left.

Only I remained in the training ground. The lights were half-dimmed, the floor patterns glowing faintly. I stood there and closed my eyes for a moment.

During the final evaluation… It would get a little better. The dungeon was more realistic than practice. Hyun-woo, Se-rin, and Jun-ho would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠focus more than they did now. Mistakes would decrease. There would be no room to blame each other. So—

It’ll improve.

I tried to move past the thought. But that “but” quietly raised its head inside me.

What if. What if the team collapsed? If Hyun-woo wavered more than expected, if Se-rin missed the pattern, if Jun-ho froze in fear—what then? Could I still only play the role of “matching” them?

I raised my sword. No one was here. No need to watch anyone’s reaction. I swung once, slowly. There was nothing in the air, yet a line appeared in my vision. A red trajectory.

I stared straight at the line. This skill wasn’t about using it “fast.” It was about striking “precisely.” In real combat, it would be even harder. Tension made the line waver; broken breathing twisted the trajectory slightly. I inhaled. Exhaled. Swung again. The red line traced more steadily than before.

I looked at the target and pictured the dungeon in my mind. Cave-type. Narrow visibility. Enemies clinging to walls. Goblins leaping from behind. And the moment the team collapsed.

Then I would have two choices. Match the team until the very end and fall together. Or, right before the team broke, sever the flow even if it meant acting alone.

The second option was the one Hyun-woo would hate. But the second gave a higher chance of survival.

I lowered the tip of my sword to the floor and muttered quietly.

“If the team runs well… I’ll just match them. But.”

I raised my sword again. “If it collapses—then I’ll have to end it.”

The words reached no one. Only I remained in the training ground.

I swung once more.

The red line carved cleanly through the air. Staring at it, I thought one last time.

During the final evaluation, things would improve. So for now, I would match them. But—

If that “what if” arrived, I wouldn’t match them then. I would endure. Even if it meant doing it alone.

The training ground lights went out completely. I placed my sword on the rack and walked slowly toward the exit. My footsteps were quiet. Yet strangely certain.

Of what I was preparing for.

The final evaluation was approaching. And I was already preparing for two different ways of fighting at the same time.