Unawakened in Class D
On the way to the auditorium, I split from Tae-geon and Eun-seo. We had to gather by class. That was how the high school entrance ceremony at the academy worked. “See you after,” Tae-geon said, waving lightly.
“Yeah.” Eun-seo nodded with a short laugh. Just like that, the path we’d walked together naturally diverged. The route to where Class A was assembling and the one leading to Class D were more clearly divided than I’d expected. Even though we were all heading to the same auditorium, the flow of students split midway, as if someone had drawn an invisible line. You go here. You go there. The space itself made the distinction without a single word.
My steps slowed for a moment. I watched Tae-geon and Eun-seo head toward the crowd of Class A students. The two of them blended into the group, and people immediately gathered around them as if they’d been waiting. The atmosphere, the gazes—everything was different over there. It already felt like a place where potential was being measured. And me? I was walking toward the empty side.
The air changed the moment I stepped inside the auditorium. It was nothing like middle school. The scale, the space, and above all, the look in people’s eyes. Everyone here was quick to notice things. And even quicker to judge. Who was impressive, who was useful, who was about to fall. Nothing had even started yet, but some faces already looked like they’d finished sorting everyone.
Each class gathered beneath its own flag. Class A. Class B. Class C. And farthest in, slightly off the main flow—Class D. The lighting was dim, the spot oddly tucked into a corner. Not so obviously discriminatory that anyone could call it out, but definitely not a good seat either. Without anyone telling me to, I naturally made my way over. My body already knew. Ah. This is my place.
As I walked, I felt eyes on me. Not outright stares—just quick glances followed by whispers. Still, the looks were strangely precise. They weren’t looking at a person. They were sorting an object.
“That’s Class D over there.”
“Wow, the vibe is completely different.”
“Isn’t that just where they dump the dropouts?”
The whispers were oddly clear. Just loud enough that pretending not to hear felt awkward. My steps quickened on their own. Not quite running, but close. I reached Class D and slipped into the very last spot without thinking—against the wall, the least noticeable position.
Even though we were all academy students wearing the same uniform, the atmosphere around Class D felt strangely heavy. Everyone was watching everyone else. Figuring out who ranked lower, who ranked higher. No one said it out loud, but you could almost hear the mental calculations running.
And in the middle of all that, I felt a separate set of eyes on me.
“Hey, did you see that guy?”
“Ah… the one who couldn’t awaken?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
This time the voices came from inside the class. Closer. Sharper.
“Isn’t he the bottom even in D Class?”
“Legendary that he made it this far without awakening.”
“Must be riding his parents’ coattails.”
“If it were me, I’d just go to a regular high school and learn a trade.”
Laughter broke out. Mockery. Strangely, the more I heard this kind of talk, the less new it felt.
Ah. Same pattern again.
I filed it away in my mind. It had been like this in middle school too. The words changed, but the conclusion never did. And at the center of it, there was always one familiar face.
Min Jae-hoon. Same class since middle school. Back then and now. Not particularly skilled, but the type who needed someone beneath him to feel secure in his own position.
Jae-hoon stood near the middle of the Class D line. Same class. Same general area. Yet his expression was the complete opposite of mine. No anxiety, no wariness. If anything, he looked relaxed. When he spotted me, the corner of his mouth curled up like he’d found something entertaining.
“Hey, Han Do-yoon.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but the area around us went oddly quiet. Jae-hoon was the type who enjoyed that kind of atmosphere. He could sense the exact moment when people’s attention shifted to him.
“Still haven’t awakened?”
He clicked his tongue, the sound mixed with laughter.
“Seriously impressive. At this point, I’m almost starting to respect you.”
More laughter leaked out from behind him. I didn’t answer. Jae-hoon studied my face for a moment, confirming I wasn’t reacting, then laughed even more openly.
“If it were me, I’d be too embarrassed to show my face at school.”
…Still the same. Time hadn’t changed his tone or his expression at all.
The student next to him laughed and asked, “What, you know him?”
“You’d have to be a spy not to. He was famous back in middle school.”
Jae-hoon shrugged. “He’s the guy who kept saying he’d awaken any day now. But look at him—made it all the way to high school and still hasn’t. Not even close.”
His gaze swept over my uniform, my face, my hands. He wasn’t looking at a person. He was looking for something to compare himself against.
“Good thing we’re in the same class.”
He laughed quietly. “I was worried our class might not have someone like this.”
Snickers rippled through the group.
“Honestly, having him around makes things easier.”
Jae-hoon deliberately lowered his voice a little more. “At least we know for sure who the lowest is.”
He tilted his head slightly. “He’ll probably last until the midterms, right?”
The words caught strangely in my ears.
“After that, who knows.”
Jae-hoon let the sentence trail off with a smile. “He’ll disappear on his own.”
Midterms. The word lingered longer than it should have. It was still far away, yet it already felt like it was tightening around my throat. I said nothing. Didn’t argue. Didn’t look away. I just pretended not to hear. I’d learned more than once that this was the best option. If I talked back, Jae-hoon would only laugh louder. If I got angry, the others would remember. If I clenched my fists, I’d be stepping right into the picture they wanted. So I endured. Enduring didn’t mean winning, but at least it wasn’t losing in the way they expected.
A little later, the auditorium lights slowly dimmed. The remaining murmurs faded like a receding wave, and hundreds of gazes naturally turned toward the stage. One person walked out. In an instant, the air in the auditorium changed. It was as if the atmosphere itself had been pressed down.
Seo-mun Hyeok, Dean of Korea Academy.
A middle-aged man. His hair was streaked with white, but nothing about him looked disheveled. His back was straight, his steps neither slow nor fast. Every movement seemed calculated, precise. Before he even reached the center of the stage, someone in the auditorium swallowed audibly.
“That’s…”
“The one from the dungeon overflow incident…”
Whispers spread in a chain.
“It was the northern Seoul front, right?”
“The guy who stopped it alone.”
“Even among the first-generation hunters, he’s supposed to be a legend.”
The students’ eyes changed. First curiosity. Then admiration. And finally, a trace of fear. He wasn’t just a principal or an administrator. He was a living legend who had single-handedly prevented the worst dungeon overflow incident twenty years ago. That description fit him perfectly.
The dean looked slowly across the auditorium before even picking up the microphone. His gaze didn’t settle on any one person, but every time it moved, students instinctively straightened their posture. Backs went rigid, shoulders dropped, eyes fixed forward. Without realizing it, I felt tension creep into my own shoulders. Even breathing felt like it might be too loud.
“Welcome to Korea Academy.”
His voice was low and solid. Even through the microphone, it didn’t echo excessively. It felt like it was knocking directly inside my ears.
“This is the nation’s top institution for training hunters.”
A brief pause. The dean surveyed the entire auditorium once more before continuing.
“The very fact that you’re standing here is proof that the country has chosen you.”
Chosen. The word felt oddly off. Had I been chosen to be here? Or had I simply been sorted?
“There’s only one reason you’re able to learn, train, and grow stronger in this place.”
The dean spoke calmly. “It’s thanks to the nation’s consideration and sacrifice.”
Some students nodded. Others looked proud. A few still wore expressions that suggested they hadn’t fully grasped the weight of those words. But to my ears, it sounded different.
Nothing is free. There’s always a price.
The dean’s voice grew firmer. “You are not individuals.”
The auditorium fell completely silent.
“You are resources the nation has cultivated. Resources that must be used for the nation.”
Resources. Not people. Resources.
“Here, only strength matters.”
The dean continued slowly. “Background. Circumstances. Emotions. None of them are taken into consideration.”
Each word landed like a nail.
“The weak are weeded out.”
“Only the strong remain.”
It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t comfort. It was simply a restatement of the rules that had already been decided.
“Everything you enjoy here must ultimately be repaid through devotion to the nation.”
“That is the rule of this academy.”
The dean never smiled. He sounded less like someone giving a welcome speech and more like someone reading out the terms of a contract.
I listened and thought to myself.
So someone like me, who hasn’t awakened… was never part of the equation to begin with.
My gaze naturally dropped to the floor near Class D. The farthest, darkest spot from the center of the auditorium.
As the entrance ceremony drew to a close, applause echoed through the hall. Some clapped enthusiastically. Others did so out of obligation. I didn’t clap at all. I’d missed the timing, and I hadn’t particularly wanted to. My palms didn’t feel like putting in the effort.
I was still standing at the very end of Class D. Not touching anyone. A position that kept me outside every circle, whether by intention or by chance. In the middle of a hall filled with welcomes and expectations, I quietly confirmed exactly where my place was.
This was it.
Just like the current me.