The Criteria of an Awakener
A day had passed. What happened yesterday was already treated as old news within the academy. Who got hit, who started the fight, who walked out of the classroom laughing—none of it lingered as long as one might expect. The academy had always been that way. Only results remained; the process was quickly erased. Because that was efficient.
The first class was theory. The subject title appeared on the electronic board at the front of the classroom. Hunter History. The teacher was someone I had never seen before. He wore a suit, but his tie was loose, and his voice carried no unnecessary emotion.
“Alright, quiet down.”
He didn’t even take attendance. The moment he leaned against the podium, he started the lesson.
“This subject is simple,” the teacher said, tapping the board once. “There’s a lot to memorize, and it shows up often on exams.”
Soft sighs escaped from various corners of the room. The teacher paid no attention to the reaction.
“But it’s also content you can’t afford to not know while you’re here.”
The screen on the electronic board changed.
Dungeon Emergence — Approximately 30 Years Ago
“About thirty years ago, dungeons appeared all over the Earth.”
“And at the same time, every human being alive at that moment awakened.”
The classroom naturally fell silent. It was a story we had heard countless times. Content drilled into us since elementary academy, to the point of exhaustion. Dungeons. Awakenings. First-generation Hunters. The starting point that changed the world into what it was now.
“We call them the 1st Generation Hunters,” the teacher continued calmly. “It was a time of chaos. Many people died, and there were regions that nearly collapsed.”
A few students lifted their heads at those words. The teacher paused briefly, then flipped the screen again.
“But in the end, humanity conquered the dungeons, built a system, and succeeded in maintaining the society we have today.”
New text appeared on the board.
2nd Generation Hunters
“And the children born between those 1st Generation Hunters.” The teacher slowly scanned the students. “We call them the 2nd Generation Hunters.”
The atmosphere in the classroom shifted slightly. Because this wasn’t someone else’s story—it was ours.
“The biggest difference between 1st and 2nd Generation Hunters lies in their understanding of mana.” The teacher wrote briefly on the board. Mana Adaptability. “1st Generation Hunters only felt mana after awakening. 2nd Generation Hunters, on the other hand, were born with mana already inside them.”
“That’s why 2nd Generation Hunters can control the mana within their bodies to some extent even before awakening. Of course, there are individual differences, but the basic sensory ability itself develops faster than in the 1st Generation.”
Some nodded. Others stared blankly at the board as if bored. Still others took notes without any particular reaction. I looked away. Mana. I could control it too. Only a little. Less than others, but it was definitely there inside me.
The problem came after that. Awakening. I still hadn’t crossed that threshold.
“That’s why the awakening of 2nd Generation Hunters is even more important.” The teacher’s voice remained flat. “Most awaken by elementary school at the earliest, or middle school at the latest.”
Most. That word caught in my ear. There had been teachers who used the phrase “without exception” before. But things had changed recently. Because, very rarely—truly rarely—there were cases where the awakening was delayed.
Still, that wasn’t any comfort to me. Being late and never awakening at all were different things. And in this school, people didn’t wait long to distinguish between the two.
“All of you sitting here right now are 2nd Generation Hunters,” the teacher said. “Even if the timing differs, awakening itself is practically inevitable.”
Inevitable. There was a certain cruelty in that word—one that left no room for exceptions.
The board changed again.
Hunter Rank System
“After awakening, humanity began classifying Hunters by rank.”
“From F-class to S-class. A total of six tiers.”
“In the early days, to be honest, the standards were quite loose.” The teacher spoke matter-of-factly. “If your skill looked strong, you were high rank. If you had no noticeable ability, you were low rank.”
“In other words, it was basically just ‘you look strong’ level.”
A small laugh rippled through the classroom.
“But it’s different now.” Several items appeared on the board: Dungeon raid success rate. Crisis response ability. Efficiency of support and auxiliary skills. Mana stability. National risk tolerance limit.
“Current ranks aren’t determined by combat power alone,” the teacher explained, pointing to each item. “Dungeon raid success rate, crisis response ability, efficiency of support and auxiliary skills, and the national judgment of risk tolerance—they’re all evaluated comprehensively.”
He glanced around at the students before continuing.
“F-class and E-class have difficulty functioning as active Hunters.”
“Because even though they’ve awakened, they lack the practical combat ability or dungeon activity capability.”
“Most of them are reintegrated into normal society.”
“D-class is the baseline.” The teacher’s fingertip pointed to D-class on the board. “From here, you can operate as a Hunter.”
Someone drew a small breath. Probably from anticipation. Or maybe anxiety.
“C-class and above can be considered professional Hunters.”
“Stable dungeon income. Mana stone distribution. Contracts with corporations or institutions.” The teacher paused for a moment. “But S-class is an exception.”
The S-class label at the top of the board enlarged slightly.
“S-class Hunters are power beyond standard. They’re not simply strong individuals—they’re assets that must be managed at the national level.”
Assets. The headmaster’s words from yesterday came to mind. Resources raised by the nation. Beings that must be used for the nation. In this school, people were constantly being called by different names. Resources. Assets. Power. And the moment those names were attached, a person stopped being a person.
“The current rank gap is incomparably clearer than in the early days,” the teacher said calmly. “A single rank difference isn’t merely a difference in skill.”
“It’s a difference in the way one lives.”
The board changed once more.
Mana Stones
“When you defeat monsters in a dungeon, you can obtain mana stones.”
“Energy crystals condensed from mana.”
“They’re the foundational energy source for electricity, medicine, industry, and communications—modern society as a whole.”
Mana stones. At that word, my mother naturally came to mind. The single C-class mana stone we received every month. That was how we survived each month. In class, it was summarized as foundational societal energy, but to me it was a little different. It was what kept my mother going each day. At the same time, it was a monthly reminder that I still hadn’t accomplished anything.
I lowered my gaze, pretending to take notes.
The board changed again.
Area System
“After the dungeon incident, Earth was divided into multiple areas.” The teacher’s voice lowered slightly. “This place where you were born and have lived until now—the Republic of Korea—is currently classified as Area 82 based on the status window.”
“This isn’t a simple administrative distinction. You all know that physical movement between areas is practically impossible at present.”
A few students in the classroom casually checked their status windows. The teacher wrote briefly on the board.
Quest: Survive in Area 82
“If you look at the quest section of your status window, it should be written there for everyone.”
“This isn’t an optional quest.”
“It can’t be refused or completed. It’s a quest attached to existence itself.”
He slowly scanned the students.
“Whether you’re a Hunter or an ordinary person. Whether you’ve awakened or not.”
“As long as you live in Area 82, this quest remains active.”
Someone let out a small laugh.
“It’s meaningless, isn’t it?” the teacher said calmly, as if he had expected the laugh. “That’s why no one pays attention to it.”
He flipped the screen.
“But you all know why this quest exists.”
A photograph appeared on the board. A collapsed city. Burned buildings. Blackened earth. The air in the classroom grew a little heavier.
“Dungeon overflow.”
“Especially the first S-class dungeon overflow incident that occurred twenty years ago.”
The photos flipped one by one. Destroyed roads. Empty streets. Rescue teams in protective suits.
“It happened in Seoul, and countless civilians and Hunters died.” The teacher showed no emotion. That made it feel even more dry and heavy. “Since then, there have been regions in Area 82 that never fully recovered.”
Red zones appeared on the map.
“North, near Baekdu Mountain.”
“South, the Hallasan area.”
“East, parts of the Taebaek Mountains.”
“These are regions still under national control. Access is prohibited without permission. In practical terms, they’re no longer human territory.”
The teacher looked over the students once more.
“The reason you’re in this school is simple.”
“To prevent something like this from happening again.”
And then, after a brief pause, he quietly added,
“If it does happen again—”
Even the small noises in the classroom disappeared.
“—then you’ll be the ones who have to go out and stop it.”
The electronic bell rang. Even after class ended, a brief silence lingered in the classroom. Everyone packed their bags or stood up without saying much. It felt strange that the ruins we had just seen in photographs and the lunch we were about to eat existed in the same day. But that feeling didn’t last long either. At the academy, everything quickly moved on to the next schedule.
Lunchtime. The school cafeteria was already bustling. Because each class had different movement patterns, it felt like everyone was crowding in at once. I naturally picked up a tray, thinking I would eat alone. After what happened yesterday, I didn’t particularly want to be around other people.
Then—
“Hey.”
A familiar voice called out.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to eat alone?”
When I looked up, Tae-geon was standing there. Eun-seo was beside him.
“Let’s eat together.”
Tae-geon’s face was completely nonchalant. He was good at pretending nothing was wrong. Eun-seo looked at my face first. Or rather, it felt like she was checking my breathing and posture. Like someone confirming whether the places I’d been hit yesterday still showed.
I hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Okay.”
The three of us found seats and sat down. As I set down my tray, Eun-seo spoke first.
“How was class today?”
“Well… it was history class. But it was stuff we already knew.”
“Still, when they bring up dungeon overflow, it feels a bit off, doesn’t it?” Tae-geon said, picking up his chopsticks. “I lose my appetite every time those photos come out. I wonder if they really need to show that kind of thing during class.”
“They show it because it’s necessary,” I answered.
Tae-geon looked at me.
“You sounded like a textbook just now.”
“Because I just came from textbook class.”
“Ah, makes sense.”
Eun-seo let out a small laugh. Thanks to that laugh, the atmosphere loosened a little. She ate for a moment before carefully asking,
“Are you feeling okay?”
She didn’t bring up yesterday directly. But there was no way to misunderstand what she meant. I scooped up a spoonful of rice and answered.
“I’m fine.”
Eun-seo didn’t speak right away. She just looked at me once more. Every time I said I was fine, Eun-seo grew quiet, like someone searching for the gaps in those words.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
“Got it.”
“Really.”
“I really got it.”
Tae-geon butted in from the side, unnecessarily waving his chopsticks.
“Hey, I heard about yesterday too. But if I ask if you’re okay, you’re just gonna say you’re fine no matter what, right?”
“If you already know, why ask?”
“Because it makes me feel better.”
“That’s pretty selfish.”
“Friends are supposed to be selfish.”
Tae-geon said it smoothly. I almost laughed at how ridiculous it was.
Just then, familiar faces appeared in the corner of my vision. Min Jae-hoon’s group. They glanced our way once, then passed by without a word. Tae-geon shrugged for no particular reason.
“See? Numbers really do matter.”
“When you’re alone, you’re a lion. When you’re with others, you’re a cat.”
“Hey,” Eun-seo scolded lightly. “Watch your words. This is the cafeteria.”
Tae-geon laughed but didn’t say anything more. A brief silence passed. Then Tae-geon spoke again.
“Oh, right. I heard there’s a practical class this afternoon.”
I looked up.
“Practical?”
“Yeah. First skill assessment for each class.”
Tae-geon said it like it was no big deal, but Eun-seo’s hand on the tray paused for a moment.
“Sparring?”
“Probably. They said they’re pairing people up to check skill levels.”
Sparring. Awakener criteria. Skill assessment. The words lined up neatly in my head.
Eun-seo looked at me first.
“Do-yoon.”
“Yeah.”
“You have practical class this afternoon, right?”
She hesitated for a moment before adding in a slightly lower voice,
“Don’t push yourself.”
She continued right away.
“Telling you not to get hurt feels… kind of weird.”
Eun-seo lowered her gaze briefly, then lifted it again.
“If it feels dangerous, don’t force yourself to endure it.”
That was so like her. Not just “be careful,” but words spoken by someone who knew exactly how I would try to endure. I hesitated for a moment before nodding.
“Understood.”
Tae-geon immediately jumped in with his chopsticks.
“Hey, I’m here too. Why don’t you say that kind of thing to me?”
Eun-seo looked straight at him.
“You handle things fine on your own.”
“Wow, that’s some serious discrimination.”
“And even if I told you not to push yourself, you’d do it anyway.”
“That’s true.”
Tae-geon admitted it far too easily. Eun-seo sighed.
“So you be careful too.”
“Oh. I finally got worried about.”
“Don’t take it that way.”
Tae-geon laughed smoothly.
“Still, nothing too serious will happen, right? It’s Korea Academy, after all.”
He deliberately spoke lightly.
“The facilities are good, the supervision is strict. They wouldn’t let anything big happen during the first skill assessment.”
Eun-seo nodded at his words, but her expression didn’t fully relax.
“I hope so.”
The conversation ended lightly. On the surface, at least. But my mind was already filled with different thoughts. Sparring. Awakener criteria. Skill assessment. And—
I still hadn’t awakened.
The food on my tray disappeared more slowly than before.