Hellish PE Class (1)
It wasn't as if I'd never had friends. Twisted as my personality was, there had still been someone I could call a best friend.
He was a kind one, too—always treating me to meals whenever we met. Once I asked him why he did it, and he answered with cheerful frankness that there was no one else he could mess with the way he messed with me. For all that talk, though, he never went out of his way to be truly rude.
At worst, he'd drop by my place uninvited and raid the fridge. Both my parents only ever came home near dawn, so it wasn't as if there was anyone to stop him—but he'd freely help himself to the sodas and energy drinks I'd bought for myself.
There came a day I finally couldn't take it. I snapped at him, asking whether he had money to buy me food but none to buy his own drinks. His answer went something like this:
"That's not it. Stealing the stuff you bought for yourself just tastes way better."
From that moment on I gave up trying to understand him and simply accepted him as he was. Strangely enough, that only made him easier to deal with.
Anyway. Once, long ago, we went to a PC bang together, and I still remember him declaring that the computer at his house was far better than the trash machines there—that the reverse culture shock was absolute garbage. When I asked whether a PC bang rig wasn't pretty good already, he shot back, Could you even play on your home PC after gaming on one of these? and I understood at once.
The reason that little exchange came back to me now was that I was experiencing that reverse culture shock for myself. I had barely left the shelter, and already the foul, oppressive air made it hard to breathe.
I'd thought that arriving gradually from inland had let me adapt to the twisted mana—but that had been a delusion. Not for a single moment had my body ever grown used to this nauseating power.
Having once known clean, refreshing air, my body was silently screaming for me to go straight back to the shelter. If this was how it was going to be, I should have just napped in the classroom instead of going to the shelter at all—regret washed over me, but regret changed nothing.
Every breath made me want to retch.
Shoving aside the whisper that said no one would notice if one person like me simply vanished, I looked around for a building that resembled a gymnasium. Every structure in sight, though, was so ornate that I couldn't tell one from another.
Clutching at straws, I wandered the area hoping for a map—but apparently maps spoiled the scenery, so no one had ever bothered to put any up.
I'd only stepped forward because I wanted cream bread, and now I'd made a complete mess of things.
…Of course nothing I do ever goes well. I should never have tried thinking for myself.
Looking back on my previous life, it had always been the same. Whenever I tried to do something of my own accord, it either fell apart or turned out worse than if I'd done nothing at all.
My carefully crafted jokes killed the mood more often than not. New foods I tried in search of stimulation were always bland. When I set out to become a writer, no one ever looked at my work. Even giving up on life in despair had been a failure.
From that day on I lived like a wooden plank waiting to sink. Too afraid to ask for help, too lazy to save myself, I simply drifted without purpose, slowly worn away by the days.
A plank floating on a boundless sea, waiting only to rot, splinter, and sink to the bottom.
That was me.
I'd thought this time might be a little different.
I knew I ought to think bright thoughts, and yet all that came were dark ones—I was pathetic. Inside the shelter, positive thinking had been possible; the fact that a little distance had reduced me to this suggested the mana was to blame.
Right. It's all the mana's fault.
The reason I felt so depressed, the reason lunch had tasted awful, the reason my self-introduction had been a disaster—all of it was the mana's fault.
The source of my mood swings, the reason I had no friends, every single bad thing—all of it was this twisted mana's fault.
Pinning the blame on a convenient scapegoat made me feel a little better. It was absurd and forced, but having something to resent still lifted my spirits.
Of course, feeling better didn't improve the situation. I was still lost, and the clock tower in the distance was already announcing that lunch would be over in a few minutes.
Still, people can move on feeling alone.
Then let's head back to the snack bar first. At least I remember the way that far.
That was the plan—but my feet were unbearably heavy. Walking alone was hard enough. Could I really do PE in this condition?
Impossible. Absolutely impossible. In clean air, maybe—but in air fouler than a sewer, I wouldn't even be able to draw on my usual strength.
So what do I do? Show my face and ask if I can sit out because I feel sick? That would draw everyone's eyes for sure.
And what if they brand me a shameless freeloader? Not that they haven't already, but what if it gets worse? What if they start grilling me—we're all struggling and still running, so do you think you're special enough to get special treatment?
"Ugh… I'm going to be late…"
Before the chain of negative thoughts could lock into place again, someone's voice cut them short. A voice I was sure I'd heard somewhere before.
…I remember. It was my homeroom teacher. She'd failed to memorize my name, which had stung a little, but that was neither here nor there.
"Good afternoon, Teacher."
"…Ah—eh? Uh… Hoyeon, is that you…?"
I could almost hear the unspoken What are you doing here? Her complexion looked as if she'd just seen something terrifying, but I no longer had the luxury of fretting over that.
"Do you happen to know where the gymnasium is? I've lost my way."
"Ah, so you got lost… The gym is straight down this path. You'll come right to it."
Thankfully, she answered kindly. If I'd gone toward the snack bar I would have had to take a much longer detour—maybe standing still and berating myself had been a stroke of luck after all.
"Ah—might I also ask what the building looks like? All the structures are so similar that I couldn't tell them apart."
"Ah… I see. The buildings are all similar… I suppose at the level of an empire, something like this is nothing…"
It was clearly meant as a mutter to herself, but I heard it. There was no need to let on that I had. Having your private thoughts overheard is mortifying.
"Sorry to keep you. The gym is a round building, so you should find it easily."
I gave her a brief bow and ran in the direction she'd indicated. Sure enough, there stood a circular building, just as she'd said.
It's closer to a colosseum than a gymnasium, isn't it? Well—the original was a fantasy story, so better not to think too hard about it. When I stepped inside, a massively muscled teacher was in the middle of taking roll.
"Exipri."
"Yeees!"
"Han Dogeon."
"Han Dogeon. Not here?"
Dogeon still hadn't arrived. Was he lost too? The teacher looked terrifying even at a glance—poor guy.
No, not just him. I'm late as well.
"…Baek Hoyeon."
"Yes."
Our eyes met across the distance. Whether he was glaring or simply built that way, I couldn't tell—but the intimidating presence was exactly what I'd always imagined a PE teacher to look like.
Fortunately, I didn't get scolded. Still, I couldn't shake the chill of what felt like a stack of "favorability" being quietly tallied against me. Was this the type who didn't really punish you until you crossed a line?
"Everyone's here but one. To think there'd be an idiot late to the very first class."
Power filled his voice; pressure filled his gaze. Strict enough that any show of insolence would earn you an iron fist to the skull on the spot, he felt less like a teacher and more like a drill instructor.
"A pleasure to meet you, recruits. This instructor is Georg, and I will be in charge of your education for the year."
Clap. Clap. Clap.
…?
I was the only one clapping. Didn't people usually applaud after a teacher introduced himself? Wasn't that the unspoken rule? But when I looked around, the reactions were all wrong.
What the hell is that guy's problem?
No one said it out loud, yet I could almost hear the words. What—was clapping some kind of crime? I felt like the sole idiot in the room. The stares fixed on me held nothing but pure bewilderment.
"…Who just clapped?"
His tone was not right. Seriously, what was going on? The class began to murmur as if there were something only I didn't know. The atmosphere grew steadily uglier, until it felt as though I'd committed some enormous offense.
"…Baek Hoyeon."
If this dragged on any longer we were all going to be running laps from the first class, so I finally reported myself. For a moment it felt as if laser beams might shoot from the instructor's eyes. Most of what I saw there was bafflement—but I didn't miss the thin thread of anger underneath.
"Is that some Eastern custom?"
When you ask in a tone that suggests my head will split either way—whether I answer or stay silent—what am I supposed to do? I still had no idea why clapping warranted a scolding this severe. It seemed worse than being late.
"……I apologize."
I braced myself for a blow, but what I expected never came.
"Haa. Since it's only the first day, learn this continent's etiquette while there's still time. You clearly don't even know what your own actions mean—I'll let it slide this once."
Georg exhaled with the look of a man bone-weary of the world, and when he finished speaking the murmuring only grew louder. My mind had gone blank, so I couldn't make out the words, but they were clearly insults.
Ah. I want to die. Why does everything I do always turn out like this?