Fucked

The sun is fair. It rises in the sky and shines the same light on everyone. On the faces of laborers heading off to another hard day's work. On the butterflies fluttering about in search of flowers. And on me, sprawled out pathetically on a bench, still not sober from last night's drinking.

The warm sunlight slowly prods at my consciousness. As if in response, everything begins to feel lighter bit by bit. My eyelids. My head. My body. My arms. My legs.

I rub at my eyes that keep trying to close again and force them open. Then I drag my aching body upright and stretch. Grabbing hold of my dizzy mind, I start figuring out where the hell I am right now.

....Something's off. It's way too quiet. Not a single person walking by.

I do my best to ignore the faint sense of unease creeping over me and check my current physical condition.

'Fuck... my head's killing me...'

It throbs sharply like someone's stabbing an awl into my skull. My body aches all over like it's covered in bruises, and my arms and legs are starting to complain with pain. Then the memories of yesterday slowly surface, reminding me that I'd gone on a mindless drinking binge.

What a crazy bastard. I'm seriously a fucking lunatic. I bought snacks and everything but just kept pounding drinks without thinking.

As if to prove it, five empty soju bottles were rolling around haphazardly at my feet. No, six if you count the one still clutched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in my hand.

'I should've stopped at a reasonable amount...'

Where the hell is the protagonist who cracks open five bottles of soju and somehow forces down a sixth? Right here, fuck.

Worried someone might see, I hurriedly stuff the five soju bottles at my feet into the trash can. The sharp, sticky smell of alcohol got on my hands a little, but hiding my shameful behavior was the higher priority.

That's when I heard a loud voice leaking through a slightly open window in a building a short distance away. Even though it was far, the scolding was so loud that every word came through crystal clear.

Graduate students. The only pitiful creatures in this era who aren't protected by law, even though even university students are. At the same time, they're the ones treated as property damage rather than casualties even if they get hurt.

People become graduate students for their own reasons. Master's or doctoral degrees. Becoming a professor. Job preparation. Escapism.

But setting aside those varied reasons, there's one thing that applies to all of them: they aren't treated as human beings.

They're slaves. No. They're worse than slaves. At least slaves got fed.

I send my condolences to those pitiful beings who are even ignored by labor laws. At the same time, I grow my hatred for the damn professor who's been yelling nonstop.

'Shut the fuck up already, you professor piece of shit. My head hurts.'

But my growing resentment quickly subsided. Because when I pulled out my phone to check the date and time, a completely different emotion instantly filled my heart.

Shock. Horror. Doubt. Denial. Desperation.

On my phone were numbers that should never be seen, along with a calendar notification.

I'm fucked.

***

Yeah, I'm completely and utterly fucked. That was the conclusion I reached after careful consideration.

I'm fucked.

The Academy's dormitory adaptation period is one week. In exchange, they start orientation and classes right from the first day.

But more than half of the first class has already passed.

I'm fucked. For real.

The world is supposed to be lived in moderation. That ambiguous middle ground where you're not too noticeable but not ignored either—that's the true royal road.

But looking at it now, that middle ground was throwing a tantrum trying to escape the Academy life's Maginot Line.

It was twisted from the start.

'Actually, it started getting fucked from the mental hospital, you bastard.'

Chewing on my hatred for that damn librarian bitch, I ran toward the classroom.

One small mercy: while looking for the library, I'd figured out the classroom locations in advance.

I don't even glance at the elevator and stride up the stairs. Two steps for every harsh breath. I climb the stairs without pausing for a second.

The moment I reach the fifth floor without catching my breath, I open the back door of the visible classroom and step inside.

As quietly as possible. Stealthily.

— BANG!

But the back door opened with an unusually loud noise. Was it because I couldn't control my accelerated body? Or was I just having an exceptionally unlucky day?

What was certain was that in the classroom, which had fallen into heavy silence in an instant, every single person's gaze began to focus on me.

"......Sorry for being late."

I carefully offered a greeting while reading the room. At the same time, I reconsider my current miserable appearance.

Hair completely disheveled. Jeans half torn. Wrinkled black long-sleeved t-shirt. Bloodshot, swollen eyes. The strong smell of alcohol on my breath.

The conclusion was obvious.

Yeah. Even if they dragged me out thinking I was a homeless person, I'd have to accept it! Even I look like a homeless guy!

Anyway, I'd already given up on sneaking in. As I sighed and tried to step further into the classroom, the older black-haired female professor who had stopped her lecture looked at me and spoke gently.

"Student? All our Gold Rank and above students have already been marked present. Who might you be?"

??????

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"You're not a graduate student... are you? Looking at the color of the student ID on your necklace, it doesn't seem to belong to this class."

Surprised by those words, I stepped back outside and checked the classroom nameplate.

First-year. Gold border.

'Tsk, it was the rich kids' classroom.'

I quietly closed the door as if nothing had happened. The moment I heard the small harmony of the door meeting its frame, I quickly ran off to find the Iron Rank classroom.

Someone seemed to be calling me, but I ignored it.

Fuck.

***

The very end of the hallway. A place where even sunlight barely reached, one that somehow seemed like it would smell musty.

This was the location of the Iron Rank classroom.

But it wasn't just the classroom's location that was pathetic. The rusted first-year nameplate. Even crooked, not properly aligned. The walls had almost all their paint peeled off, and mold was growing in every corner.

Compared to the Gold Rank classroom, it was an incredibly discriminatory and poor environment.

It was just a complete mess.

Our Iron Rank lives are precious too, you fucking bastards.

Of course, even if we Iron Ranks complained, it wouldn't do much good. In the end, the alpha and omega of the hunter ecosystem is 'So what about your tier?'

If you're upset, go get yourself a Gold Rank necklace.

Anyway, I'd arrived at the classroom. This time I won't get caught.

I carefully open the back door as delicately as handling glasswork.

That's how the front door opened quietly.

It was bullshit.

'Why is the front door where the back door should be, you fucking idiots.'

Another silence. But I'd already been through it once, so there was no shock left.

So I confidently step into the classroom.

And what entered my field of vision was a bald professor glaring at me with clear discomfort at having his lecture interrupted.

"I'm a bit late."

"Why are you so damn confident about it?"

The professor growls. But the more it's like this, the less I should shrink back.

"Ah, I'm already late. What can I do about it? Sorry for being late."

"Fine. Let's say being late is being late. Then what's that on your wrist?"

"?...."

At those words, I checked the plastic bag hanging on my wrist.

The four soju bottles left over from yesterday's incident, two bags of snacks I bought as side dishes. And finally, one cup ramen with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

...Fuck.

"Explain what that is, student."

"......School supplies."

"Why the fuck would that be school supplies! In the classroom!! Why!!! Are you bringing alcohol!!!!"

Academy students are allowed to bring personal weapons into the classroom if they use them.

But what I brought now wouldn't work. Obviously. Because it's alcohol.

The professor's anger increased in proportion to the number of exclamation marks. As if to show the trace of that anger, a vein popped out on the professor's forehead with a throb.

The professor begins speaking while grinding his teeth.

"School supplies... school supplies... fine."

"It's fine, right?"

At my words, another vein pops out on the professor's forehead.

"I'll make you a proposal."

"I'll just go in."

"Shut up and listen!!"

Now even the professor's face is turning red. I have no idea who's coming.

"If you can subdue me, I'll overlook today's tardiness—"

— Crash!

Before he could finish speaking, I threw a soju bottle at the professor's head. But maybe because he's bald, his head is hard, and even though the bottle broke, he's completely fine.

"What the hell are you doing!!!"

"Subduing you."

"Not right now, you fucking idiot!!!!"

The professor started jumping up and down in place like a kid, apparently too excited. Yeah. Maintaining a childlike heart is important. It was a nice sight.

The professor's proposal was this: subdue him. The reward for doing so would be exemption from tardiness and permission to do whatever the hell I wanted in all classes for the day—a rather unconventional offer.

However, he said not to resent him even if I got seriously hurt in the process. It was a silent threat that he really wouldn't let me off easy.

Finally, the professor was giving a kind of handicap by declaring he wouldn't use any abilities.

"Is it okay if I beat the shit out of you?"

"What gives you the confidence to talk like that?"

If there's a reason for my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠confidence, it's very obvious.

"I don't think I'll lose to a two-legged creature."

"What are you talking about? I have two perfectly fine legs?"

The professor who doesn't seem to understand. It looks like I need to emphasize it.

"Two legs."

"......This isn't going to end nicely. At least one of your limbs will be broken."

Looking at the bald professor growling more viciously than before, I thought. He's one of the two common types. Either he's showing bravado beyond his ability, or he has sufficient skill.

In this case, it's the latter. Otherwise, there'd be no reason to declare he wouldn't use his abilities.

Staring at my opponent, I slowly organized my thoughts.

Size. Bigger than me. Direct confrontation is dangerous.

Strength. Can't be sure. Could be similar or stronger than me.

Stamina. I might have the advantage, but since it'll probably end in one round, it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠doesn't mean much.

Hair. The professor is a wasteland. My hair is the Great Forest.

Because of that last condition, I had more than enough chance to win.

Bare hands against bare hands. In the end, I prepare to secure even the slightest advantage here.

I crack open one soju. And immediately pour it down my throat.

The only thing that had gone into my stomach since last night was alcohol. I feel like I'm going to die. I'm fucked.

I barely hold back the nausea rising up. After enduring the disgusting alcohol smell clinging to the tip of my nose and mouth, the professor looks at me like I'm an idiot and asks.

".......What are you doing?"

"Ugh.... Preparing my weapon."

"But was there really a need to drink it?"

"If you're in a state of mental and physical weakness, the punishment gets reduced."

"...Ha... Hurry up and get ready."

Sighing, the professor covers both eyes with his palm. It was an opportunity.

Taking advantage of the moment the professor wasn't looking, I reach into the plastic bag. I grab the wooden chopsticks, snap them in two, sharpen the broken ends, and hide one in each wrist.

"Are you ready yet?"

"Just a moment."

When the professor urges me, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠take out all the items from the plastic bag. I put only one empty bottle back in and slam it against the floor.

Thus completed: a highly versatile weapon, a broken soju bottle.

The professor, who had watched the entire process, asks with a puzzled look.

"You're not throwing it this time?"

"Why would I throw it while making it? Are you feeling unwell?"

"Then why the hell did you throw it earlier, you bastard!!!"

"That was subduing."

"Aaaaaaaaagh!!!!! You fucking bastard!!!!!"

This time the professor kept throwing a tantrum even though it didn't hit his head. But if he's making this much of a fuss, he must be pretty lacking. I decided to understand it moderately.

Anyway, it's time to fuck him up.