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After Class
Histori was always the first to leave the classroom as soon as the bell rang. He didn't wait for a word from the teacher or any formal dismissal. Instead, he confidently strode toward the door the moment the bell chimed, gathering his belongings as he prepared to leave.
Once, Miss Arya, the teacher who had tried in vain to assert her authority over the students, called out to him. With a smile tinged with resolve, she fixed her gaze on Histori's retreating back and spoke in a firm tone:
"This is the last time, agreed?"
Histori turned to her with his crimson eyes, his expression cold and detached. He replied in a calm voice laced with unmistakable indifference:
"No… It's dismissal time, and the law is above everyone... including you."
His brief statement was enough to set the class ablaze with laughter. Some misunderstood his words and added cheap exaggerations to the scene, turning it into a mockery. Others capitalized on the moment, adding absurd embellishments to extend the joke's lifespan. A few, however, were displeased by his audacity.
Among the students was Sesika, who looked uneasy as she glanced sideways, noticing the hateful stares some were directing at Histori.
As for Histori, he seemed utterly indifferent, as though all the commotion was nothing more than a distant echo that didn't concern him.
After he left, most of the students followed suit, seeing their teacher sigh heavily, grab her bag, and leave as if resigning to defeat.
Walking down the white corridor, Histori found it as empty and silent as usual, save for the echo of his own footsteps. A few moments later, he began to see students pouring out of the branching classroom doors. It seemed as though the teachers' words after the bell were a ritual embedded in the education system.
Without realizing it, he had memorized most of their faces—students from classes A, B, and C. Each class had its own leader, except for his. His class was unanimously deemed the most chaotic in the school.
"A class with no leader... Everyone leads themselves toward nothingness," Histori muttered to himself, as though the thought didn't concern him in the slightest.
Deep inside, he believed in one thing and cared little for everything else:
As long as I stay afloat, it doesn't matter if everyone else sinks.
But then he suddenly stopped, a fleeting thought sneaking into his mind like a mysterious whisper:
What if the downfall of one of us means the end of us all?The cafeteria was as crowded as always—a vast, white hall brimming with the aroma of luxurious dishes vying for attention.
Histori entered with unhurried steps, his hands buried in his pockets as usual. His crimson eyes wandered over the large, glowing digital boards displaying the menu and their corresponding prices.
The glittering, ostentatious numbers seemed designed to highlight the divide between the wealthy and the average, creating a sense of distinction between this school and those deemed less prestigious.
The numbers exploded in his mind like fireworks: 30,000… 100,000 Korean won...
He was well aware that some dishes could cost up to 66 school credits—a figure that seemed exorbitant for the general population. But even for someone from the wealthy Martinez family, he had little appetite for such excessive indulgence, having been raised to curb the temptation of wealth from a young age.
Yet, he knew there was a hidden agenda behind this superficial generosity.
Why does the school give us this money?
What's the real purpose?
Are they trying to tell us that money is the foundation of education?
Histori continued scanning the menu, mentally calculating the costs.
His gaze wandered around the room, observing the students seated before their lavish meals.
The high-end sushi, priced at 100,000 won (66 credits), adorned most of the tables.
Some students ate wagyu beef with wooden chopsticks, while others took photos before eating, as if documenting this moment of superiority.
Histori stopped again in front of the digital board, staring at the prices with eyes as cold and solid as stone. One of the dishes was priced at 200,000 won (112 credits). He muttered to himself in a voice barely audible:
"Meat that costs 200,000 won? My father once told me about this... Wagyu beef, one of the finest meats in the world. Those cows are treated like royalty from birth, raised in green hills, meticulously fed and cared for to produce this kind of meat."
I'm a Martinez. My father could buy the entire cattle company, and yet I never dared to ask for this. Why?His silence piqued the curiosity of those around him. Some students watched him with mocking gazes, whispering among themselves:
"Has he lost his mind?"
Another replied, "Maybe he's poor."
A girl sitting next to them, eating her meal, scoffed, "Are you crazy, or did you forget the name of this school? Everyone gets the same credits—there's no such thing as poverty here."
The boy, still chewing, shrugged. "Then he's just a weirdo."
Histori wasn't really there with them. He was lost in his own mental world.
Questions began piling up in his mind, like heavy clouds gathering on the horizon:
Am I being overly cautious?
Or is there something more to this?
But why am I so cautious over something trivial like choosing what to eat?
Only two reasons came to mind. The first was that he might be obsessive-compulsive—a possibility he quickly dismissed.
The second, which seemed far more logical, was…
It's hereditary.
At that moment, his mother's words resurfaced in his memory, supporting the hypothesis forming in his mind.
Flashing back to when they were children, seven years old, his mother used to spend every Thursday night with them, all sleeping together in one room. That room was called "Thursday."
It was a children's room reserved for Thursday nights, hence its name.
Histori, his siblings—Karma, Arthur, Yi Lian, and Sarah—and their mother Caroline would gather there, as she told them bedtime stories.
Everyone would listen to the story, except for Histori. He always seemed unusually calm and quiet, showing none of the mischief typical of children his age.
His siblings would inevitably fall asleep during the story, as usual, but Histori would stubbornly fight off sleep. Despite the cold, emotionless expression that seemed to have been etched on his face since birth, he resisted sleep with remarkable determination.
His mother, Caroline, smiled warmly at him and asked in her gentle voice, "Did you like the story?"
Here's the translation of the fourth part:
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Histori rubbed his eyes in a desperate attempt to fight off the drowsiness weighing them down. "Mom… can a person become perfect?"
His mother looked at him with visible surprise, though she dismissed his question as mere childish curiosity. But for Histori, there was a deeper reason behind every word of his inquiry. Her smile didn't waver as she answered, "No… everyone has flaws, my little one."
Histori, still battling sleep with all his might, replied with a hint of boredom, "Then Dad lied to me."
She placed her hands on his shoulders to steady him before he collapsed, supporting him as his head rested against her chest. With a warm, motherly touch, she patted his head gently, though her expression hardened slightly. She knew her husband, Yagami, had a habit of spouting such philosophical nonsense.
"What did your father say to you, Histori?" she asked, her voice calm but curious.
Histori's expression softened as he finally gave up resisting. He surrendered to his mother's warmth, wrapping his small arms around her as he closed his crimson-red eyes, which now seemed like glowing embers cooled by water.
"Dad said… a person becomes whole only when they die, and the living are the dead," he murmured faintly.
His mother couldn't comprehend the meaning behind those words. Gently pressing him, though still with a nurturing tone that could move any child, she asked, "And what does that mean?"
But Histori had already fallen asleep. Though his ears still worked for a few seconds before succumbing to slumber, he faintly heard her whisper, "You're just like your father… smart, calm, and… powerless. I hope with all my heart you don't become like that man."
After this deep dive into his memories, traveling eight years back, Histori recalled every detail of his life. He realized he hadn't lived a bad life—he was in a place most kids his age could only dream of.
Returning to the present and the essence of this thought, his mother was right: Blood will always run deep.
The traits of his father, the man who had suffered poverty before amassing wealth, continued to haunt him like a shadow. Histori could almost hear his father's voice echoing in his mind:
"Blood sometimes outweighs reason, and at other times, it drowns out the heart."
In the end, Histori chose kimbap rice balls, the cheapest item on the menu, costing only 3,000 won—just 2 credits.
Long live frugality.
Histori sat alone, as usual, staring into the void as if the entire world had ceased to exist. Most of the students had already left the cafeteria, one by one, leaving behind tables covered with leftovers and plastic cups.
It seemed that Histori had taken far too long to ponder the trivial dilemma of what to eat.
Eventually, he finished his meal—a mere three rice balls that barely satisfied his hunger. He felt as if he were consuming boredom itself.
He paid no attention, treating the act of eating as just another chore, like all the other ordinary details of his mundane life.
Standing up, his gaze shifted to the glowing vending machine in the corner of the hall—the one that swallows coins to dispense cold drinks. However, in this school, there were no coins—only school credits.
He walked over, raised his watch to the scanner, and bought a drink for 1,000 won, the equivalent of 0.67 school credits. Opening the small aluminum can, he muttered to himself:
"Exaggerated economy."
Then, with a cautious tone, he added,
"I'd probably even buy a candle if they started charging us for electricity. I don't trust anyone who offers gifts without stating their price."
He left the cafeteria slowly, the cold air outside biting at his face as if trying to jolt him out of his brief trance. But instead of returning to class, as he should have, he walked straight to his room.
In the classroom, the teacher, Aria Sisney, stood silently, scanning the faces of the students who had returned after her threat the day before. Most of them wore tired expressions, their half-closed eyes clinging to sleep. But... there was one missing face—a face she recognized well.
"Histori Martinez."
The piece of chalk in her hand paused for a moment before snapping accidentally, as though her fingers betrayed her annoyance. She stared at the blackboard for a few moments and whispered to herself in a voice barely audible:
"That brat... I haven't approved his so-called freedom yet."
While she worked to mask her irritation, Histori was lying on his bed. The window in his room was wide open, though thick curtains blocked out the sunlight, leaving the space dimly lit with a faint, soft glow. The cool breeze drifting in made the air cold and refreshing, just the way he liked it.
This was Histori's favorite environment. It allowed his heightened senses to relax, far away from the noise of those humans.
He closed his eyes for a moment and began to sink into his thoughts, as he often did. Muttering coldly to himself, he said:
"Cooperation... the worst thing I could ever be forced to do."
He recalled the school's rules that he had read before. The word "cooperation" appeared three times in just six pages, almost as if they were telling the students:
"Cooperation is half of success."
He knew that most important rules were written in bold, while the less significant ones were left in regular text. And yet, there were certain rules written in tiny, obscure fonts, almost as if they were hiding something behind them.
Histori opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. Everything about this place felt suspicious. He whispered again, his voice filled with a mix of caution and disdain:
"How can those people look so at ease... how can they trust this system?"
Histori narrowed his eyes, analyzing everything with deeper focus. A theory began to form in his mind:
"One day, the powered individuals will dominate this school. But... could the school really be so foolish as not to anticipate that?"
He tried to disprove his theory, testing it from different angles, attempting to invalidate it in multiple ways.
"Maybe the teachers have special abilities? Perhaps Aria herself possesses a hidden power?"
But even with all his reasoning, Histori uncovered a fatal flaw in the school's rules:
"Bullying is prohibited for the powered against the powerless. But nothing forbids bullying between the powered themselves—or between the powerless."
He muttered under his breath, his voice low but cutting:
"Justice often targets one group while oppressing another. There is no such thing as perfect justice.
Everything has its darkness, and the darkness of justice... is oppression.
It's a single coin with different faces, held by different hands."
The school's rules seemed designed to create fairness, yet they burdened the powered students disproportionately. It was an unfair balancing act that could leave the school vulnerable to chaos. It was like a bowstring stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
"The tighter the bowstring, the faster the arrow flies."
Histori rose from his bed with a heavy motion, his expression shifting into one of lethal coldness as he walked toward the tall mirror in the corner of his room.
He removed his clothes and stared at his reflection with a frigid gaze that could almost crack the glass. The mirror, a silent witness, reflected back the image of his sculpted physique.
His body was like a perfectly carved statue—lean and seemingly ordinary under his clothes. Yet beneath the surface lay years of relentless effort.
The muscles across his body were taut, like the strings of a violin, meticulously defined. From his chest to his abdomen, the deep lines of his carved muscles formed a masterpiece—a work of art etched into his very being.
His arm was long but powerful, with faint veins visible beneath his skin, like a map tracing the countless journeys he'd endured with pain and exhaustion.
Histori's body was the result of training that began in his childhood—specifically at the age of five. Not for the sake of strength, but as a means of compensating for his lack of abilities. He followed a grueling regimen targeting muscle strength, carefully maintaining a lean frame without the bulk that might slow him down.
His mind drifted back to those early days.
To the small child lifting weights far beyond what his age could handle. He could still vividly recall the voice of his father, Yagami—a voice cold and unyielding, standing tall above him as he struggled with push-ups under the scorching sun.
Yagami's voice was icy, yet filled with unmistakable cruelty as he declared:
"Life scored against you the moment you were born—marking you as powerless. From this moment until the day you die, your only goal will be to equalize the score. Because you will never win."
Histori looked at his reflection in the mirror, his fingers lightly grazing the lines of his abdomen. His crimson eyes, like storms veiled in shadow, stared back at him, hiding truths he'd never spoken.
He whispered in a quiet but resolute voice:
"Go to hell...
I never said I would fight in the first place. But..."
His gaze shifted down to his body—a tool sharpened through relentless training since the age of five.
"This body might be enough to crush someone with a low-level ability.
Though I'd prefer not to clash with anyone at first, I left my family to live a quiet, secluded life. That's why..."
His voice grew colder, his expression sharper as he continued:
*"I will protect these three years with all my strength, even if it means destroying anyone who threatens them.
I understand perfectly well that I'm ordinary. But if I find myself facing someone with an ability...
I will never let my losses become someone else's victory."*