Seoul North Campus wore its discipline like a badge of honor.
Everything was crisp. Polished. Even the buildings looked newer—like someone wanted you to feel small walking through them. Students wore identical navy uniforms, their shoes perfectly aligned outside lecture rooms, collars stiff with starch. Everyone moved like they'd been taught choreography.
Dae-hyun kept his head down, but his eyes never stopped moving.
There were no armbands here. No Bishops who flaunted their authority or beat confessions out of students in locker rooms. Instead, there was The Council—a select group of students elected to "maintain order" in the student body. They didn't call themselves a Division. That term was tainted now. But their power? It felt eerily familiar.
Their rules were coded in civility, wrapped in student wellness and mental health initiatives. On paper, it looked like a utopia. But in practice, it was a rebranded surveillance state, sharpened to perfection.
And the worst part?
The students believed in it.
He'd been there for less than a week when he saw it happen: a boy in the cafeteria who "spoke disrespectfully" to a Council member. The confrontation was quiet—no raised voices, no threats. But the next morning, the boy's desk was empty. Officially? Transferred for academic imbalance. Unofficially? Gone.
Nobody asked where.
Nobody even looked surprised.
Dae-hyun saw the same expression on every student's face afterward: That's just how things work here.
---
He joined the school's Ethics Club the following day, which was—conveniently—managed by the Council. A perfect place to start observing.
He didn't speak much. Let them talk.
And they did.
There were seven of them on the Council: four boys, three girls. All from wealthy districts. Sharp smiles, sharp eyes. They discussed policy like corporate strategists—who to elevate, who to "redirect," what behaviors needed "containment."
He recognized the pattern immediately.
The way they'd turn someone's trauma into an opportunity. The way they watched body language more than words. The way they marked silence as a weakness to exploit.
Dae-hyun learned more in one Ethics meeting than in five days of surveillance at Daejin.
And they never suspected him.
Not yet.
---
That night, he met with the girl from the library again—her name was Hwa-rin.
They sat beneath a rusted staircase outside the south building, where the security cameras had a blind spot and the wind drowned out microphones.
"They've recruited five new handlers this semester," she whispered, pulling out her tablet. "None of them have official titles, but they shadow certain students."
Dae-hyun leaned in, eyes scanning the chart she'd built. Names. Timelines. Incident records.
"They're recreating Bishop structures," he muttered.
"Smarter this time. More subtle. The handlers pretend to be peer mentors. They take notes, recommend therapy. Sometimes they bring you coffee."
"And then one day, you disappear."
"Exactly."
He paused. "How many students are under their control?"
"Twenty-five that we know of."
Dae-hyun exhaled slowly. "Then we don't have time to wait."
---
They started small.
Hwa-rin built a private chat channel using a spoofed education server. Dae-hyun wrote the opening file—just like the Manual's first chapter.
But this time, it wasn't titled How Not to Die.
It was called:
How to Notice What's Killing You
They didn't push it publicly. Just seeded it in the digital spaces students already used—study groups, self-help forums, minor clubs with small followings.
The file didn't accuse anyone. It just asked questions:
> "Have you noticed any students suddenly leaving without farewell?"
"Ever felt like certain classmates were more protected than others?"
"Have you been encouraged to report others for 'wellness violations'?"
"Have you been rewarded for silence?"
It spread faster than expected.
Within three days, the file had 128 downloads.
By day five, it reached 300.
By day seven, the Council noticed.
---
A school-wide announcement came through on the intercom during lunch:
"This is a reminder to all students that unauthorized digital material promoting paranoia and mistrust is considered a violation of our Academic Integrity Policy."
Dae-hyun smirked as he sipped his soup.
"They're rattled," Hwa-rin said beside him.
"They're afraid of a file," he replied. "They should be afraid of the questioning."
But fear brings pressure—and pressure brings escalation.
By the end of the week, two of the students who had downloaded the file were "invited" into counseling sessions. They didn't come back to class for three days.
One returned crying.
The other didn't return at all.
That was the turning point.
Dae-hyun remembered something Ji-woo once told him: "Truth doesn't inspire revolt. Fear does. But only when it stops feeling necessary."
And the students at Seoul North?
They had just started asking why they were afraid.
---
Dae-hyun knew what would come next.
They would try to discredit the source.
He got an anonymous email the next day from a masked server:
> "You've been noticed. This isn't Daejin, Dae-hyun. Here, we don't bury threats—we process them."
Attached: a photo of him sitting at lunch with Hwa-rin.
It was a message.
Not a threat.
A promise.
---
That night, he and Hwa-rin met on the rooftop.
The sky was overcast, the wind sharp. Far below, the campus glowed sterile-white, like a lab more than a school.
"They know it's you," she said.
"I expected that."
"They'll come harder now."
"I hope they do."
She looked at him sideways. "You miss it, don't you? The fight."
"I don't miss what it took from me," he said. "But I miss knowing what to aim for."
She nodded.
"We're close," she said after a moment. "A few more days. Maybe a week. I've got two teachers who've agreed to look at the files. If they talk to each other—"
"They'll start seeing the pattern."
He paused. "What about the handlers?"
"They're scared. They're slipping. I caught one of them tailing a student into a club room and threatening to report them for academic sabotage unless they dropped out of the debate team."
"Evidence?"
"I recorded the audio."
He turned to her, eyebrows raised.
She grinned. "You're not the only one who prepares for war."
---
They didn't broadcast anything this time.
No grand speeches. No assemblies. No public declaration.
Instead, they let the students do it themselves.
The second version of the Manual was broken into four modules:
1. Spot the System
2. Survive the Silence
3. Disarm the Language
4. Sever the Chain
Each one gave students the tools to understand the structure around them—and how to subtly break it. Nothing flashy. Just cracks in the foundation.
Over the next two weeks, the student "counseling center" had six no-shows. Two student complaints made it to external oversight boards. One handler was demoted.
And by the end of the month, two Council members resigned "for health reasons."
It wasn't explosive.
It wasn't fast.
But it was working.
---
On the thirty-first day of the operation, Dae-hyun received another message.
This time from a Council email:
> "We'd like to speak with you privately. There are misunderstandings that need clarification."
He closed the message.
Didn't reply.
Instead, he uploaded the final module of the Manual, encrypted with a double key.
The title?
> We've Played This Game Before
And beneath it:
> You changed the name. You changed the faces.
But you forgot one thing.
> We remember how it ends.
---
End of Chapter 19