Chapter 112
Not fun
IAM quickly caught up with the rest of the group, his footsteps brisk but quiet. There was no particular reason for it, but something in him compelled him to glance behind. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was caution, or maybe just a lingering sense of unease.
He looked back.
The staff member who had spoken earlier—the one who had guided them here—had vanished. IAM squinted, scanning the space where the man had been standing just moments ago, his brows drawing together slightly in confusion. There was no trace of him—nothing but the quiet echo of the academy's ambient noise. Without another word, IAM turned back and silently rejoined the group.
There were about nine people total in the group now, including himself, Reuel, and Yohan. After a round of haphazard introductions—some eager, some awkward—they began moving as a unit, more or less.
IAM turned toward Reuel and asked, with a curious but skeptical tone, "So where exactly are we going at six in the afternoon?"
"I have no idea!" Reuel responded with an animated shrug and a wide grin, his tone bordering on theatrical.
IAM raised an eyebrow and was about to turn away when Reuel reached out and lightly tugged him back, not letting him escape so easily. With the confidence of a self-declared philosopher, Reuel added, "But that's what makes it so fun—the journey… how you get there… not the destination. It's when you notice the small things that you feel bigger!"
Someone in the group scoffed, rolling their eyes so hard it was almost audible. "What does that even mean?" they asked.
Unbothered, Reuel shrugged again and replied with a nonchalant smile, "Don't worry about it. It's just a saying… from back home."
Yohan, who had been mostly silent, echoed under his breath in a voice that was almost a whisper. "Home…"
IAM didn't respond. He kept his silence.
Because for him… the concept of home didn't really apply.
He had no family—at least, none that he could recall. And even if he did, even if there was someone out there he had once been close to… there was no way to reach them now.
But IAM didn't feel sadness about it. After all, how could you miss something you didn't remember?
What filled that empty space inside him wasn't longing or grief.
It was nothing.
Just IAM.
Trying to shake the mood, IAM spoke up again, suggesting with a casual tone, "How about we use the little mini cars instead of spending the whole day walking?"
...
Moments later, IAM found himself staring blankly at the small steering wheel of one of the academy's mini-cars, a boxy six-seater vehicle that resembled a golf cart.
He glanced around and saw everyone watching him with vague amusement and overly enthusiastic encouragement, which only made his face twitch slightly in silent protest.
Somehow—he wasn't exactly sure how—he'd been voted to drive the first of the two mini cars. His car had five other passengers crammed inside. He vaguely remembered resisting the idea, but apparently democracy had spoken, and he was outvoted.
IAM gave the vehicle a once-over. There were only two pedals—one for moving forward and one for stopping. There was no gear, just a single button to start the thing.
It was very basic. Yet somehow, he still had doubts.
He gave a deadpan warning, "Don't blame me if we crash into a pond or something."
He pressed the start button and gingerly tapped the forward pedal.
At first, the car moved like a timid animal—slow, uncertain.
After a few minutes of lurching and jerky stops, someone behind him commented, "Maybe go a little faster... the other car is already so far ahead."
IAM didn't respond.
A few more minutes passed, and someone else chimed in, voice lined with impatience, "Maybe try to stay on the road."
And then, not long after that: "You know what… let me do it."
IAM was demoted to passenger without further debate.
He complied without argument and buckled up with quiet resignation.
Reuel, who had been lounging with his phone out in the other mini-car, eventually took over as their impromptu navigator. He occasionally lifted his head to shout directions or ask the group to stop so he could snap pictures of various statues and strange monuments they passed. Some were artistic, some historical, and others were just downright weird—but Reuel insisted on photographing all of them.
By the time they finally arrived at their chosen destination—a small academy-approved bar tucked discreetly between two larger structures—it was already a little past 7:30 in the evening.
The sky had darkened significantly. The late September air had taken on a crisp chill, and the gentle evening breeze stirred the air with a quiet rustle. The last streaks of orange and blue faded from the sky.
IAM looked up, exhaling a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He frowned slightly.
"When did I become such a delinquent?" he muttered to himself, watching the others already marching toward the entrance with excitement.
The bar had a relaxed, almost cozy interior. Dim lights, rows of high stools, booths with soft cushions, a couple of dart boards, and even a few arcade-style game machines humming in the corner.
As they entered, a staff member handed them menus without much ceremony. Some members of the group headed straight to the games, while others claimed seats and leaned over the counter like they'd done it a hundred times before.
IAM glanced at the menu briefly and immediately noted the price list. The cheapest alcoholic beverage cost a painful 10 HP.
He quietly ordered apple juice.
The rest of the group, however, didn't seem bothered by the cost. They ordered vodka, shots, cocktails—anything that would burn, bubble, or fizz.
Reuel, ever the instigator, even ordered a shot for IAM without asking.
IAM took the small glass hesitantly, held it up to his nose, and regretted it before he even drank. Still, he tossed it back.
It scorched its way down his throat like liquid fire, burning hotter than anything he'd expected. It didn't taste like alcohol—it tasted like the flames of hell disguised as fun.
Coughing slightly, eyes watering, IAM waved the next shot away.
"Nope. That's enough of that."
As the night grew older, laughter grew louder. Voices overlapped. Some members of the group grew steadily more intoxicated—one of them being Yohan, who, despite only having one shot, was already showing signs of slipping over the edge.
Eventually, IAM noticed something troubling.
He did a quick mental count of who was still sober enough to function.
And just like that… he was promoted to driver again.
Outside the bar, the group stumbled out, singing loudly and off-key, some shouting about how they were proud to be part of Hope Academy, others laughing at nothing at all. It was a scene of celebration, if one squinted hard enough.
IAM walked beside Yohan, who had one arm slung around IAM's shoulders for support, his head lolling forward slightly. At first, IAM ignored the muttering coming from him, assuming it was the kind of nonsense drunks tended to say.
But then he heard it again—clearer this time.
"I… fucking hate you…"
IAM stopped walking. "What was that?" he asked calmly, turning slightly.
Before he could process it, a fist connected with his face.
He hit the ground with a thud, blinking in disorientation. The next thing he felt was weight—Yohan had climbed on top of him, grabbing him by the shirt with trembling fists.
IAM stared up, dazed. Was this really what two shots did to a person?
Yohan's eyes were glassy, but blazing with fury. One eye—a wild, burning blue—seemed ready to explode, while the other—a simmering brown—twitched with suppressed rage as he gritted his teeth, face twisted with something dark.
"Why don't you just die?!" he hissed.
"Why are you even here!?"
IAM didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He didn't know if he even had an answer.
But one thing was certain.
This… was not fun.