Chapter 3: The Director's Cut
The fluorescent lights of the examination hall hummed overhead, casting sterile white light across the sea of aspiring examinees. The air smelled of nervous sweat, polished leather, and the faint ozone tang of charged mana crystals from a hundred different class-imbued weapons.
Rocky's applause echoed off the high ceiling—slow, deliberate, mocking.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Each clap landed like a small slap across Bolas's face.
Rocky stopped directly in front of them, his 6'6" frame casting a shadow that swallowed all three boys whole. The 360-degree CCTV camera on his tactical backpack swiveled lazily, its multiple lenses gleaming like mechanical insect eyes, capturing every angle simultaneously.
Rocky's smile was warm, almost friendly. His voice, when it came, was the tone a disappointed film professor might use with freshman students who'd failed the most basic assignment.
"Cut, guys. Cut."
He gestured vaguely at their frozen positions—Bolas mid-pose, Boy 1 with his finger still pointing dramatically, Boy 2's sneer locked in place like bad wax sculpture.
"Your acting was terrible."
He ticked off points on his perfect fingers.
"One: your delivery was wooden. Two: your blocking was amateur hour. Three—" his gaze raked over them with surgical precision "—you already have ugly faces, and you still got the script wrong."
Boy 1's pointing finger trembled. Boy 2's sneer began to crack at the edges.
Rocky reached into his tactical vest and produced a folded sheet of paper. He held it up like a sacred text.
"Here's the correct one."
---
The CCTV Camera's Footage: Director's Cut
The small spherical camera attached to Rocky's backpack hummed softly as it projected its recording directly into the air—a holographic display that shimmered into existence above their heads. The footage played in crisp 4K resolution, 360 degrees of immersive reality.
---
[PLAYBACK START]
The Temporary Bullies - Original Script (Uncut)
The examination hall, moments before the young man can enter. Two examinees block his path—the type who feed on mocking others to feel superior.
Boy 1 swaggers forward, chest puffed like a rooster in a henhouse. He jabs a thumb toward the approaching protagonist, smirking at his companion.
Boy 1: "Hey guys, I think I know this guy. I think I've seen that face heading to a plastic surgery company. Hahaha!"
He delivers the line with the subtlety of a sledgehammer—over-enunciated, desperate, sweat already beading on his forehead.
Boy 2 guffaws like a trained seal, clapping his hands together with mechanical timing. "Oh, yeah! He's probably plastic!"
Laughter ripples through the watching examinees—some genuine, some nervous, some just filling the awkward silence.
The protagonist stops dead. A slow, almost predatory smile spreads across his face.
Protagonist (calmly): "Hahaha. Your imagination is amazing. Just curious—do you have evidence, or is that just a teaser?"
His delivery is effortless. Relaxed. The voice of someone who's never lost an argument in his life.
Boy 1 (flustered, waving vaguely at the protagonist's face): "What evidence? It's obvious!"
The protagonist's expression shifts like a summer storm—from amused to deadly serious in a heartbeat. He raises one perfectly manicured finger.
Protagonist (suddenly serious): "Objection, Your Honor. That's speculation—no facts, just opinions."
The hall murmurs. Phones emerge from pockets. A dozen tiny screens begin recording.
Boy 2 (aggressive, overcompensating): "You're so arrogant when you talk!"
Protagonist (relaxed, almost bored): "It's not arrogance. Just clarification. The court asks for evidence, not guesses."
Boy 1 (doubling down, voice cracking slightly): "Just admit it!"
Protagonist (tilting his head, innocent confusion): "Admit what? Your story? Because up until now, you still have no proof."
Boy 2 leans close to Boy 1, his voice a desperate whisper that the microphone still catches.
Boy 2 (quietly): "Dude… I think we're the ones being humiliated."
Boy 1 falls silent. His face cycles through several shades of red before settling on a deep, humiliated crimson.
The protagonist's smile returns—warm, final, devastating. He spreads his arms slightly, addressing the invisible jury of onlookers.
Protagonist (smiling, final): "Ladies and gentlemen of the court—envy is the motive, slander is the argument, and evidence is zero. Case dismissed."
Silence. Then scattered laughter. Then more laughter. The two bullies shuffle away, shoulders hunched, phones following their retreat like vultures tracking wounded prey.
---
[PLAYBACK ENDS]
---
The holographic display flickered and dissolved.
Silence.
Then—
The Crowd Reacts
Participant A (jaw hanging open): "Wait... wait wait wait. That CCTV camera—" He pointed at Rocky's backpack with a trembling finger. "Is that new? What's it called? Where can I buy one? I need this in my life!"
Participant B (elbowing forward): "Bro, that resolution! That 360 coverage! Does it come with night vision? Waterproof? Can it record my aura farming sessions?"
Participant C (a girl with pink-dyed hair and wide sparkling eyes): "Omigosh, omigosh, the clarity! It captured EVERYTHING! Their sweat! Their cracking voices! That whisper! This is INSANE!"
Rocky waved a hand, laughing—a warm, easy sound that somehow made everyone feel included in the joke.
Rocky: "Whoa, whoa, calm down, future hunters. This isn't new. I've had this for a while."
He tapped the camera affectionately. It swiveled toward him like a happy puppy.
Rocky: "I made it myself. Found some broken CCTV cameras, scavenged parts from dumpsters behind tech shops, combined them with spare drone components and a few... let's call them 'creatively acquired' lenses. Boom." He spread his hands. "CCTV X camera. Born from trash, raised on credit."
Participant D (squinting suspiciously): "Wait, you MADE that? With broken parts? From dumpsters?"
Rocky: "Really. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers, then dropped two. "Well, I was never a scout. But still. Really."
Participant E (an editing major, pushing through the crowd): "Let me see the footage again. The continuous shot around the whisper—that's impossible without multiple cameras unless—"
Rocky reached into his bag and produced his phone. He pulled up a video and held it out.
Rocky: "Here. Watch the build process. Uncensored, unedited, unhinged."
---
The Build Video
The phone screen showed Rocky in what looked like a cramped garage space. Surrounded by piles of electronic debris—circuit boards, wires, cracked lenses, half-melted plastic casings. His platinum blonde hair was tied back, revealing the sharp angles of his face smudged with grease.
The video played in fast-forward:
Soldering iron dancing across circuit boards.
Lenses being carefully extracted from broken casings.
Rocky's hands—steady, surgical, precise—weaving wires together.
Late nights marked by clock changes.
Coffee cups accumulating like archaeological strata.
The first test—a flicker of image.
The second test—clear image.
The third test—360-degree stabilization.
Rocky's exhausted, triumphant face, grinning at the camera with bloodshot eyes.
Video-Rocky (holding up the finished product): "Boom. CCTV X. From trash to treasure. Cost? Almost nothing, if you don't count my sanity. And the fact that I haven't paid for any of these parts yet because I bought them all on credit from a very angry debt collector named—"
He stopped himself, laughing.
Video-Rocky: "Never mind. That's a future me problem."
The video ended.
---
The Crowd Processes
Participant E (editing major) : "That's... that's not edited. I'm sure. My major is editing. That's raw footage. Multiple timestamps, consistent lighting changes, genuine exhaustion in his eyes. You can't fake that eye-bag progression."
Participant F : "Wait, so he really made that? With CREDIT?"
Participant G : "From BROKEN PARTS?"
Participant H : "In a GARAGE?"
The murmuring built like a wave.
Rich pushed through the crowd. He was tall, well-dressed in designer hunter gear that probably cost more than most examinees' entire equipment sets. His class tag glowed: Rich Kid [Inheritor] —a class that wasn't supposed to exist but somehow did for people whose parents had more money than entire kingdoms.
Rich (eyes fixed on the CCTV camera): "I'll buy that."
The murmuring stopped.
Rocky (blinking): "Come again?"
Rich (smirking, pulling out a wallet thick with cash and credit cards): "I'll buy that. Your CCTV X camera. How much?"
Rocky (slow smile spreading): "Oh? You want to buy my beloved, handcrafted, dumpster-dived, credit-fueled masterpiece?"
Rich (impatient): "Yes, yes. How much?"
Rocky (pausing for effect): "...$10,000."
A collective gasp from the crowd.
Participants (in unison): "$10,000?!"
Participant I (clutching their chest): "Sh*t, I only have that much money! That's my entire savings!"
Participant J (weakly): "Same... damn..."
Rich's Internal Monologue:
$10,000? For that? I just watched that video. He built it from literal garbage. The materials probably cost him, what, $200 max? $300 if he splurged on the good solder? And he's selling it for ten grand?
Idiot.
This is the deal of the century.
Rich (out loud, smirking): "Deal."
Rocky's Internal Monologue:
Oh yeah. Debt-free. Hahaha.
He doesn't know. He doesn't KNOW. Every single component—the lenses, the circuit boards, the wires, the soldering iron I "borrowed" permanently from that electronics shop—all on credit. From the same debt collector who's been sending me increasingly threatening messages for six months.
And now?
Now someone else is going to pay for all of it.
GG.
Rocky (out loud, grinning): "GG. Deal."
He reached into his bag and produced a thick stack of papers—receipts, invoices, credit agreements, each one stamped with UNPAID in angry red ink.
Rocky (holding out the stack): "Here. Sign all of this. All of it. So that my beloved CCTV X camera becomes yours."
Rich's Internal Monologue:
Oh yeah, he brought a list for me to sign. He's really selling it to me at that price. Man, I'm lucky today. Maybe he's even a fan—look at how eager he is.
Rich (out loud, magnanimously): "You want an autograph? Your wish is my command, fan boy."
He took the stack, produced a designer pen, and began signing each page with theatrical flourishes.
Rocky's Internal Monologue:
Hahaha. Autograph. He thinks it's an autograph.
It's a debt transfer agreement, you magnificent idiot.
Each signature is legally binding. Each page transfers another chunk of my outstanding credit to his name. By the time he's done, he won't just own the camera.
He'll own my entire financial history.
Rocky (out loud, bowing slightly): "Yes, please, idol. I'll get an autograph from you. A real, genuine autograph."
Rich's Internal Monologue:
Hahaha, he's playing along with my jokes. GG, stupid man. Some people are just born to be fans.
Rich signed faster. Page after page. His signature grew more elaborate with each one—flourishes, underlines, a tiny smiley face on the last page.
Rich (finishing with a dramatic final stroke): "Okay, done, fan. I've signed your request to get my signature autograph."
He held up the stack triumphantly.
Rich: "And if you're thinking it doesn't have fingerprints—don't worry. I already have my DNA on it since I've handled every page. That was your request, fan boy. I delivered."
Rocky's Internal Monologue:
Oh.
Oh, this is beautiful.
He just gave me DNA evidence to go with the signed contracts. If he ever tries to dispute this, I have his handwriting AND his genetic material.
Jackpot.
Rocky (out loud, pulling out his phone): "Wait, wait. One more thing. We should take a picture. Holding the signed documents."
Rich (preening): "Oh, is that all? You can add to your request, fan. You're a fantastic man. I'm feeling generous today."
Rocky (deadpan): "Wow, you have so much drama. Just get on with it. Let's have our pictorial."
Rich (snapping his fingers at a nearby examinee): "Hey! Side character!"
Boy 009 (freezing mid-step, pointing at himself): "Me?"
Rich (waving a $1000 bill): "Yes, you. Take a picture of me and this cosplay man. There's $1000 in it for you."
Boy 009's Internal Monologue:
Side character? He called me a side character?
...but $1000.
...$1000.
I am the main character of this photo. Temporarily. For money.
Boy 009 (out loud, snapping into professional photographer pose): "Very good, main character! Step into the light! Yes, perfect! Hold the documents closer! Show the signatures! Yes!"
Rich's Internal Monologue:
Sht, gold digger. Hahaha. Works every time.*
Boy 009: "Lights, camera, say cheese!"
Rocky: "Cheese pull!"
Rich: "Cheese whiz!"
CLICK.
Boy 009: "One more! Lights, camera, say cheese!"
CLICK.
Rich (straightening his designer jacket, preparing to leave): "Alright, Bonjing—" He paused, realizing. "Wait. What's your name again? So I can ask for a refund if this thing breaks."
Rocky leaned close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
Rocky: "My name is Bonjing T. Joiner. And the warranty?" He held up one finger. "One day. Only one day. Okay?"
Rich (waving dismissively): "Okay, Bonjing. Adios. Until we meet again." He paused, trying to sound sophisticated. "Hasta que nos veamos de nuevo."
Rocky (watching him walk away, stack of signed documents clutched to his chest): "...he butchered the Spanish. But that's future-his problem now."
---
Meanwhile: Facebook Messenger
Rocky pulled out his phone, opened Messenger, and found the chat with Debt Collector.
The profile picture showed a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes and the expression of someone who'd been chasing payments for too long.
---
Rocky: "Hi."
Typing indicator appears immediately. Disappears. Appears again.
Debt Collector: "OH MY GOODNESS. IT'S ROCKY. THE ONE WHO HASN'T PAID HIS DEBT IN SIX MONTHS. PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE PAYING. MY COLLECTION DAY IS TOMORROW. I HAVE FAMILY TO FEED. I HAVE BOSSES TO ANSWER TO. I HAVE—"
Rocky: "GG."
Debt Collector: "...GG? WHAT DOES GG MEAN? GOOD GAME? THIS ISN'T A GAME, ROCKY. THIS IS MY LIVELIHOOD. THIS IS—"
Rocky: "Debt Collector. I have good news for you."
Debt Collector: "...good news? Did you win the lottery? Did you find a rich sponsor? Did a truck full of money crash into your house?"
Rocky: "Wrong. Wait. I'll send you everything."
---
Rocky uploaded:
· The video of Rich signing the documents
· The photos of Rich holding the signed papers
· The build video showing the credit-sourced materials
· A timestamped location tag of the transaction
· A screenshot of Rich's social media (confirming his identity)
· A close-up of the signatures (including the smiley face)
· A DNA reference (the handled pages)
---
Rocky: "Sent. All evidence that I no longer have any debt. Because the CCTV X camera—and all associated credit obligations—now belong to your newest customer. Rich. Inheritor class. Very wealthy. Very arrogant. Very... yours now."
Long pause.
Debt Collector: "...what the heck?"
Another pause.
Debt Collector: "HAHAHAHAHAHA."
Debt Collector: "ROCKY. YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD."
Debt Collector: "Okay. Okay, Rocky man. You're X-ed from the list. Debt cleared. Transferred. Completed. FINISHED. I'll be visiting your friend Rich tomorrow. With the full documentation. And possibly a notary. And maybe a celebratory cake."
Rocky: "Oh yeah! Let's go!"
Rocky: "Hey. Remember what you said to me last month? That I'd never pay? That I was a lost cause? That my credit score was lower than a goblin's IQ?"
Debt Collector: "...I remember."
Rocky: "Hahaha. Idiot. I'm paid up now. Technically."
Debt Collector: "It's true. You really didn't pay. You just transferred your debt to someone else. You're such a—" typing pause "—corrupt kid."
Rocky: "Oh? Reason? Mindset, huh?"
Debt Collector: "Damn you, Rocky man."
Debt Collector: "Come to the park. Let's just fight. One round. Settle this like men."
Rocky: "Getting angry? Hahaha."
Debt Collector: "AHHHHHH DAMN IT—"
[Debt Collector threw their phone. The conversation timestamp shows a 30-second gap.]
[Debt Collector is typing...]
[Debt Collector is typing...]
[No message received.]
Rocky smiled, tapped once, and blocked the Debt Collector.
Rocky (to himself, pocketing his phone): "Hahaha. Debt-free. Finally."
---
Back to the Examination Hall
The crowd had been watching Rocky's entire phone interaction with rapt attention. Now they turned back to Bolas and his boys, who stood frozen like deer in headlights.
Participant K (laughing): "Wow. Just... wow. He exposed the truth. And they tried to act like they were the directors. Hahaha. What a plot twist."
Participant L (shaking head): "Yeah, dude. That was painful to watch. And I watched it twice."
Girl Group A:
Girl 1: "Ah, wow. That's so embarrassing. I can feel secondhand embarrassment and it HURTS."
Girl 2: "Yeah, sis. Hahaha. Look at their faces. They're all red. Even the tall one—Bolas? His ears are purple."
Girl 3: "Sis, is that possible? Ears turning purple?"
Girl 2: "I don't know, sis, but his are definitely purple right now."
---
The Huddle
Bolas and his boys pressed together, backs to the crowd, whispers sharp and desperate.
Boy 1 (hissing): "Boss. Boss. He exposed us. He had a CAMERA. A 360-DEGREE CAMERA. It caught EVERYTHING."
Boy 2 (panicked): "Boss, look—" He gestured at the sea of phones aimed at them. "A lot of people are recording. This will go viral. The exam board might see it. Our families might see it. The INTERNET might see it."
Boy 1: "Boss, he might even file a case. Defamation? Public humiliation? Emotional damage?"
Boy 2: "Yeah, boss, he's right. Boss, DO something."
Bolas (jaw tight, eyes burning): "Guys." He straightened. "No retreat. No surrender."
Boy 1: "Boss, I think... I think I have a plan."
Bolas: "What is it?"
Boy 1 (leaning in, voice dropping): "Boss... you two should have a debate."
Boy 2 (eyes lighting up): "Yeah! Right! A debate! And if he accepts, we might be able to escape this humiliation! Change the narrative! Make it look like WE'RE in control!"
Bolas (processing): "...a debate."
Boy 1: "Yes, boss! A debate! You're smart! You know things! You can out-talk him!"
Bolas (slow smile spreading): "Let's go, baby. Let's use that debate."
He turned to the boys, something shifting in his posture. A rhythm entered his spine.
Bolas: "Oh yeah! Lot lot Bolas breakdance!"
He dropped into a crouch and exploded into movement—spinning, kicking, waving his arms in what he clearly believed was an impressive display.
Girl Group A (watching):
Girl 1 (flatly): "Ah, sh*t. Embarrassing. He just breakdanced so he wouldn't feel humiliated."
Girl 2: "Sis, maybe he thinks that if he shows his breakdance, he won't be humiliated here? Like, distraction technique?"
Girl 3: "Sis, honestly? It's really embarrassing. He's so cringe. Why is he dancing? We're not in a club. We're in an EXAMINATION HALL."
Girl 1: "Sis, look at his moves. It's like his body is having an argument with itself and losing."
---
Bolas finished with a flourish—arms spread, chest heaving, expecting applause.
Silence.
Then Boy 1 cleared his throat loudly and addressed the crowd, pointing dramatically at Rocky.
Boy 1: "Guys! Listen to the shout of my boss! His heart is pounding because his CRUSH was made to feel kilig by this—" he jabbed a finger at Rocky "—cosplay boy!"
Boy 2 (grinning, feeding off the energy): "Man, this is FUN! Is it a RAP or a DEBATE? Choose, bald guy!"
Rocky (turning slowly, one eyebrow arched): "You know what, medium-hair guy..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I'll choose rap WITH a debate mixed in. So I won't lose in whatever you're making me choose."
Boy 2 (nodding approvingly): "Good game, bald guy. You're smart."
Boy 1 (stepping forward, striking a lecturing pose): "Hey, handsome guy. Listen to what Donald D. Macdonald said before he went to McDo."
He paused for effect.
Boy 1: "He said: 'A bad person did not become bad just because. Other bad people became bad because of anger or envy.' So do you understand? We're angry at you because your face is ugly." He pointed at Rocky with theatrical flourish. "And why did I say that? Because your face is ugly even though you used makeup created by—"
Rocky (cutting him off, voice silky): "Wow. You know so much."
He took a step forward. The crowd parted slightly.
Rocky: "What are you? Donald Trump? The super super handsome Trump?" His smile sharpened. "You know, if you have something to say, just say it. Stop beating around the bush. My time is valuable. My aura is finite. My patience—" he checked an imaginary watch "—is approaching empty."
Boy 1 (rallying): "Okay! WHAT I'M GOING TO SAY IS—"
He pointed at Bolas, then at Rocky.
Boy 1: "MY BOSS CHALLENGES YOU TO A DEBATE X RAP!"
He thrust his hands out like a game show host revealing a prize.
Boy 1: "DO YOU ACCEPT OR NOT?!"
The crowd erupted.
Participants (in unison, chanting): "DEBATE X RAP! DEBATE X RAP! DEBATE X RAP!"
The sound built—stamping feet, clapping hands, voices rising in a wave that crashed against the high ceiling and echoed back.
Rocky (waiting for the chant to peak, then raising one hand):
Silence. Instant. Complete.
Rocky: "Oh, okay. I accept."
He smiled—that warm, devastating smile that seemed to include everyone in its glow.
Rocky: "Because I am your genie."
He spread his arms slightly.
Rocky: "Your wish is my command."
Boy 1 (pumping a fist): "OKAY GUYS! HANDSOME GUY AGREED!" He pointed at Rocky. "SO! ARE YOU READY?!"
Participant M (from the crowd): "Wow, so many words. Just start it already, JJmon!"
Boy 1 (ignoring them, stepping forward): "Come closer. We'll do rock-paper-scissors. Whoever wins speaks first. Okay?"
Boy 2 (adding dramatically): "AND ALWAYS REMEMBER—"
He held up a finger.
Boy 2: "NO hitting below the belt. NO eye gouging. NO biting. NO hair pulling—" he paused "—and DON'T STOP DEBATING UNTIL THE BELL RINGS!"
Rocky (deadpan): "Dramatic. I like it. Let's do this."
---
Rock-Paper-Scissors
Rocky and Bolas stepped into the center of the cleared space. The crowd pressed in, phones raised, eyes wide.
They faced each other.
Bolas: 5'10", compact, muscular, Master Swordsman class. Face tight with determination, ears still slightly purple.
Rocky: 6'6", Adonis-built, Jobless class. Face relaxed, amused, utterly unconcerned.
Boy 1: "Ready... SET..."
The crowd held its breath.
Boy 1: "GO!"
Hands shot out.
Bolas: ✋ Paper.
Rocky: ✊ Rock.
Boy 1 (jumping): "PAPER COVERS ROCK! FIRST PUNCH GOES TO BOLAS! THE PAPER HAND! LET'S GOOOOO!"
The crowd cheered. Bolas's boys high-fived. Bolas himself allowed a thin smile.
Rocky (shrugging, stepping back): "Fair is fair. After you, paper hand."
He gestured gracefully.
Rocky: "The floor is yours. Impress me. Entertain them. And remember—" his eyes glittered "—the camera is still rolling. 360 degrees. Every angle. Every word."
Bolas's smile flickered. He glanced at the spherical camera on Rocky's backpack. Its red light blinked steadily.
Recording.
Always recording.
Bolas (straightening, clearing his throat): "Okay."
He faced the crowd, then turned back to Rocky.
Bolas: "Let's begin."