March had arrived at Seojin Academy, and with it, came the first breath of spring. The courtyard was a riot of soft golden sunlight and pale pink cherry blossoms, petals dancing lazily in the breeze and settling on polished black tiles.
Black sedans lined the curb like obedient cattle, waiting to be slaughtered. Engines hummed patiently, as if urging the chauffeurs—who held doors open with professional indifference—was beneath them. Mothers, with pearly smiles and judging eyes, adjusted collars and smoothed invisible wrinkles, scanning for any embarrassing mementos that might hint at a very unhappy family life. Some fathers delivered last-minute lectures about legacy, reputation, and the importance of sitting in the front row of humanity—the elite. Meanwhile, the rest were either at home, enjoying a wife-free, kids-free state of nirvana, or at their favorite woman's house: Work.
Some students nodded dutifully. Others were already scrolling through their phones, their attention drifting somewhere between boredom and mild contempt. The air smelled faintly of perfume, polished leather, and money that had been inherited rather than earned. The smell of Almost Broke. It did not smell great.
Students spilled from the giant maws of the great gates, some carrying the lingering taste of leftover breakfast, laughter ricocheting into the air like wind-chimes, their steps quick and deliberate, eager to reclaim the youth they had lost the previous brutal school year. Their hearts were warm and heavy—these are the soldiers, and they have declared war.
The academy itself was imposing, a combination of classic architecture and meticulous modernity. Stone columns framed the entrance, etched with the academy's emblem—a soaring phoenix—and windows gleamed like mirrors. The walls were high, their shadows stretching long in the morning glare, giving the impression that the school itself was observing every step of the new students. It had accepted their declaration of war, promising nothing but cruelty—with a dash of teen romance and beach scenes. It will be a bloodbath. They told me so.
But that is because not everyone likes showers. Some of you did not even shower. You know who you are. Smells like teen spirit.
Ah, what a time to be alive. Certainly—but unfortunately, I cannot speak for the dead. I do not know their language. Breathing makes it hard to, you know? Anyways, I speak Japanese. But we are in Korea, baby. So, Konnichiwa! Ça va? Moving on.
Inside the main building, the halls stretched wide grinning, polished floors competing to reflect your smile. Sunlight poured through tall windows. Lockers lined each wall, on standby—some decorated with stickers or personal mementos. Some stood there awkwardly naked. The clatter of shoes, the murmur of conversations, the soft squeak of rolling chairs—it all contributed to the cadence of the academy's morning. Teachers' voices punctuated the noise as instructions were given, attendance called, and schedules announced. These were the sounds of the melting pot that is Seojin Academy. All gold. No glitter. This was the stench—and it smelled like old money and new money business. That was all according to the plan. So… Plan B.
Put one incapable principal on the board as proxy, change the rules so that the parents had more power than the governing body combined, give unrestrained power to a certain limited group of students—the elitist of them all—and call it the Student Council. Unchecked interactions between the girls and boys, because of course this is a co-ed boarding school. The only school that should have been, not an all-girls school. Those do not last long. Ask old Seojin how that turned out. Yeah, I thought so! And lastly, add some spicy otaku scenes, such as the random confessions under a random tree. The unprovoked—but necessary for the plot—bullying of the poor and orphaned. Ah yes… now this here, my friend, is life. I would cringe at best, but at my worst… Pumped Up Kicks.
***
The Student Council, of course, would be the crown jewel of this delicate disaster. Seven students dressed in blazers and the nerve, armed with authority that teachers "politely" pretended not to see because it paid a lot to do so.
They knew everything and everybody who was anybody. Controlled everything and anything worth controlling. Seating charts. Club budgets. Festival permits. The parents you get. Even rumors traveled through them first, like unofficial press releases whispered through expensive hallways.
They even owned the damn press. Their opinion was the public's opinion. There was no such thing as freedom of speech or freedom of expression. You could only express yourself if you had the money to do it. Talk—and don't sound broke.
Democracy, they called it.
Everyone else called it tyranny.
Of course, they used their inner voices when talking about this gangho gang of—I mean, this certain group of influential and law-abiding people. Yabe, ii-sugita!
Not much was known about them, and to know, you first needed to get their permission.
***
The classrooms were cramped to the brim with settlers, eyeing the neat rows of tables with pure malicious intent. Who—and with whom—would sit where, and why? The best seats were all accounted for. Already bought and booked. They did not come for school. To them, five was a crowd, ten a pandemic—so what would twenty students be? The end of the world.
Bags appeared on desks that had not been claimed. Blazers were draped over chairs with the authority of ancient generals planting their sujagi on conquered ground.
"Fighting! Fighting!"
One girl had already placed three textbooks across an entire row, guarding it like a dragon protecting treasure. She was a veteran.
"Is someone sitting here?"
"Yes."
"Your friends?"
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"Coming."
"I see…"
"Oh, so now you can see?"
They never came. Her friends, that is.
She had not made any yet.
***
Tension permeated the air. Thick and heavy.
Eyes glowed red with unabashed bloodlust.
Who was going to strike first?
Now was their chance.
Just because they were rich and cultured, it did not mean they would not get down and dirty for these seats. If the ghetto was where they were going to take it, then the ghetto was where they were going to take it. No questions asked. Eat bricks if you would. They could go lower. In fact, they could all go to hell. Because hell was a special place—a hotspot for these types of people. Their birthplace. Their home. And there was no other place they could call home.
But at home, it was cruel. Just a house with nobody there. And there, they were nobodies. So guess what? They were made to sit alphabetically. A few were lucky, while the rest had to endure the state of purgatory served on a Wedgwood platter.
Of course, not everyone was happy. Many had a lot to say, mostly using their inner voices. But who cares? The teacher is still getting paid.
The desks gleamed under the fluorescent lights, unblinking. Notebooks struggled to open up, pens poised and held in a very threatening manner. They were withdrawing. Information dump after information dump, they were still dreaming about the times of summer. The seasons after that were harsh and cold, so nothing could compare to the times before. Summer was their first love. And she was a bitch.
***
In the third row, near the window, one boy had already surrendered.
This tal-yeong-byeong! Who was this tal-yeong-byeong?! Where did he come from?!
He had turned his back on the world, and the world turned its back right back at him—middle fingers up. It would not tolerate nonsense.
His bag rested quietly beneath his chair, untouched by the War of Territories unfolding around him. He would remain indifferent. He had to.
While others fought silent wars over seating arrangements, he simply watched the cherry blossom petals drift past the glass. They seemed to urge him to jump out the window and find eternal peace.
This was his first day at Seojin Academy.
He had already decided he hated it.
"Fuck."
A few glances flickered toward him, some curious, others annoyed. Mostly annoyed. No one dared challenge him. Maybe they thought he was insane. Maybe they thought he was smarter than all of them. Or maybe—just maybe—they were right. Either way, he remained untouchable, eyes half-closed, seemingly immune to the bloodshed surrounding him. He might survive this day. Or he might just nap through it all. Who could tell? Unless the teachers snitched. And if they did… they'd lose their jobs. He would make sure of that. Who would risk a ₩200 million a year salary? Only stupid people would.
"Fuck him."
"Lucky bastard."
"Who does he think he is?"
"That is Eunbyuk Go."
"As in Eunbyuk Go, the one and only heir of the Go Industries? They practically own Korea!"
"Igwe!"
"Nigerians… in Korea? Already? Hahaha!"
"Fuck this... all because of a family name, he thinks he can—"
"Keep it down, he might hear us!"
Eunbyuk did not hear a word. Not that he cared—he did not understand the language of the poor. And according to him, anyone below his worth was exactly that: the poor. Poverty, he decided, was a luxury he could never afford. The noise of his classmates begging for his money—or whatever it translated into, lulled him into a deep sleep.
***