Carl walked beside Max as they moved down the stairwell.
The concrete steps echoed softly under their feet, each sound magnified by the silence that hung over the hostel building. Other first-year students flowed down with them, forming a loose stream that felt more like compliance than curiosity.
Max's shoulders were stiff.
"You okay?" Carl asked casually.
Max forced a laugh. "Yeah. Totally. Just… first day stuff, right?"
Carl didn't reply. He could hear it in Max's breathing—too fast, too shallow.
They stepped out of the building.
The ground opened up before them.
It was massive.
Multiple fields spread across the land like a perfectly planned sports complex. Football grounds dominated the center, their grass trimmed with unnatural precision. On the sides were volleyball courts, basketball courts, badminton nets, tennis courts—each one marked cleanly, untouched, waiting.
It was impressive.
And completely empty—except for one place.
At the center of the main football ground, first-year students were already lined up.
All one hundred and sixty of them.
Surrounding them stood seniors.
Around three hundred and twenty seniors—boys and girls—forming a loose but unmistakable ring. Some leaned against benches. Some stood with arms crossed. Others openly held metal rods, resting them on their shoulders or tapping them lightly against the ground.
Carl stepped onto the grass.
He didn't feel nervous.
Not calm either—just alert.
Max, on the other hand, looked like his legs might stop working at any moment.
"Carl…" Max whispered. "This isn't normal, right?"
"No," Carl replied. "It's not."
They took their place among the other first years.
Carl's eyes moved—not randomly, but deliberately.
He noticed the seniors who stood out.
The first was impossible to miss.
A tall boy—around 185 centimeters—with sharp yellow hair that caught the light. An ear piercing glinted as he moved his head slightly. A thick necklace hung loosely around his neck. In his right hand, he held a rod casually, as if it were an extension of his arm.
Beside him stood a girl.
She was tall too, nearly 170 centimeters, with straight black hair that fell neatly over her shoulders. Her figure was balanced, confident. What stood out were her hands—both wrapped in white bandage dressings, clean and tight, as if recently changed.
She didn't smile.
She didn't frown either.
She simply watched.
Carl shifted his gaze.
Near the edge of the formation stood another senior, clearly separate from the rest. A red-haired boy with orange eyes, around 178 centimeters tall. He was holding a book, flipping a page calmly while chaos simmered around him.
He wasn't pretending to read.
He was actually reading.
Interesting, Carl thought.
Then there was the loud one.
A senior with a microphone stood near the center, grinning widely. Black hair styled straight up, orange eyes sharp with amusement. He was around 180 centimeters tall. Several seniors stood behind him, rods in hand, forming a backdrop that looked intentionally intimidating.
The microphone crackled.
"Dear first-year girls and boys," the senior announced, his grin widening. "Please stand in line according to your own department."
The sound echoed across the field.
Silence followed.
Then confusion.
Whispers broke out immediately.
"Which line is computer science?"
"Where's business?"
"Do we move or stay?"
No one knew anyone. No one knew where to go. Students looked at each other hesitantly, searching for familiar faces that didn't exist yet.
Some shuffled awkwardly.
Some didn't move at all.
Not everyone looked afraid.
Most students were eighteen or older—adults, technically. Some stood with their arms crossed, expressions unreadable. A few wore faint smirks, as if daring someone to try something.
Carl stayed still.
Max leaned closer. "How are we supposed to know which line is which?"
"We're not," Carl said quietly.
"What?"
"That's the point."
The confusion spread. Small groups formed and broke apart. A few students argued softly. Others waited, hoping someone else would take the lead.
Then Carl noticed movement behind the seniors.
A bench sat slightly apart from the group.
On it sat a man.
Or rather—a senior who felt different.
He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. A hooded sweatshirt covered his head, casting a shadow over his face. Purple pants contrasted sharply with the dark clothes around him.
A cigarette burned between his fingers.
Smoke rose slowly into the air.
A rod rested beside his leg.
He didn't look at the first years. He didn't look at the seniors either.
He finished the cigarette calmly, crushed it beneath his shoe, and stood up.
The field went silent.
He picked up the megaphone.
When he spoke, his voice was low—cold, heavy, and completely emotionless.
"I'll give you two minutes," he said.
No shouting.
No anger.
Just certainty.
"For all of you to line up properly."
He paused.
"Or maybe you all want to get beaten on your first day."
The words settled into the air like a verdict.
Max's face went pale.
Carl exhaled slowly.
Around them, panic finally began to surface.
Students moved faster now—too fast. Some grabbed others. Some shouted department names. Some froze, unable to decide.
Carl didn't move yet.
He watched.
Because whatever happened next—
Was going to decide who understood this place… and who didn't
---
The line finally stabilized.
Not perfectly—some students still shifted their weight, some whispered, some tried to act unaffected—but fear had begun to settle like dust after a storm. The massive ground felt even larger now, the empty spaces between groups making the juniors look smaller than they were.
Carl stood straight, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes moving slowly. He noted posture, breathing, eye direction. Panic revealed itself in tiny ways—clenched jaws, tapping fingers, shoulders raised too high.
Max stood half a step behind him, swallowing repeatedly.
The senior behind the bench moved.
He rose slowly, deliberately, as if testing the patience of everyone watching. His hoodie came up over his head with a soft rustle, shadowing his face for a moment. Then he lifted his chin.
A murmur spread.
He was handsome—strikingly so. Brown hair fell messily over his forehead, long bangs brushing just above his eyes. Black eyes, sharp and steady, scanned the crowd without hurry. Silver piercings glinted faintly under the afternoon sun. His build was lean but firm, his posture confident without stiffness, as if his body knew exactly how much space it owned.
He took the megaphone from the bench, tapping it once against his palm.
The sound echoed.
"Before anything else," he said, voice loud and even, carrying across the field, "your orientation for today has been cancelled. It will happen tomorrow."
A ripple of relief passed through the juniors.
Carl felt it too. His shoulders loosened slightly.
So this wasn't official.
That was good.
Or so it seemed.
"So," the senior continued, pacing slowly along the front of the lines, boots pressing into the grass, "some of you might be confused about why you were called here."
He stopped at the center, turning to face them fully.
"First—welcome to Dexscrob University."
No applause. No cheers.
Just silence.
"But if you want to remain here," he said calmly, "if you want to belong here—there are some unofficial rules you need to understand."
Carl's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Unofficial.
The word mattered.
The senior raised a finger.
"Rule one," he said. "You do not disobey seniors. Ever. If a senior tells you to do something, you do it. No arguments. No questions."
A few students shifted uncomfortably.
"Rule two," he continued. "You do not talk about hostel life to teachers, parents, or anyone outside this university."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Rule three. You respect seniors. Fully. Words, actions, attitude."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Rule four. Maintain university decorum."
That one sounded almost ironic.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Rule five," he said. "There are activities here you won't find in the brochure. Casinos. Gambling. Underground wrestling. Boxing."
A sharp inhale moved through the crowd.
"You can participate if you want," he added casually. "But what happens here stays here."
Carl felt Max's elbow brush his arm.
Max was shaking.
"And rule six," the senior said, voice dropping just a fraction. "When someone is talking—you stay silent."
The ground erupted into murmurs.
Confused voices layered over each other. Some students protested quietly. Others laughed nervously, unsure whether this was a joke.
Carl didn't speak.
He watched.
Then—movement.
A hand rose.
Slowly, uncertainly.
A boy stepped forward from the line. He was shorter than most, about average build, black hair cut neatly, black eyes wide but focused. He wore a yellow T-shirt and black pants. His shoulders trembled, but he forced his spine straight.
"I… I won't follow this," the boy said, voice shaking but loud enough. "I'll follow university rules. Not rules made by you."
The murmurs spiked.
"If you rag us," the boy continued, swallowing hard, "I'll take legal action."
Two more students stepped forward behind him.
One had red eyes, the other pink—both tense, both trying to look braver than they felt.
Carl's pulse quickened.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
This was the trigger.
The senior's smile vanished.
He lowered the megaphone slowly.
"If I tell you once," he said softly, "can't you understand?"
He let the megaphone drop.
It hit the grass with a dull thud.
And then he moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Carl's eyes widened slightly—not in shock, but calculation.
The senior sprinted forward, body leaning low, arms pumping with trained precision. Before anyone could react, he leapt.
A flying kick.
The impact knocked the yellow-shirted boy backward, his feet leaving the ground as he collapsed onto the grass. The sound wasn't loud—just a sharp, breathless thud.
Gasps erupted.
The senior landed smoothly, already turning.
One punch.
Then another.
The two boys behind tried to raise their arms, tried to step back—but he was faster. Controlled. Efficient.
Within seconds, both dropped, unmoving but breathing.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Some students screamed. Others covered their mouths.
Max froze completely.
Carl felt sweat trickle down his spine.
Not fear.
Pressure.
This wasn't random violence.
This was demonstration.
The senior stood over them, chest rising steadily, not even winded.
Then—clapping.
Slow.
Mocking.
The blond-haired senior with piercings stepped forward, rod resting casually on his shoulder. He smiled, warm and almost friendly.
"Hey, hey," he said lightly. "Don't be so harsh. It's their first day."
The violent senior stepped back without protest.
The blond one turned to the juniors.
"My name is Taro," he said pleasantly. "And I apologize for his behavior."
The word behavior felt wrong.
"But," Taro continued, smile never fading, "you're new. You don't understand the system yet."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Now you do."
He walked closer, boots crunching softly against the grass.
"I'll add one more thing," he said. "Normal laws? Outside laws?"
He chuckled.
"They don't work here."
A chill spread through the crowd.
"That's why this university is built on an island."
Max's breathing became shallow.
Carl wiped his palm against his trousers discreetly.
An island.
Isolation.
Jurisdiction control.
He understood now.
This wasn't just ragging.
It was governance.
Most of the first years looked terrified. Some stared at the unconscious students, faces pale. Others avoided looking at all.
Carl stared straight ahead.
I expected ragging, he thought. I expected intimidation.
He exhaled slowly.
But this…
This was a system designed to break resistance early.
I thought I could adjust, he admitted to himself. I've lived in hostels before.
His jaw tightened.
But this place…
His gaze shifted briefly to the seniors.
This is going to be hell.
A drop of sweat slid down his temple.
Yet beneath the tension, something else stirred.
Curiosity.
Still, he thought, eyes sharpening, I need to observe more.
He straightened slightly.
To understand the system first.
Because systems—no matter how brutal—always had cracks.
And Carl intended to find them.