Third period, just before lunch break.
Only one more hour, and today’s classes would be over.
Starting next week, afternoon classes would begin, which meant today marked the end of our relatively relaxed schedule for the semester.
It was a shame to have less free time, but it couldn’t be helped.
A student’s duty lies in their studies.
We had to discipline ourselves for the sake of our futures.
I sat in the lecture hall, watching Hong Ye-na as she stood behind the lectern holding a stack of blank papers.
“The class rep and vice rep, please come forward and hand these out to everyone.”
“Yes, Instructor.”
“Yes!”
Responding to her call, Min Ah-rin and I stood up from our seats. I’d managed to convince her to sit a little closer to the front than usual today.
We stepped up, received the stack of paper, and began distributing it to the seated students.
“Everyone’s sitting all over the place. Makes handing these out such a hassle.”
“…Agreed.”
“Maybe we should push for a fixed seating system sometime.”
“Fixed seating, huh…”
Surprisingly, Min Ah-rin seemed to agree with me. Maybe because she didn’t particularly enjoy moving around, but it was rare for us to be so in sync.
She fell quiet for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she continued handing out the sheets.
“Don’t you think the others will push back against it?”
“Sure, probably. And when they do, we’ll just beat them into submission with strength.”
“Hmm…”
“Between you and me, there’s no one we can’t handle.”
“That’s true.”
“And more importantly…”
“Because we’re from one of the Twelve Houses?”
“Exactly. Who would dare oppose us?”
“…”
The students near us, clearly eavesdropping, visibly flinched.
When our eyes met, they frantically shook their heads. Their eyes practically screamed desperation.
‘We agree,’ they seemed to say.
Loud denial often masks stronger agreement.
“Looks like everyone’s in favor, don’t you think?”
“…!”
“Then we’ll need to start thinking about how to assign the seats.”
“Uh, wait, Gyeon-woo? Ah-rin? Maybe we could… hear everyone out first—”
“Aren’t you in favor?”
“You’re disagreeing with me now?”
“N-No, of course, I’m in favor… I just thought maybe the others might feel differently—”
“Does anyone here object?”
“Anyone against it?”
“…”
Silence is also consent.
No one raised a word of protest.
Min Ah-rin and I decided we’d set aside time soon to seriously consider implementing a fixed seating system. It could help with team cohesion, especially if we ever had to participate in inter-class competitions.
‘Still… what’s this paper for, exactly?’
Back at my desk, I examined the sheet.
I flipped it over, searching for any traces of mana. There were none.
It didn’t seem to be an artifact or anything special—just an ordinary piece of paper.
“Does anyone know what this is?”
“…”
“No one?”
“I’ll give candy to anyone who guesses right!”
Hong Ye-na waved a sheet dramatically in the air.
But no one had an answer.
I stared at the paper, trying to deduce its purpose.
Then Min Ah-rin spoke up.
“I think I know.”
“Go ahead, Ah-rin.”
“…Is it a will?”
“…”
“Correct. That’s right, it’s a will.”
“Ah-rin gets a candy.”
Min Ah-rin gave a little hum of satisfaction as if it were no big deal. I saw her lift her chin proudly from my seat beside her.
But when the word “will” left the instructor’s lips, the class fell into uneasy murmurs.
Hong Ye-na gently calmed them down and began to explain.
“Death is fair. It comes to everyone and often without warning. No living being is exempt from nature’s cycle. Plenty of people die before reaching their full life expectancy. In a way, we live not knowing when, where, or how we’ll die.”
“…”
“You all know this already, but hunters live much closer to death than anyone else. Yes, controlling mana can slow aging, and sure, those who know how to manage it may live longer. But hunters constantly risk their lives. That’s why their life expectancy is often shorter than that of the average person’s. Does anyone here know what the expected lifespan of a hunter is?”
“Me.”
“Go ahead, Ah-rin.”
“Thirty-eight years.”
“Correct. According to the Association’s latest data, the average lifespan of a hunter is 38. That’s actually two years longer than last year. It’s a sign that the current generation of active hunters is more skilled. Encouraging, but still, 38 is not high. Thirty-seven-point two percent.”
“…”
“That’s the percentage of hunters who die within five years of graduating and entering the field. One in three of you will be dead within five years of graduation. Harsh, isn’t it? But I bet it still doesn’t feel real to most of you. You haven’t stood at death’s doorstep yet.”
“…”
“But as I said, death doesn’t give you a heads-up. If even young, newly certified hunters are dying at that rate, what do you think the mortality rate is for academy students?”
“Last year, it was 18.4 percent.”
“Thank you. That’s right. Eighteen-point four percent. Despite all the safety protocols in place, nearly one in five students at the academy dies before graduation. For every five of you, one won’t make it out. And unlike hunters, you won’t be eligible for pensions when you die. Your death will be meaningless. Completely wasted. So don’t die.”
“…”
“But that’s easier said than done, right? No matter how much you try, death can’t always be avoided.”
Hong Ye-na didn’t sugarcoat it. Her words hit with full weight, sharp and direct, pressing the reality into all of us.
The atmosphere in the classroom turned heavy and somber.
Even I, who had grown up hearing such realities in my family, couldn’t shake the mood.
Still, she didn’t stop.
“And that’s why the will matters. It’s what gives your death some meaning. It leaves a trace behind for those who loved you, a reminder that you were here. Starting today, you’ll begin writing yours. And you’ll keep writing it throughout your lives.”
“…”
“According to Association regulations, all hunters are required to write a will every six months, and again before any life-threatening assignment. You, too, are no exception. As long as you’re training to become hunters, you’ll be expected to write your will regularly over the three years you spend at the academy. This isn’t a one-time thing. You’ll be doing this again and again.”
“…”
“Afternoon classes begin next week. They’ll be far more difficult and dangerous than your morning courses. From then on, death becomes a very real possibility. So don’t take this lightly. Don’t write this like it’s a joke. Assume you’ve died. Write as if this is the last thing you’ll ever say.”
“For those writing a will for the first time, I’ll show you the basic format you’ll need to follow—”
And just like that, we began writing our last will.
A hunter lives with death closer than anyone else.
That was something I’d heard countless times while learning the sword from my family.
So Hong Ye-na’s warning didn’t make much of an impression on me.
Not since five years ago, when I first awakened the memories of my previous life.
I had already come to terms with death by then.
It didn’t shake me anymore.
To say I wasn’t afraid at all would be a lie, but without that resolve, I wouldn’t be able to move forward.
I couldn’t become a hunter.
And even if I did, I would simply die like the rest.
Killing someone also meant they might kill me in return. In a world where we fought with our lives on the line, anyone who wasn’t prepared to die would, in the end, be killed.
A stronger resolve overcomes a weaker one.
And with weak resolve, you die.
Ironically, to survive, you had to first accept the reality of death.
It was a cruel paradox.
But living, in a way, was no different from dying slowly.
We are all dying.
We live to die.
That truth must not be denied.
Some things can only be understood once we accept them.
I don’t know when I’ll die. No, I might die tomorrow. Live with that mindset and wield your sword with full awareness until your final moment. To live a life without regrets, focus on each day, each moment. Ask yourself constantly, “Was today worth it?” Build a sword in your heart that will never waver. That is what it means to accept death. It is a vow to live without regret, all the way to the end.
That had been my grandfather’s heartfelt advice to me and Do Si-eun, once upon a time.
I took his words to heart, and because of them, I was able to stay centered.
Whether I wrote my will with death in mind or came to terms with death while writing it, my heart remained steady. Unlike the others, I had already accepted death.
So I felt oddly indifferent toward the task.
Still… a will, huh.
Leaving behind a trace that proves I lived.
It wasn’t something I had ever thought about.
All around me, I could hear the soft scratching of pens as students began to write.
Meanwhile, I just stared at the blank page in front of me.
What am I even supposed to write…
What regrets would I leave behind if I died?
I had no idea.
I tried to live each day to the fullest, without regret. I had nothing in particular I would cling to.
I didn’t have a hunger for fame. I wasn’t interested in leaving behind a legacy. Besides, if I died, that would probably mean the world had ended, too.
In a ruined world, what good would a last will even do?
Forget it. I just won’t write one.
Writing a will wasn’t mandatory. It was private, and no one else was allowed to read it without permission.
It’s true I had come to terms with death, but it wasn’t like I planned to die right now.
Five years. Three years.
Ever since I recalled my past life five years ago, my goal has been to survive the chaos that would descend upon the Academy during the next three years.
Not dying was my purpose.
So asking me to write a will felt contradictory.
If I ever had to seriously think about dying, it would be after I graduated.
Having decided that, I neatly folded the blank sheet and began to place it into the envelope—
“When it comes to wills, yes, it’s a personal choice. A lot of hunters skip writing one because it’s bothersome. Some even turn in blank envelopes, assuming they’re not going to die anytime soon. They know no one else can read them anyway, so they go through the motions. But you’re students, right?”
“…”
“As your instructor, I’ll be reviewing all your wills. So don’t try to turn in a blank one and put us both in an awkward position, okay?”
…She was definitely talking to me.
I paused halfway through folding the paper and sighed.
I’d have to give up on skipping it.
No helping it. I had to write something.
— Last Will —
Combat Sword Division
Class 17, Student 11
Do Gyeon-woo
<To the World>
There’s a lot I could say, but I’ll skip it due to space.
Thank you for everything.
…Yeah, that’s probably going to get me scolded.
I had forced myself to write something, anything, but even I could tell it wasn’t good enough.
Maybe I should just start over.
Just then, a shadow fell across my desk.
I looked up to find Yoono-eul standing in front of me, smiling.
“…Instructor?”
“If you’re running out of space, just let me know. I’ll get you as much paper as you need.”
“…No, I’m going to start over anyway.”
“I think that’s a wise decision. You do know a will isn’t meant for jokes, right?”
“Yes, ma’am…”
“Gyeon-woo, do you not have any family?”
“My parents are both alive and well, and I have a younger sister. What about you, Instructor? Do you have family?”
“I do. But you asking like that made me suddenly think of my late mother. Sniff…”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up anything painful…”
“Just kidding. She’s alive.”
“…”
“But the part about me not having family isn’t a joke. I cut ties with them.”
“Oh… I see.”
“We kind of went off track there, but what I really wanted to say was, if you can’t think of anything, then at least write something like, ‘Thank you for raising me.’ Even that’s enough for your family.”
Yoono-eul had always enjoyed teasing people.
I let out a weak laugh as she walked away, leaving me a little stunned.
Maybe I could write something for my family.
Still, the words didn’t come easily.
Hmm…
Everything I came up with felt cliché and overly sentimental.
And since I wasn’t really feeling it, my hand refused to move across the page.
In the end, I didn’t manage to finish my will by the end of class.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t the only one.
It seemed most of the students had struggled with it too.
Seeing this, Hong Ye-na addressed us again.
“A will isn’t for yourself. It’s for the people who will miss you after you’re gone. Keep that in mind. Anyone who didn’t submit it today will have it as a weekend assignment. It’s due next Monday. And don’t forget—this is about sincerity. If I see that someone turned in a half-hearted effort, I’ll deduct points from their midterm grade. I’ll also make them clean the lecture hall. But if you write something honest and heartfelt, I’ll give you bonus points.”
“Tomorrow’s weekend, right? Don’t spend the whole time slacking off. Do your assignment properly. Alright then, see you all next week!”
Leave a Reply