My Scumbag System - Chapter 145

Chapter 145: Welcome to the Kobayashi Maru, First-Years
The assembly hall swallowed us whole—a massive, sterile chamber with stadium-style seating and perfect rows of desks stretching in every direction. Holographic blue light bathed everything in a cold glow, emanating from the massive NVA eagle-and-shield emblem suspended in the center of the room. The ceiling soared at least fifty feet above us, creating the unsettling feeling of being trapped in an enormous, high-tech cathedral.

“Single file! Move to your assigned stations!” A uniformed proctor barked, ushering us through the entrance.

I glanced at my ticket. Seat 217-B. Looking at Natalia and Emi’s tickets, I confirmed my suspicion—we were being deliberately separated. Natalia’s seat was nearly thirty rows away, while Emi was assigned to the opposite side of the hall entirely.

“Good luck,” I murmured to both of them.

“You too,” Emi whispered back.

Natalia just nodded, but her eyes said everything: Don’t fuck this up.

Finding my assigned seat, I settled between two strangers—a tall, gangly guy with a permanent twitch in his left eye on my right, and a girl who looked ready to vomit on my left. The girl was muttering formulas under her breath like prayers, while Twitch kept clicking his retractable pen in an irregular rhythm that was going to drive me to homicide if it continued much longer.

A sudden hush fell over the hall as a woman strode onto the stage at the front. She didn’t bother with a podium—she simply owned the space, pacing across the stage like a predator sizing up its next meal. Her silver hair was cropped in a wolf-cut style.

Her uniform was regulation in color only—black with gold trim—but modified into something more practical: fitted jacket with plenty of pockets, reinforced panels at the shoulders and elbows, and tactical pants tucked into combat boots. She carried a riding crop, which she tapped rhythmically against her thigh as she surveyed the room.

“Welcome to the end of the line, maggots.” Her voice filled the hall without seeming loud—a dangerous purr with edges like broken glass. “I am Professor Reeves, and for the next two hours, your future is in my hands.”

She stopped pacing, letting her gaze travel slowly across the room.

“Look around you,” she continued. “Take a good, long look at the person to your left… and your right.” She paused, that small, cruel smile growing slightly. “Statistically, both of them will be on the ferry home crying to their mommies by sunset.”

I glanced at my neighbors. Twitch had gone pale, and Puke Girl looked even greener than before.

“This written examination has a historical failure rate of over seventy percent,” Reeves continued, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow still carried to every corner of the room. “The rules are simple. You have two hours to complete the exam. Anyone who scores below fifty percent will be immediately disqualified.”

She let that sink in, clearly enjoying the wave of tension that rippled through the hall.

“No appeals. No second chances. No exceptions. Your datapads will activate in exactly thirty seconds. The clock starts the moment the questions appear.”

She stepped back, crossing her arms and surveying us with that same predatory smile. “Show me which of you deserves to call yourself a Hunter… and which of you are just prey.”

The datapads flared to life in perfect synchronization, illuminating thousands of anxious faces in pale blue light. I looked down at my screen, and my eyebrows shot up.

Question 1: Calculate the chrono-synclastic infundibulum of an S-Rank Black Gate’s event horizon. Show all work, including temporal-spatial equations and phase-shift algorithms.

I blinked. What the actual fuck?

Question 2: Citing at least three pre-Rupture philosophical texts, write a 500-word essay on the ethical ramifications of using a hemokinetic Aspect for crowd control.

I almost laughed out loud. This wasn’t a test—it was a cruel joke.

Question 3: Identify the primary and secondary neural clusters in the diagram below. Explain how targeting each would affect the motor functions of this species.

The diagram showed what looked like the nervous system of some Lovecraftian nightmare—asymmetrical, complex, and utterly unfamiliar.

Around me, the atmosphere had shifted from tense to panic-stricken. Twitch had abandoned his pen-clicking in favor of running both hands through his hair repeatedly, leaving it standing on end. Puke Girl was breathing into her cupped hands, clearly trying not to hyperventilate. A few rows ahead, someone had started quietly crying.

But I wasn’t panicking. I was thinking.

Something about this wasn’t right. These questions weren’t just difficult—they were functionally impossible for anyone who wasn’t already an S-Rank Hunter with multiple PhDs. Even Natalia, who was legitimately brilliant, couldn’t possibly answer these.

So what was the real test?

I recalled Lieutenant Commander Reeves’s speech, mentally replaying her exact words. As I did, I became aware of a subtle sensation against my chest—the Liar’s Brooch, hidden beneath my uniform.

“This written examination has a historical failure rate of over seventy percent.”

The brooch remained cool against my skin. True statement.

“Anyone who scores below fifty percent will be immediately disqualified.”

There it was—a distinct, unmistakable warmth spreading from the brooch. A lie.

My lips curved into a small smile. So that was it.

I scanned the room again with new eyes. The proctors stationed along the walls weren’t watching for cheaters—they were observing our reactions. This wasn’t a test of knowledge. It was a test of resolve. Of judgment.

In a real Gate situation, wasting time on an impossible task could get you killed. A Hunter needed to recognize when to push forward and when to cut their losses—when to fight and when to withdraw. The real test was having the guts to admit defeat on the micro level to achieve victory on the macro.

I looked across the room for Natalia again. She was staring at her screen, lips pressed into a thin line, one hand absently playing with a strand of her purple hair—a nervous tell I’d come to recognize. I waited until she happened to glance up, then caught her eye and gave her a subtle nod. A silent message: Trust me.

One hour and Forty-five minutes remained on the clock. Most people were still frantically trying to answer the unanswerable, clinging to the hope that partial credit might save them.

I took a deep breath and tapped the “Submit Exam” button at the bottom of my screen.

A prompt immediately appeared: ARE YOU SURE? YOUR SCORE IS 0%. THIS ACTION IS IRREVERSIBLE.

Without hesitation, I tapped “Confirm.” The screen went blank for a moment, then displayed a simple message: EXAM COMPLETED. PLEASE REMAIN SEATED UNTIL THE TESTING PERIOD ENDS.