Kim sat in the university library, his head buried in a textbook that was older than he was. The pages were yellowed, and some corners were torn, but it was all he had. Around him, the air buzzed with muted conversations and the rustle of pages being flipped. His classmates from Class F huddled together, sharing notes and discussing strategies for the upcoming test. Though the mood was one of determination, the underlying tension was palpable—this test could change everything.
The more Kim delved into the dynamics of the university, the clearer it became that the institution was designed to favor the wealthy. The university’s financial structure was a labyrinth of fees and payments, each step reinforcing the gap between the haves and have-nots.
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Class A students paid astronomical tuition fees, which came with perks that went far beyond academics. They had access to the best professors, smaller and more interactive class sizes, and exclusive study materials unavailable to the lower classes. These students rarely needed to wait for a professor’s attention; their questions were prioritized, their assignments meticulously reviewed. The board justified these privileges by citing the fees these students contributed, claiming that they were "investing in excellence."
Kim, on the other hand, shared his professors with hundreds of other students in Class F. Lectures were rushed, office hours were limited, and questions often went unanswered. The disparity was glaring.
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One evening, while studying with Seo, Kim voiced his frustration. “They call this place a meritocracy, but it’s a lie. The ones at the top stay at the top because they can afford to.”
Seo leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s not just about what they can buy. It’s the mindset they’ve been raised with. To them, money isn’t just power—it’s proof they’re better than us.”
Kim had seen this mindset in action. Class A students carried themselves with an air of entitlement, flaunting their advantages without a second thought. They rarely even glanced at students from Class F, as if acknowledging their existence was beneath them.
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The university board often touted its policy of tying class placement to exam rankings as a symbol of equality. In theory, any student who performed well could move up to a higher class, gaining access to better resources and opportunities. But in practice, the system was stacked against those who couldn’t afford the initial fees.
Kim had heard stories of scholarship students taking out loans to secure spots in higher classes, hoping that the improved resources would help them maintain their rankings. It was a gamble with devastating consequences for those who failed. One such student, a senior named Park Min-ho, had once been celebrated for his academic potential. He had borrowed a significant amount to join Class B but couldn’t keep up with the added pressure and expenses. Now, he worked part-time jobs to repay his debt, his dreams of success shattered.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Min-ho’s story served as a cautionary tale among scholarship students. “The higher you climb, the harder you fall,” one of Kim’s classmates had said grimly.
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Kim often wondered how many of his peers had made similar sacrifices, only to find the odds insurmountable. He had even overheard some Class F students discussing whether it was worth attempting to move up at all.
“Why bother?” one of them said bitterly. “Even if we make it to Class D or C, they’ll just find another way to keep us down.”
These conversations fueled Kim’s determination. He wasn’t just studying to improve his own situation—he wanted to prove that the system’s inequities could be challenged. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. The wealthy students didn’t just have better resources; they also had the confidence and connections that came with their upbringing.
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As the test date approached, Kim began to notice the financial strain on some of his peers. One evening, he saw a Class F student quietly selling his laptop to pay for additional tutoring sessions. Another student confessed to skipping meals to afford study materials. These sacrifices, though heartbreaking, were a testament to their resilience.
Kim couldn’t afford such measures, but he had something money couldn’t buy: grit. Seo reminded him of this whenever the weight of the system felt too heavy.
“Remember,” Seo said, “they might have the head start, but we have the drive. That’s something they can’t buy, no matter how much money they throw around.”
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Despite the challenges, Kim found small victories in his preparation. He discovered that while the Class A students focused on expensive, specialized study guides, the university library held treasures of its own. Old editions of textbooks and obscure reference materials became his allies.
Late one night, as he flipped through a particularly dense book, Kim felt a flicker of hope. The system might be stacked against him, but it wasn’t impenetrable. He would approach the test not just as an academic challenge but as a battle against the entrenched inequalities that defined his university experience.
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Kim’s determination only grew as he observed the entitlement of Class A students. One day, during a campus debate on the fairness of the university’s policies, a Class A student arrogantly claimed that poorer students were simply “less capable.”
“If they were truly talented,” the student said with a smug smile, “they’d find a way to succeed, regardless of their circumstances.”
Kim clenched his fists under the table, anger coursing through him. That moment solidified his resolve. He wouldn’t just succeed—he would shatter their preconceived notions and prove that talent and determination could triumph over privilege.
The upcoming test wasn’t just about rankings anymore. For Kim, it had become a fight for justice, a way to expose the cracks in the foundation of the so-called “meritocratic” system.