Chapter 3

Come to think of it, in the original story, Professor Kang Chang-soo was related to Park Yoo-seung on his mother’s side.

In the webtoon, Yoo-seung relied on that connection and acted even more arrogantly, believing he had the dean backing him up.

But to Professor Kang, Yoo-seung was nothing more than a thorn in his side—a family disgrace waiting to happen.

In fact, Yoo-seung eventually caused a huge scandal out of jealousy toward Shin Seo-jun and got expelled from Korea University Law School.

If I didn’t want to follow that same doomed path, there was only one answer: stay quiet, keep my head down, and just study.

I buried my face back into my book. Sure enough, Professor Kang soon lost interest and turned his gaze away. With the familiar thump, thump of his cane, he stepped up onto the podium.

“Attention. Please pay attention.”

The chatter around the hall stopped.

“Before we officially begin the Pre-Law program, let me briefly explain how it will proceed. For the next two weeks, you will attend daily classes in the three core subjects—Constitutional Law, Civil Law, and Criminal Law. During that time, you will also take two tests.”

His voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

“In addition, there may be group assignments to solve in teams. These tasks are designed to assess your current level, so please do your best.”

“Assess our current level,” huh. I knew it wasn’t just that. If I remembered correctly…

“Furthermore, your scores from these classes and tests will determine your course registration and your advisor selection for the regular semester. Finally, the top five students will receive a living scholarship of three million won each as a reward for excellence.”

Just as I thought.

“This scholarship is separate from the merit scholarships announced at admission, and students may receive both. Any questions?”

The scholarship didn’t matter. Yoo-seung had more money than he knew what to do with.

Course registration wasn’t a big deal either. In In the Law School, every professor at Korea University was top-notch. No matter whose class you took, you wouldn’t go wrong. In the end, real studying was always up to the student.

But the advisor assignment—that was different.

Because your advisor could shape your entire career path.

For example, if a student wanted to join Jin & An, the country’s top law firm, they had to fight for a spot under Professor Park Seong-gwang, who came from there.

He knew exactly what kind of application Jin & An looked for, how to handle their internship assignments—he had all the insider knowledge.

If you wanted to go into finance, you needed Professor Choi Seong-chul, who had worked as an international financial attorney on Wall Street and in major Korean securities firms. He often introduced his advisees to people in the industry.

And me? If I wanted to become a prosecutor—

Of course, it had to be Professor Jang Yong-hwan.

A former chief prosecutor, repeatedly on the bar exam’s question-setting committee, and a master of criminal law.

Every single one of his advisees who aimed for prosecution had successfully been appointed as prosecutors. He was the ace of Korea University Law School.

In the original, Shin Seo-jun became his advisee too.

Naturally, competition for his mentorship was brutal. If my memory was right, I’d need to place within the top 10% in this Pre-Law course just to qualify.

A tough challenge, yes—but…

I could do it.

I was the one who passed the second stage of the bar exam in just two years.

The one who studied until my eyes were bloodshot, stacking exam books and casebooks into towers on my desk.

The one who once digested more legal knowledge than anyone in this auditorium.

True, years of grinding labor had made me forget much of it.

But even if knowledge fades, the methods remain carved into your brain.

How to structure an answer. How to think legally. On those fronts, no one here could match me.

If I just put in the time and effort to rebuild what I’d lost, I could rise to the top again.

“No questions? Good. Then let’s begin the first test. You all brought writing tools, as the instructions clearly said?”

The announcement dropped like a bomb.

The students’ faces froze. Murmurs rippled—Had they heard right? A test, now?

“Um, Professor?”

“Yes? Who’s speaking?”

“Han Seol, sir.”

The second-ranked student looked uneasy.

“Yes, Han Seol. Do you have a question?”

“Did you really say… a test? Right now?”

“That’s correct.”

“But the schedule we received listed today as just orientation. Suddenly giving us a test seems a bit…”

In truth, Han Seol was one of the few who would benefit. While most students spent their last free winter break relaxing, she had thoroughly studied Knots of Civil Law twice over.

“A bit?”

“I think it could be a problem. We haven’t officially learned anything yet, nor were we told to prepare for a test…”

But she was a stickler for principle. Even if it hurt her, she couldn’t stand something that felt unfair. That rigid sense of justice was exactly why readers of the webtoon found her both annoying and oddly endearing.

“Don’t worry too much,” Professor Kang dismissed her concerns.

“A light orientation—those words weren’t a lie. Law school life is endless tests, evaluations, internships, and moot courts. In fact, a test is the most accurate orientation you can get.”

He pressed on.

“Relax. Take it easy. Today’s test only counts for ten percent of your Pre-Law grade.”

“Now then, let’s begin.”

At his signal, staff rushed in to seat students and distribute papers.

Stay calm.

My current legal ability was no better than that of a patient relearning to walk after waking from a coma.

I didn’t intend to slack off, but today’s goal was only to gauge where I stood and plan my studies. Nothing more.

Don’t overreach.

With that thought, I took a deep breath.

“Start.”

The very first test of my new life at Korea University Law School had begun.

This year’s intake is quite strong, Professor Kang thought as he walked around the exam hall.

He had spoken harshly at the ceremony, calling them “the most behind group in the country,” but in truth, he hadn’t expected much from students who hadn’t even started classes yet.

After all, law schools were created to turn people from all sorts of backgrounds into legal professionals.

Yes, many schools favored applicants with prior legal experience. Even Korea University had once admitted many bar exam hopefuls in its early years.

But these days, they preferred younger, brighter, more promising students.

So this test wasn’t about perfect answers. It was about seeing whether students had previewed the material, and whether they could adapt to an unfamiliar legal exam setting.

But this one… is different.

He stopped to observe Shin Seo-jun.

The questions were designed so no specialized case law was required. If you just understood the general principles, you could answer.

The scope was limited to what would be covered in the first semester.

The idea was to help students gain confidence—that law was something they could tackle with their own legal mind, not just rote memorization.

Seo-jun fit that perfectly.

The moment he read a question, he wrote out the relevant concepts, requirements, and effects as a neat outline, then applied them to the facts to reach a conclusion.

He had clearly already mastered the first-semester material.

Professor Kang moved on and stopped by Han Seol.

She’s worked hard too.

Unlike Seo-jun, who relied on logical application of principles, Han Seol wielded case law as her weapon.

Even though the problems were original creations from Kang himself, she still matched each fact pattern with an uncanny case precedent, attaching them to her answers.

Her understanding wavered here and there, sometimes missing fine points, but her conclusions were mostly correct.

Other students weren’t bad either. Some lacked knowledge, but most wrote what they knew with confidence. With proper teaching, this class could definitely grow.

And then there’s him…

Professor Kang’s expression hardened.

He had arrived at the seat of his troublesome nephew, Park Yoo-seung.

First, the multiple-choice section.

The questions were designed so that anyone who had even glanced at the basics couldn’t miss them.

Seo-jun had finished them all in fifteen minutes with perfect accuracy. Han Seol had done it in just ten. Others struggled a bit, but most got through fine.

But Yoo-seung?

He glanced at the sheet, nodded once, and then sped through like lightning.

Done in three minutes flat.

Which could only mean—he guessed every single one.

Earlier, Kang had spotted him reading Knots of Civil Law alone, and wondered if he had turned over a new leaf. But clearly, it was just wishful thinking.

If he couldn’t even solve the multiple choice, how could he possibly write decent essays?

Kang almost walked away—but decided, out of family duty, to at least check.

…Hm?

To his surprise, Yoo-seung’s essay answers weren’t bad.

Yes, he frowned often, flipping through the statute book just to confirm simple things.

But everything he wrote was technically correct.

His outlines, in fact, were nearly flawless.

Even back in the bar exam days, such clean, logical outlines were rare.

The only issue was that beneath those outlines, the content was vague—written in his own words instead of precise doctrinal or case law language.

Almost like… someone who had mastered law long ago but forgotten the exact phrasing, writing in their own terms instead.

But that was impossible.

The Yoo-seung he knew had never studied law seriously.

He had barely scraped into Korea University after repeating a year, stumbling into a department with open spots.

He had only gotten into law school by sheer luck—guessing six multiple-choice questions correctly on the admissions test.

His whole life was freakish luck.

Could he really have guessed his way into a coherent essay too? No. That would be like a monkey banging on a typewriter and producing a perfect copy of Don Quixote.

Then Kang remembered—back in free time, he had seen Yoo-seung buried in his book, flipping pages with intense focus.

What expression had he worn then?

Ah. That one.

Yoo-seung boldly turned the page of the exam.

It was the one trick question Kang had slipped in—the only trap.

At first glance, it looked like a case of third-party fraud under Article 110(2) of the Civil Code.

But in truth, the fraudster had to be treated not as a third party, but as an agent under implied authority—making it a matter for Article 110(1).

It was the kind of nuance tested routinely back in bar exam days—but far too advanced for pre-law students.

In fact, it wasn’t meant to be answered at all. The point was to remind students not to get arrogant, that there was still a long road ahead.

There was no way to stumble on the right answer by luck.

And yet, Yoo-seung picked up his pen.

…How will you answer this?

He let out a quiet hum as he read.

Then, without hesitation, he scribbled down several lines, stood up, handed in his paper, and walked out of the hall.

Startled, Kang hurried to the front, found his nephew’s answer sheet, and read the last line:

“…Given these circumstances, C should not be seen as a mere assistant or employee, but as A’s agent. According to precedent, fraud committed by an agent—who can be equated with the principal—does not require the principal’s knowledge or ability to know. Therefore, B may cancel the contract under Article 110(1).”

Correct… it’s correct.

That was when Kang finally remembered the look on Yoo-seung’s face as he’d seen him studying earlier.

He had been smiling.