Chapter 5

“Mistake of presupposed circumstances in justification.”

The room went silent.

Only then did I realize I had blurted out the old exam-prep abbreviation—Wijeonchak—something that had stuck to my tongue back in my bar exam days.

I quickly shook my head and clarified.

“What I mean is… we need to consider the possibility of a mistake regarding the facts that would justify the act.”

Some students nodded in understanding.

This concept—“Mistake of presupposed circumstances in justification”—appears fairly early in the General Part of Criminal Law.

Anyone who had diligently pre-studied at least the first part of Criminal Law would have at least heard of it.

“In this case, ‘A’ uploaded the flyer onto the school community board. But nothing in the case guarantees that the flyer’s contents were true. As Seo-jun already explained, Article 310 requires two conditions: that the facts are true, and that the act was solely for the public good.”

“…Go on,” Professor Jang urged.

“If the flyer was true, then Article 310 applies. But what if it wasn’t? Could we still apply Article 310 when the facts weren’t true?”

I flipped through my copy of the Criminal Code.

Not to the defamation provisions, but further ahead—back in the General Part.

“Article 13. Criminal Intent.”

The students around me quickly checked their own books.

“An act is not punishable if the actor was unaware of the factual circumstances that constitute the crime.”

“And what does that mean?” someone muttered.

“When the professor started this class, he said our task is simply to decide: what act was committed, what crime it was, and how severely it should be punished.”

I added,

“In modern criminal law, that judgment starts with intent. If there’s no intent, then unless there’s a special rule punishing negligence, there’s no crime. And when determining what crime someone committed, we judge it based on the intent they had at the time.”

That was basic theory—something you’d find on page one of any textbook.

“In this case, if the flyer was false, then what ‘A’ believed he was doing was stating facts and harming ‘B’s reputation. But what actually happened was spreading false information. So the first question is: do we apply Article 307(1), defamation by stating facts, or 307(2), defamation by spreading falsehoods?”

Murmurs of “Oh…” spread across the room.

“Since our law judges by intent, even if the flyer was false, ‘A’ believed he was stating facts. Therefore, the article we must first consider is 307(1). Then the issue becomes: can Article 310—the special justification provision—still apply?”

I flipped to Article 310.

“As you can see, the heading clearly says ‘Justification.’ You’ve all heard of justification before—it means even if the act had intent and met the legal elements, if it had a legitimate reason, it isn’t unlawful and won’t be punished.”

I gave an example.

“The most famous case is self-defense. Article 310 is just a special justification clause specific to defamation, requiring two conditions: stating facts, and acting solely for the public interest.”

I glanced around.

The hostile glares that had been aimed at me earlier were gone. Everyone was staring, law books open, hanging on my words.

“All in all, what ‘A’ did was believe he was stating facts when he wasn’t. That’s exactly a mistake about the factual basis of a justification—the so-called Wijeonchak.”

“Oh? And so?”

Even Professor Jang raised his eyebrows with interest.

Here it was—the point I’d been building to.

Honestly, everything I’d said so far was little more than reading aloud from a cheat sheet.

Seo-jun had already identified which articles applied. All I’d done was read the headings, recite general principles, and act confident.

Now came the bluffing part: inflate what I remembered, gloss over what I didn’t, and make it sound like I knew exactly what I was talking about.

“The prevailing scholarly view calls this the ‘theory of limiting liability,’ but the Supreme Court has never followed that.”

I laid out the theory-versus-precedent divide.

“Instead, case law consistently rules that if there were reasonable grounds for the mistake, then justification is recognized. The question is: did ‘A’ have reasonable grounds here?”

I gestured at the board.

“‘A’ relied on a flyer he found on the ground—evidence whose truth he could never be sure of—and immediately uploaded it. Considering ‘B’ was running for student president during an election, it could just as easily have been malicious propaganda. And yet he didn’t verify anything before assuming it was true. That doesn’t sound like reasonable grounds.”

Time for the conclusion.

“So, if the flyer was true, Article 310 applies and ‘A’ is not punishable. But if it was false, then Article 310 doesn’t apply, and ‘A’ is guilty of defamation by stating facts under Article 307(1).”

“…”

In truth, there are over six different theories about mistakes in justification.

Back in my exam prep days, you had to write down every single one, with names, reasoning, and conclusions.

But I had forgotten them all.

So I mentioned just the one theory I still remembered, skipped the rest as if they were obvious, and leaned hard on interpreting the specific case instead.

If the professor had pressed me to explain the other theories, I’d have been sunk.

Please let this land…

The silence stretched endlessly.

Then—

Clap. Clap.

I looked up.

“Well done. Five bonus points,” said Professor Jang, applauding.

Five points? That much?

Pre-Law’s group evaluations were out of 40 points. Everyone started with 10. The rest came from bonus or penalty points earned by team members.

On top of that, the Pre-Law final grade was 100 points total: 10 for the first test, 40 for group work, and 50 for the second test.

That meant the five points I had just earned could outweigh four or five multiple-choice questions on the exam.

“Your name was Yoo-seung, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Impressive. Anyone can memorize legal provisions. But spotting issues the problem doesn’t hand to you—that requires experience, practice, and a solid grasp of the criminal law framework. Or else… raw genius.”

He smiled faintly.

“It was a tough question to pose to students who aren’t even officially first-years yet. But you handled it well. Have you chosen an advisor yet?”

“…Excuse me?”

“If you’re interested in prosecution, come see me.”

My jaw nearly dropped.

That was the highest praise Jang Yong-hwan could give.

“…I’ll think about it, sir.”

I had expected him to be satisfied, yes. In the original story, he wasn’t obsessed with theory—he just wanted students to identify precedent and apply it well.

That’s why I had gambled on this answer.

But I never expected him to react this positively. I thought I’d scrape a point or two. Instead, he was openly inviting me to be his advisee.

That meant I’d truly impressed him.

Of course, he wouldn’t take me unless I kept my grades up. But even so, leaving such a strong impression this early was a massive win.

The rest of the lecture passed uneventfully.

As expected of a master teacher, Professor Jang’s explanations were clear and focused. He emphasized exactly what we needed to know.

Two hours flew by.

When class ended and I was heading out for lunch—

“Wait.”

Han Seol stopped me.

“…How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“There’s no way the infamous Park Yoo-seung studied the Special Part of Criminal Law. How did you figure out that answer?”

Her eyes trembled with confusion.

The scumbag she knew as Park Yoo-seung had somehow turned into the savior who nailed the hidden issue no one else could.

“Are you really Park Yoo-seung?”

Her question hit me hard. But I forced a straight face.

“Know? I didn’t.”

“…What?”

“Like you said, how could I know the Special Part? If I did, I’d have answered before Seo-jun. I just looked at the article he mentioned, saw the word ‘justification,’ remembered something I’d read in the General Part, and thought, hey, that sounds like a mistake in justification. That’s all. I skimmed it once during break.”

“No way. Park Yoo-seung, reading textbooks during break? Impossible.”

She looked horrified.

“I told you. I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. I’m not working as hard as you guys, but I am trying.”

Her eyes narrowed, weighing my words.

In the end, she would accept it.

The idea that Park Yoo-seung had suddenly become a genius was unthinkable.

But that he had gotten lucky and managed to piggyback off Seo-jun’s answer—that was believable.

And honestly, it was closer to the truth.

“…Alright.”

She nodded slowly.

“I can’t trust you completely yet. But the fact is, you helped us. I was completely lost, and you even managed to upstage that tall jerk. So… thank you.”

“Why thank me? I just wanted the points.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

She smirked.

“But next time, warn me before you jump in. I was so scared you’d screw everything up.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I waved her off.

She left.

My stomach growled. Time to eat.
***

In the Law School had been famous for its food illustrations.

I still remembered the day it showed an oven-baked gratin with a giant chicken drumstick sticking out of it.

It was just a drawing, but the crispy skin and gooey cheese had made my mouth water.

Back then, I was slurping instant noodles alone in a dark office. Maybe that’s why it stuck with me so strongly.

The comments section had been full of readers saying the same thing: “If I ever fell into this world, I’d eat that gratin no matter what.” It had been the top comment that week.

And now—

That wish was about to come true for me.

[Dishes ready: Numbers 397, 398, 401]

I clutched my ticket: 401.

I rushed up, grabbed my tray, and carried it to a quiet corner of the cafeteria.

The dish was exactly what I remembered: oven-baked chicken gratin.

Heart pounding, I stabbed the drumstick with my fork.

The crispy skin cracked under the pressure. I tore off a big piece and stuffed it into my mouth with the cheese.

“…Delicious.”

It was heavenly.

For someone like me, who’d never lived a gourmet life, the taste was overwhelming.

The juicy chicken, the creamy cheese—how could life feel this blessed? To study law again, and now to eat like this—wasn’t it too much happiness?

No. I couldn’t waste even a second of this blessed life.

I savored the flavor while pulling Principles of Civil Law out of my bag.

A bite of food, a line of text.

It was the perfect lunch.

Until—

“Mind if I sit with you?”

I froze.

Surely I’d misheard.

No one in their right mind would ask to eat with Park Yoo-seung.

I looked up.

Across the table, grinning at me—

“I wanted to have a word with you.”

—was none other than the protagonist himself, Shin Seo-jun.