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Chapter 7
The Korea University Law School library had quite a few study rooms.
Law students, by nature, were sensitive to other people’s noises and movements — yet they wanted to stretch their own legs and study comfortably.
So, even though the library provided many study rooms where you could relax and sometimes chat while studying, they were never enough.
Han Seol had barely managed to reserve one after competing fiercely for a slot.
And inside that hard-won study room…
“What? Why is this wrong?”
Across from her sat Korea University’s number-one troublemaker — Park Yoo-seung.
“…Why are you here?”
“We’re in the same team. Let’s help each other out. The better our teammates study, the higher our presentation scores, right?”
He said it as if asking for credit, making it awkward to kick him out.
“You know, it’s cooler not to brag about that kind of thing.”
“A future lawyer should learn to use every advantage available. If you think modesty is a virtue, how will you ever win a case?”
“Ugh, you never shut up.”
Han Seol pouted.
Still, she had to admit she owed him.
She had always been first in everything — top of every class, every exam. Losing first place at law-school admission to Shin Seo-jun had been a new kind of shock.
Even on the first test here, she’d ranked below him.
If she wanted to overturn that result, she needed strong team points.
No matter how it happened — luck or not — the fact remained: Park Yoo-seung had scored points for their team by one-upping that annoying top student.
So, she could tolerate him using her study room.
“Let’s see that.”
“Huh?”
“You said you don’t know why it’s wrong. I’ll take a look.”
When she reached out her hand, Yoo-seung blinked in surprise but handed her his answer sheet.
Han Seol read through it carefully.
“Let’s see… ‘A, while drunk, rode an electric scooter and hit someone, injuring them. Later, the Road Traffic Act was amended so that electric scooters were reclassified from “motor vehicles” to “personal mobility devices,” resulting in a lighter penalty.’”
“So the key issue is Article 1 (2) of the Criminal Code. Because the amendment wasn’t made out of reflection on excessive punishment, we apply the old law and keep the original sentence, right?”
“…What?”
“Isn’t that right?”
Han Seol stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Park Yoo-seung, are you kidding me? The ‘motive theory’ was abolished!”
“…Huh?”
The “motive theory” was an old idea about what to do when a law changed after a crime was committed but before the final judgment — whether to apply the old law or the new one.
Article 1 (2) of the Criminal Code clearly says that if the new law imposes a lighter punishment, the new law should apply.
But in the past, the Supreme Court had said you first had to check why the law was changed. If it reflected remorse for unfair or excessive punishment, then you’d apply the new law; if not, you wouldn’t.
The problem was that nothing in the statute actually supported that idea. And what counted as “remorseful reflection” was vague. Naturally, scholars criticized it as baseless.
Eventually, about a year ago, the Court officially scrapped the theory.
So anyone who’d studied criminal law recently would know it had been abolished.
“Really?”
“Look — it says right here.”
Han Seol opened the newest edition of Criminal Law: General Principles and showed him.
Yoo-seung stared blankly at the page — then suddenly jumped up from his chair and shouted,
“…Th—”
“Th?”
“Thank you, honorable justices! That trash theory is finally gone!”
…What a weird guy.
Han Seol couldn’t help but laugh.
When she thought about it, it really was strange.
Back in undergrad, when she served as the business-school student rep, Park Yoo-seung had been a total delinquent.
Now, somehow, he’d entered law school — and spent every day glued to his desk, reading legal texts for hours.
He even came to class earlier than her to prepare.
Sometimes he caught legal issues that even she missed; other times, like today, he acted as if he were hearing the most basic stuff for the first time.
Especially with newer precedents or recently changed interpretations, he was completely clueless.
It was almost like a ghost of someone who’d studied for the old bar exam years ago had possessed him.
Which, of course, wasn’t far from the truth — though she had no way of knowing that.
“Alright, now I’m fired up.”
Whatever the reason, Yoo-seung rolled up his sleeves and started flipping through his prep books with renewed energy.
* * *
Half of the Pre-Law period had already passed.
I was finally getting used to studying law again.
Apparently, the brain really did have something like muscle memory.
Law was like a bottomless jar you kept pouring water into — there was always more to memorize, and it evaporated fast.
Things I read yesterday were gone by the next morning.
The only way to fill that jar was to pour faster than it leaked.
And that was exactly my specialty.
“I didn’t expect this many new cases and legal changes…”
Even though this wasn’t real life but a webtoon world, it was surprisingly up to date.
So many precedents had been added since the time I stopped studying law that it almost felt harder than the bar-exam days ten years ago.
But that only made it more interesting.
“You’re early again today.”
“I’m ranked 139th. If I want to catch up, I have to work hard.”
As I was reviewing the textbook before class, Han Seol arrived.
“…You’re not still bothered by what that guy said, are you?”
“That guy? Oh, you mean that Bae-whatever?”
“Law is a mental game. Don’t waste energy on people trying to shake your confidence. Keep your pace, don’t overdo it.”
Was she… worrying about me?
In the webtoon, she’d always seemed cold, but she actually had a warm side.
Honestly, I’d already forgotten that guy’s full name.
Well — except for his last remark about “your point-earning days being over.” That part still bugged me. What was he planning?
“Today’s topic is corporate tort liability. The requirements are… ‘rep’, ‘dut’, ‘wrong’, ‘rep’, ‘dut’, ‘wrong’…”
Sitting beside me, Han Seol chanted mnemonic codes to memorize elements, like students reciting the periodic table.
Ten minutes later, as class time approached, students poured in noisily.
The lecture hall felt as lively as a college classroom again.
Actually, it was mostly just that.
Most of these students were “straight-throughs” who had gone to law school immediately after undergrad — barely any real-world experience.
Mentally, they weren’t that different from college students.
Reading In the Law School, I’d thought its characters were immature; meeting real ones like Bae Hyun-jung confirmed it.
They were just kids — “high-school seniors plus five years,” really.
“Alright, let’s take attendance.”
Professor Park Soo-geun, who taught Civil Law, began calling names.
“Group 1, Kang Do-sung.”
“Here.”
“Yoo Tae-woon.”
“Yes.”
And so on — until it reached our group.
“Group 10, Han Seol.”
“Yes.”
“Park Yoo-seung.”
“Here.”
“Lee Ha-ru.”
“…”
As usual, no answer. Han Seol glanced at the empty seat beside me and sighed.
“Is she ever coming?”
“Maybe not.”
“Ugh.”
“No problem. You’re already doing the work of two people.”
“That’s the problem!”
Actually, I knew exactly what would happen.
Lee Ha-ru wouldn’t appear for the entire Pre-Law period.
She’d barely show up even during the regular semester — until midterms, when she’d suddenly cause a huge explosion in the story.
But that was future me’s problem, not today’s.
For now, Han Seol and I could handle everything.
“Alright. Today’s topic—corporate tort liability.”
Professor Park Soo-geun began.
“First, what is a corporation? Anyone?”
Han Seol’s hand shot up.
“It’s an entity that isn’t a person but, by law, has the capacity to hold rights and obligations.”
“Good answer. In civil law, humans are legal persons from birth—‘natural persons.’”
He scanned the room.
“On the other hand, there are entities that aren’t people but, for practical reasons, are treated as if they were. Those are corporations.”
Basic question, no bonus points. Han Seol looked a little disappointed.
“Think of a company,” he continued. “Running one costs a lot of money, right? You’ll seek investments, maybe loans. Now, when a creditor lends money to the company, from whom do they get it back?”
He smiled.
“From the CEO? That’s risky. You’re lending huge sums, and the CEO could just disappear.”
So there needed to be a safeguard.
“Then what if you could collect from all the company’s members? That’d make creditors happy but would be unfair to the members — paying debts they didn’t personally make.”
The compromise, he said, was the legal concept of the corporation itself.
“If the company itself can own property and owe debts, creditors can trust the company as the debtor. Safer and simpler.”
“Exactly!”
He praised the student who’d answered.
Simple but clear explanation.
When you get lost in exam prep, you rarely think about such basics — why the system exists, what it’s for.
But understanding those foundations matters.
If you know the purpose of the law, you don’t need to memorize endless case rulings; you can see the logic behind them.
That’s why it was great that the professor explained even simple things thoroughly.
“…Alright, that’s all. Any questions?”
No one raised a hand; the lecture had been perfectly clear.
“Then let’s do group problem-solving.”
Ah, here it comes.
Han Seol stretched, already expecting to be the one presenting.
Usually she handled it all; occasionally, I’d take her place to ease her burden.
We had a perfect division of labor: she scored, I supported.
“Division of labor, my foot…”
She muttered — just as the professor added,
“Oh, one announcement.”
He scratched his head.
“Some students complained that the current group-evaluation system is unfair — that only one person’s effort earns the whole team points.”
Uh-oh.
“So I’m going to change it a bit.”
The new system:
From each group, the professor would randomly pick one student to come to the front.
They’d get a problem, solve it, and then receive feedback or corrections from classmates.
Good answers or good defenses earned bonus points; poor ones lost points.
And both bonuses and penalties would directly affect the whole team’s score.
So even if one member was great, another’s mistakes could drag the team down.
“Oh, and starting tomorrow, attendance will also count toward this score. Some students insisted that attendance is the most basic duty.”
The professor added that today wouldn’t count, since applying it retroactively would violate legal principles.
Han Seol and I instinctively turned toward the same empty seat — our missing teammate’s.
Then, across the room, I met eyes with someone smirking in our direction.
“Pfft.”
Bae Hyun-jung couldn’t hold back his laughter.
…You little punk.
Until now, I’d been generous toward these people.
As I’d said before, they were just kids who’d studied a few extra years — not worth getting angry over.
Even when Hyun-jung had picked a fight, I’d only humiliated him lightly.
I’d even felt sorry for him — still hung up on a girl who’d rejected him.
But this was different.
Now he’d tried to harm me directly — filing a complaint that would punish our team for having an absent member.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Luckily, the professor postponed it, so there was no immediate loss.
But even attempting something like that crossed the line.
It seemed it was time to give him a proper warning.
