Kim Yunho

I have short dark hair and green eyes—their hue changes depending on the lighting: in the shadows they seem almost black, while in the sun they sparkle with emerald sparkles. My appearance is spot on: I'm handsome, tall, and muscular—but I'm cool about it. At Summit Academy, people often turn their heads, whisper behind my back, girls giggle, and guys stare at me, as if trying to figure out how I stay so... ordinary with such looks. I don't chase attention, I don't pose by windows or take selfies with the main gates in the background. I like simple clothes: a dark gray hoodie, black jeans, and worn-out sneakers—in them I feel like myself, without all the frills. Even after training, I don't rush to look in the mirror: I know my muscles are there, but that's not the most important thing. The most important thing is that I can run five laps around the stadium without getting exhausted, I can lend a shoulder to a friend when they're collapsing from exhaustion, I can protect someone who's weaker. Sometimes, though, this "perfect image" gets on my nerves: people look at my face and body and seem to see nothing further. But I'm not complaining—this appearance has become my shield. Let them think I'm just a pretty guy. Let them not guess how much effort I put into being something more. And now, with this x10 system, I have a chance to prove it not with words, but with actions. Incidentally, I often notice guys looking at me enviously; after all, for some reason the academy's beauties are suddenly interested in me?

Summit Academy is the finest and most prestigious in the country. Its tall towers of dark glass and stone are visible from afar, and the wrought-iron gates bearing the academy's coat of arms grant admission only to those who have passed a rigorous selection process. Thousands of applicants strive to gain admission each year, but only a hundred are accepted—the smartest, most persistent, and sometimes even those whose families can afford not only tuition but also additional courses, elite sections, and private master classes. Summit's corridors smell of expensive wood, ink, and the subtle scent of fresh flowers from the winter garden—as if the very atmosphere is meant to remind you that you are in a place where future leaders are born.

The academic buildings are connected by covered galleries, along which students hurry between classes, tucking notes in their pockets and whispering about upcoming exams. The lecture halls feature panels with holographic projections, and the labs are equipped with equipment unheard of even at universities. But Summit's prestige isn't based solely on technology: it values ​​tradition. The annual Autumn Ball, inter-house tournaments, and secret senior societies—all are part of the academy's unique spirit, where every step becomes part of a legend.

For some, the Summit is a path to power and wealth; for others, it's a test of endurance. It's easy to get bogged down in the competition, to lose yourself among the glittering names and famous surnames. But that's precisely what makes the academy so appealing: it doesn't promise an easy path, but it does offer the chance to become someone truly significant. And now that I have the ×10 system, I feel the Summit will become more than just a place to learn, but an arena where I'll prove I'm worthy of standing alongside the very best. Even though I started out without money or connections, I have the tenacity and desire to see it through.

I don't know why, but since my breakup, I've been noticing the beautiful girls from the academy around me more and more often. It's as if they used to pass by without even looking up, but now they've suddenly started noticing me—stopping in the hallway, casting quick glances, striking up casual conversations by the lockers. Haeun is the one who's most proactive in communicating with me. It's as if she's now deliberately hanging around where I am: sometimes in the library when I'm poring over my notes, sometimes at the entrance to the gym, as if waiting for someone, but for some reason always looking at me. Once, she even asked how I was coping with my economics class—a subject she's having a hard time with—so I immediately realized it wasn't about the lectures. Maybe she's just curious how a guy who was so loudly dumped manages to stay in the public eye. Or maybe she's starting to feel a kind of respect for the fact that I haven't disappeared, not hidden in the corners.

After the breakup, so-called friends disappeared too—as if Miyeon had been the glue that held us together, and without her, everyone immediately remembered they had more important things to do. Now, if I walk into our old cafeteria, no one waves or invites me to the table, and even the usual seats are occupied by someone else. At first, it was bittersweet: I caught myself still waiting for someone to call out to me, to ask how I was doing. Then I just got used to it. And somewhere deep down, I even decided that maybe it was for the best: now I see who's there not for profit or for company, but simply because you're there.

That's when I met Eunwoo. We bumped into each other at the vending machine—I was trying to figure out why it wasn't accepting coins, and he calmly pulled out a paperclip, tweaked something, and the machine suddenly sprang to life. "Don't worry, they're all so stubborn here," he smiled, and there was so much warmth in that phrase that the tension that had been building for weeks seemed to ease a little. Eunwoo is studying engineering, loves to fix things, and says the world becomes more understandable when you understand how its mechanisms work. He doesn't ask unnecessary questions or offer advice.

Kam Eunwoo is a guy who truly makes me feel at ease. He's short but powerfully built, as if he's used to carrying boxes of parts without complaining. His light brown hair is always slightly tousled—it seems like he just runs his hand through it when he's thinking, and that's it. His eyes are dark brown, almost chocolate brown, and there's always this quiet excitement in them, as if he's constantly searching for something to fix or put back together. On his wrist is a tattered fabric bracelet with faded letters; he never says where it's from, but he always automatically adjusts it when he's nervous.
He's studying engineering and loves fixing everything—from broken vending machines to old watches no one wears anymore. He always carries a small tool kit in his backpack: a couple of screwdrivers, wire cutters, a roll of electrical tape, and some other small items he calls "just in case." Sometimes, in the middle of a hallway, he'll suddenly freeze, squint, and mutter, "There's something wrong with the wiring," and then he actually finds a burned-out sensor or a loose contact. For him, the world is a mechanism that can be understood if you look closely.
Eunwoo isn't one to offer advice. If I'm silent, he won't drag my words out with pliers. But if I suddenly feel the urge to speak out, he listens as if every word is an important detail that can't be lost. And if things get too stressful, he simply changes the subject and tells some ridiculous story: how he tried to build a coffee maker from old alarm clock parts and ended up flooding half the workshop with boiling water, or how he accidentally turned the fan on high and created a mini-hurricane in the pantry. These stories make me smile even when I don't feel like smiling at all.
He has a favorite spot at the academy—a tiny utility room next to his workshop, which everyone else considers a storage room, but which he considers his lab. It smells of metal and rosin, and the shelves are filled with jars of screws, spools of wire, and some mysterious circuit boards.

Baek Mi-yeon is my ex, and it seems her whole life revolves around money and status. She's the kind of person who looks not at your eyes but at the price tag on your jacket. Mi-yeon has long, milk-chocolate-colored hair, always perfectly straightened, as if she spends half the morning styling it, and her wardrobe is a luxury catalog: silk blouses, tight skirts, stiletto heels that click down the hallways so loudly you can hear them even before she appears in the doorway.
She can be dazzlingly beautiful and incredibly charming—when it suits her. Her smile is polished, like a cover model's: just the right amount of teeth, just the right amount of warmth, to make people want to give her everything. She sits in the front row at lectures, not for the sake of knowledge—but so the professor will remember her face and, perhaps, give her a higher grade. In conversation, she deftly weaves in the names of influential people, as if these connections were her greatest asset.
Miyeon doesn't hide the fact that she wants more: a better car, a better apartment, a better life, and she's perfectly okay with someone paying for it. She doesn't see any shame in this—in fact, she considers it her right. When we were dating, I tried to please her with little things: buying her favorite drink, bringing flowers I found on sale, making handmade cards. She accepted it all with a slight smile, but I could see the disappointment flicker in her eyes: this wasn't what she was expecting.
The day she abandoned me right in the academy courtyard still stands out in my mind. She was standing there surrounded by new friends—those whose parents owned companies and whose families rented villas on vacation. She said it calmly, almost matter-of-factly: "You're good, Yunho, but I need more." And the word "more" sounded as if I wasn't good enough not as a person, but as a wallet.
After the breakup, I heard people whispering about her: they say she's already moved on to someone else who can afford expensive restaurants and trips abroad. But it hardly affects me.

Kim Soa is my younger sister, 15, and about to graduate from high school. She has hair slightly lighter than mine, with strands always escaping her ponytail, and eyes that are always so full of anticipation and hope that I sometimes feel ashamed of how much I can't yet give her. She loves bright hair ties, sweatshirts with cartoon prints, and sneakers with neon accents—as if she's trying to brighten up her everyday life, even if she only has enough money for the bare essentials.
Soa loves my mom and me so much it's ridiculous: every morning she sets her alarm half an hour early so she can make us toast, and then runs to school clutching her battered backpack to her chest. She doesn't ask for much, but she certainly has big desires—like any teenager: a new phone case, concert tickets, a set of paintbrushes, which she talks about so quietly, as if she's embarrassed by her dream. At the same time, she understands everything: she sees my mom washing the same tablecloth to keep it looking fresh, how I save the change after buying lunch, and she never makes a scene. Sometimes she even hides her wish lists in her math notebook, as if not saying them out loud will make them less important.
Soa is a diligent student at school, especially enjoying drawing and biology. She dreams of becoming a veterinarian, saying she wants to help those who can't ask for help themselves. After school, she hangs out at her club, sketching animals and chatting quietly with her teacher, as if these conversations give her confidence that she'll succeed one day.
When I come home tired, she immediately sits down next to me, tells me about school gossip, about how one of her classmates ruined her drawing, and then suddenly falls silent and asks: “Are you okay? Are you hungry?” And there’s so much warmth in her concern that my fatigue seems to melt away.
Now that I have the ×10 system, the first thing I think about is not revenge or how to prove something to others, but how many small, but such important things I can give to Soa.

An Sera is a beauty and the academy's star athlete. Her name is shouted from the stands so loudly that it echoes throughout the stadium, and posters of her portrait hang not only in the gym but also in the hallways—as if the academy itself is proud to have such a star. Sera has short dark brown hair, styled casually, as if she's just returned from training, and bright brown eyes that always sparkle with excitement. On her wrist is a worn sports bracelet, a gift from her first coach; she never takes it off: she says it reminds her of where it all began.
At the academy, she's known not just as the fastest, but as someone who never gives up. On the track, Sera seems to lose sight of everyone else: the wind whips at her face, her sneakers dig into the surface, and she only clenches her fists and quickens her stride. In team sports, she's the captain, the first one onto the field and the last one off: encouraging them, scolding them when they give up, and taking on the toughest moments herself. Even the teachers discuss her records, and competitors from other academies sigh in advance when they learn Sera will be at the starting line.
For all her toughness during training, she's surprisingly warm in everyday life. In the cafeteria, she always sits next to the newcomers, asks how they're doing, and shares a sandwich if she sees someone shy about approaching the distribution area. She has a loud, infectious laugh, and it seems she's incapable of being quiet: whenever Sera's in the room, it immediately becomes more lively.
Many people think her strength lies in her muscles and speed, but I've seen something else: her strength lies in how well she takes a hit. Once, at an interschool competition, she fell a few meters before the finish line, scraping her palms and knees, but she got up, wiped the blood with her sleeve, and ran anyway—not for a medal, but to prove to herself that a fall isn't the end.

Nam Yuna is the student council president at Summit Academy, and she seems to manage it all: memorizing three lectures, organizing a charity fundraiser, reconciling feuding clubs, and still looking like she just stepped out of a glossy magazine photoshoot. She has a neat bob, dark strands framing her face, highlighting her delicate features, and modest pearl earrings, the only detail that betrays her love of classics. Her signature look is a tailored jacket over a simple white shirt and a watch with a thin strap: not for status, but to ensure every minute is spent making the most of it.
At the academy, Yuna is respected even by those who despise rules. She doesn't bark orders from above or pretend to be a know-it-all—rather, she acts like someone who understands the value of time and the work of others. If someone is late for a student council meeting, she doesn't yell, but calmly jots down the reason in a notebook and later suggests a solution: reschedule, help with transportation, redistribute tasks. Her strength lies in her ability to listen and transform chaos into a plan.
Yuna masterfully balances the gap between administration and students. Faculty appreciate her responsibility and clear reports, and her classmates appreciate her unafraid to champion their interests. She once secured vegan options and discounts for students from low-income families in the cafeteria, and she did so without making any grandiose statements—simply by gathering statistics, preparing a presentation, and attending a board meeting.
Despite her collected nature, Yuna can be warm. She often stops in the hallways to listen to someone's concerns, and in the student council chat, she answers even the most trivial questions. She has a tradition: every Friday, she holds a "phone-free hour" in a small meeting room—simply drinking tea with the council members, listening to how they're coping, and reminding them that no one has to be perfect.
Yuna also plays the piano amazingly - few people know about this.

Hwang Haeun is the queen of the academy and the school's beauty. Her name seems made to echo in the whispers of the hallways: as soon as she appears, conversations die down, and glances involuntarily drift to her figure. She has long, dark honey-colored hair, styled impeccably, and eyes like cold amber—they convey the confidence of someone who has grown accustomed to the world adapting to her needs. Her walk is like a separate art form: smooth and unhurried, yet each step exudes a hidden strength.
Haeun always dresses like she stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine: perfectly tailored jackets, silk blouses, and elegant heels. Even on days when other students are wearing hoodies and jeans, she looks like she's on her way to see the president. But behind this flawless appearance lies a sharp mind and an iron will. She leads several clubs, manages to keep up with all her extracurricular activities, and manages to keep track of not only her own schedule but that of half the student council.
At the academy, she's both respected and feared. She keeps her fists tight, and she doesn't raise her voice—one look is enough for her to instantly correct a rebellious student's mistake. At the same time, Haeun knows how to be fair: if you're trying hard and not trying to get ahead at someone else's expense, she'll notice and even help. But if she senses falsehood or an attempt to manipulate, her coldness can freeze even the most insolent student.
For many, she's an unattainable ideal, for others, her archrival, and for me... still a mystery. I saw how she looked at that scene with Miyeon—not with mockery, not with pity, but as if assessing my ability to rise after a blow. And there was something in that look that awakened within me a desire not just to rise, but to move on—so that one day she would admit: I am not who my story seemed at the beginning.

Bae Jeong-hee is the granddaughter of a powerful family, and it's evident in her every move. Her last name at Summit Academy is almost like a password: the mere mention of "Bae" sends even the most brash upperclassmen into a daze. Jeong-hee's family owns a corporation that builds skyscrapers, launches satellites, and seemingly could buy an entire street if they so desired. But Jeong-hee doesn't brag about it—at least not openly. Now that I have the 10x system, I realize that Jeong-hee isn't the kind of person who's swayed by money. It's the essence that matters to her: what you do, how you keep your word, whether you're accountable for your actions. And perhaps that's what makes her one of the strongest people at the academy—not because of her last name, but because of her character.
She has raven-black hair pulled back into a tight low bun, and thin silver crescent-shaped earrings are the only jewelry she wears every day. Her style is understated elegance: dark blue suits, perfectly pressed shirts, and shoes without excessive shine. There's nothing flashy about her look, but that's precisely why everyone notices her immediately: she doesn't try to attract attention—it just comes to her.
At the academy, Chung-hee is enrolled in the law department, though many believe she doesn't need to study at all: just mention her last name, and the doors will open. But she attends every lecture, sits in the front row, takes notes in a thin leather notebook, and asks questions that make the professors pause for a second, searching for the right words. She doesn't take shortcuts or hide behind her family name—rather, she uses her knowledge as a shield and sword, so that no one can dare say she achieved anything solely because of her family.
At the same time, Chung-hee isn't cold or arrogant. She just has her own rules: she doesn't tolerate lies, doesn't forgive betrayal, and doesn't waste time on empty talk. In the student council, she's the person they turn to when they need to make a difficult decision. Her word is rarely loud, but it always carries weight. One day, she stopped