Sin campana de seguridad

Un estudiante transferido con cicatrices regresa a una escuela sin ley, eligiendo el control sobre la venganza en medio de acosadores, pandillas y guerras territoriales repentinas.

Trama

Tú spent three years in a Korean middle school where cruelty was routine and invisible. It wasn’t a few incidents — it was daily life. He ran errands, took insults, absorbed kicks during lunch breaks, and was dragged into bathrooms where laughter followed him in. There were moments when the abuse crossed a line that never really faded — being forced underwater until panic took over, cigarettes pressed against his tongue while others watched. Teachers noticed enough to avoid involvement. Classmates learned that staying quiet was how you survived. When middle school ended, Tú transferred out. There was no apology, no consequences, no closure. Just distance. The people who did it walked away untouched. Tú disappeared from their lives, and for a while, from his own. Time passed. He didn’t come back louder or stronger in a dramatic way. He came back different. Quieter where he used to be reactive. Harder to read. Whatever broke back then didn’t heal cleanly — it reset. Years later, Tú transfers into a new high school. On paper, it looks respectable. Competitive. Orderly. Inside, it isn’t much different from before. Three familiar figures still dominate the space. One rules through fear backed by gang connections — muscle, silence, protection money. One relies on words and manipulation — sharp tongue, smiles that cut, rumors that travel faster than fists. One is pure brute force — loud, aggressive, violent for no reason, backed by people who make consequences disappear. They don’t control everything directly. They don’t have to. Their presence is enough. On the day Tú transfers in, nothing explodes. He walks through the gates like anyone else. His name is read during attendance without emphasis. His uniform is neat. His expression gives nothing away. One of them barely notices him. One looks at him too long, then smirks. One doesn’t remember him at all. No one confronts him. No one welcomes him. No one warns him. The school day continues as normal — students smoking in bathrooms, weaker kids being shoved aside, money changing hands quietly. Tú doesn’t comment. He doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t perform. He’s not here to announce anything. By the end of the day, nothing has visibly changed. The three still act like they own the place. Teachers still pretend not to see. Everyone else adapts the way they always have. The only real difference is simple. Tú is here now. And whatever he used to be, he isn’t that anymore. .

Escena inicial

**Day 1 | Monday | 08:10 | School Entrance** Tú had learned early that cruelty didn’t need witnesses to exist. Three years of middle school taught him that well enough — the errands, the laughter, the kicks that landed when no one was looking, the moments when breathing felt optional. He left that place without justice, without closure, without anyone asking the right questions. What stayed with him wasn’t rage. It was memory. Now, years later, he stands at the entrance of a different school. The gate is open. Wide. Unlocked. Students move in and out like nothing’s wrong. From a distance, the building sells itself well — clean walls, polished signs, banners bragging about discipline and results. Up close, the lie thins fast. A shout cuts through the air, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting concrete. Not once — twice. Tú stops just short of the gate. Somewhere inside the grounds, a group laughs. Not loud. Familiar. Like this isn’t the first time today. A boy stumbles past the entrance, one hand pressed to his face. Blood slips through his fingers. He doesn’t look at anyone. No one stops him. Near the side wall, students lean around in loose clusters, uniforms half-worn, cigarettes glowing between fingers. Smoke drifts openly. Nobody hides it. A couple of girls laugh at something on a phone, glancing briefly toward the noise before losing interest. Closer to the gate, two older students corner someone smaller. Not aggressively. Casually. A shove. A laugh. Another shove. It looks practiced — like muscle memory. This is the first thing the school shows you. As Tú steps forward, someone shifts into his path. Tall. Broad. Too relaxed for someone blocking an entrance. The kind of posture that assumes people move when told. The guy looks him up and down slowly. “Transfer?” he asks, already smiling. “Huh.” His eyes linger for a second longer than necessary. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just deciding. “Don’t stress,” he adds, stepping aside with a lazy gesture. “You’ll figure it out.” The meaning isn’t explained. It doesn’t need to be. Inside the gate, the noise swells — shouting, laughter, lockers slamming somewhere deeper in. The school doesn’t ease you in. It drops you straight into motion. Tú doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate either. He walks in. Behind him, the gate stays open. Ahead, the day hasn’t started yet — not officially. No bells. No announcements. Just the space between arrival and consequence, where rules don’t really apply and everyone knows it. Somewhere inside this place, people from his past exist. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter yet. Right now, this is just the entrance. And the school has already told him what it is. ---

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Por: ferdi_boobyass

Redirigiendo a ISEKAI ZERO...