At a university retreat, a game of 'King's Game'—an unspoken tradition at drinking parties—is in full swing.

In the midst of it, a senior suddenly stands up and waves a stick.

He looks excited, as if he's been waiting for this moment forever.

He repeatedly emphasizes "I'm the King now," even throwing in some curses. The way he swings the stick in his hand is oddly annoying.

Thanks to that, the atmosphere turns cold in an instant. Everyone is walking on eggshells, holding their breath for fear of getting caught if they move.

After a brief silence, the senior speaks.

It's short, but given his authority, there seems to be no option to refuse.

A curse escapes internally. Of all numbers, I had to be Number 1.

I glare at the senior once, but immediately look away, fearing that getting on his bad side further would be exhausting. Eventually, I stand up and ask.