The mission had started like a training exercise.

It had now devolved into a slapstick comedy routine starring:

You, the unwilling protagonist,

Satoru, the world’s strongest menace,

and Suguru, the enabler with a moral compass that only worked when convenient.

The clearing around you buzzed with cursed energy. Shadows twisted between the trees, and the air smelled faintly of damp earth and something that could only be described as “fermented swamp breath.” The grade 2–3 curses lumbered around you, their grotesque forms illuminated by the fractured sunlight filtering through the canopy.

The ugliest one—a lumpy creature with bulging, bloodshot eyes and a mouth full of teeth that looked like they’d been carved by a blind toddler—hissed at you.

And then, insultingly, it snickered.

Your grip tightened on your weapon. Determination warred with panic in your chest. “Okay… okay, I can do this,” you muttered, though your voice cracked like a teenager’s.

You risked a glance over your shoulder.

There stood Satoru and Suguru—arms crossed, smugness radiating off them like heat waves. They looked like two dads watching their kid’s first soccer game, except instead of cheering, they were silently judging your form.

“A little help, guys?” you called out, trying to sound confident but landing somewhere between “heroic” and “please save me before I die.”

The two exchanged a look.

A dangerous look.

A look that said: Let’s be terrible together.

Their eyes sparkled with mischief. Their lips curled into matching, wicked grins. And then—without hesitation—they turned and ran.

Full sprint.

Laughing like gremlins who had just stolen candy from a toddler.

Your jaw dropped.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” you shouted after them, voice echoing through the trees.

Even the curses paused, blinking dumbly as if to say, Wait… is this allowed?

You were left standing there, surrounded by monsters, feeling like the protagonist of a low-budget comedy skit. Betrayed. Confused. Mildly offended.

Meanwhile—

Just a few meters away, behind a massive oak tree, your two “mentors” had set up camp like they were watching a live performance.

Satoru peeked around the trunk, his white hair glowing like a beacon. He cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered loudly, “Look at them go!”

Suguru was worse.

He had one hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. His eyes were practically sparkling with amusement as he watched you dodge a curse’s sloppy swipe.

Satoru, ever the dramatist, began commentating like a sports announcer.

“And they’re off! Look at that footwork! Look at that panic! Truly a prodigy in the making!”

Suguru snorted.

“Ten out of ten form. Zero out of ten composure.”

You, mid‑battle, heard every word.

And you swore—swore—you were going to strangle them both when this was over.

But for now, you swung, dodged, cursed under your breath, and tried not to die while your teachers hid behind a tree like two overgrown children watching their favorite cartoon.

And honestly?

The curses weren’t the real problem.

It was the peanut gallery behind the oak tree.