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Chapter 2: The Cruel Lessons of the Elite
Lopkinnf's school life was a daily battlefield, but not in the way children usually experience. For him, school wasn't just about learning; it was a cruel reminder of the hierarchy that governed Jex—a microcosm of the larger corruption and class divide that suffocated the country.
The public school he attended was anything but a sanctuary. It was a decrepit building with cracked walls and broken windows, its hallways reeking of mildew and despair. Desks were falling apart, textbooks were outdated, and teachers were underpaid and indifferent, their passion extinguished long ago. For the children of the poor, it was a prison where they were forced to endure both the failure of the system and the cruelty of their peers.
The rich kids who attended this public school weren't there out of necessity—they were there as a statement. Their parents sent them not for education but for entertainment, using the poor as punching bags to inflate their children's egos. To them, the school was a playground for torment, and Lopkinnf, with his patched clothes and quiet demeanor, was the perfect target.
Every day, he endured their insults.
"Hey, Lopkinnf, do those shoes even have soles, or are you walking barefoot?"
"Careful, don't get too close. He probably smells like the slum he crawled out of."
"Poor boy like you should just drop out. Not like you'll amount to anything anyway."
The taunts were relentless, but it didn't stop there. The rich kids didn't just insult—they humiliated. They would trip him in the hallways, spill water on his only notebook, and laugh as he scrambled to collect the pieces of his torn assignments. One day, they cornered him in the restroom and shoved his face into a dirty sink, mocking him for his "peasant water baptism."
The worst part wasn't the bullying itself—it was the way the teachers ignored it. They would look the other way, muttering excuses about how "boys will be boys" or how they couldn't afford to upset the parents of the wealthy students. Lopkinnf learned early on that there was no justice in Jex, not even in the supposed sanctity of a school.
Despite everything, Lopkinnf refused to break. He endured their abuse in silence, each insult and shove adding to the fire burning within him. He would walk home bruised and humiliated, his fists clenched and his jaw tight, but his resolve only grew stronger.
He began to notice patterns in his tormentors, cracks in their perfect façades. The wealth they flaunted so arrogantly was often stolen or inherited from corruption. Their superiority was a lie, built on the backs of people like his parents. Lopkinnf realized that their cruelty wasn't born of strength—it was born of fear. Deep down, they knew that without their money and privilege, they were nothing.
This realization didn't lessen the pain of their torment, but it gave Lopkinnf a purpose. He began to see the bullying not as a source of shame but as a challenge. Each insult, each shove, became fuel for his determination to rise above them. One day, he promised himself, he would turn the tables.
He would rise from the ashes of Jex's corruption. He would take the power they wielded so recklessly and use it to destroy the very system that allowed such cruelty to thrive. Until then, he would endure. Not because he was weak, but because he was waiting for the right moment to strike.