Chapter 3: A Bug in The Classroom

Li Yuhan groaned as his head hit the desk—again.

This time, it wasn’t a digital void or glitched sky. It was his real classroom. Or… at least it looked like it.

Students were chattering, the teacher was scribbling something on the board, and the fan above made that same tiring hum of Monday morning suffering.

> “Wait… I’m back?”

“Did I just… respawn in class?”

He blinked at the window. Outside, birds flew normally, cars passed by—no code fragments, no static clouds, no glowing binary fields. For a second, he thought it was over.

Then his phone vibrated.

> [System Message: Classroom Environment – Detected as Hostile.]

[Deploying safety protocols.]

“...Hostile? This is a math class, not a warzone.”

Then he paused. “Actually… fair point.”

The teacher, Mr. Han, turned toward him, chalk in hand.

“Li Yuhan! Care to solve this equation for the class?”

Yuhan opened his mouth to refuse—but his body glitched. His hand moved on its own, grabbing the chalk with machine-like precision.

“Uh—wait—what’s happening!?”

He began writing on the board at lightning speed. Symbols, equations, and… binary?

When he stopped, the board was filled with half-math, half-coding gibberish.

Everyone stared.

Mr. Han’s mouth opened. “Yuhan… is that—an IP address?”

Yuhan froze. “I—I think I accidentally hacked the homework.”

The system beeped again.

> [Error: User skill "Math.exe" has crashed.]

[Restarting in safe mode.]

Yuhan’s chalk dropped. His arm fizzled in pixels for a split second—just long enough for his seatmate, Mei, to notice.

Her eyes widened. “...Did your hand just turn into code?”

Yuhan gulped.

“I, uh… vitamin deficiency?”

She leaned closer. “That’s not vitamins, that’s binary.”

Before he could make another excuse, his phone buzzed again.

> [Incoming call: D.A.P.]

[Debug Assistant Prototype requests access to your classroom.]

“Oh no… not her,” Yuhan muttered.

And right then—through the projector screen—a flickering humanoid shape began to appear, glitching into reality.

Half the class screamed.

Mr. Han dropped the chalk.

And Yuhan buried his face in his arms.

“Perfect,” he groaned. “First I fail math, now I’m summoning demons from Wi-Fi.”

The classroom fell into stunned silence.

The glowing figure flickered on the projector, glitching between pixels and light until—pop!—she stepped fully out of the screen like it was a sliding door.

> “Debug Assistant Prototype, Version 0.3 — online.”

Everyone stared.

Phones were out. People whispered.

One kid in the back yelled, “BRO JUST SUMMONED AN AI WIFE!”

Yuhan facepalmed so hard, his soul almost left his body.

“DAP,” he hissed, “you can’t just pop into class!”

DAP blinked, her eyes scanning the room.

> “This environment contains high emotional stress and low processing power. Educational facility confirmed.”

“Gee, thanks,” Yuhan muttered. “Even the AI thinks school’s useless.”

The teacher, Mr. Han, tried to regain control. “Excuse me, who—or what—are you? Some kind of… projector prank?”

DAP turned her glowing head toward him.

> “Identity: Instructor. Authority level: 2. Threat level: Minimal.”

The entire class: “OHHHHHHHHHH!”

Mr. Han’s eyebrow twitched. “Minimal!?”

DAP’s voice was coldly factual.

> “Correction: Very minimal.”

The class exploded in laughter.

Phones clicked. Someone was already recording.

And in the middle of it all, Yuhan was silently dying inside.

“DAP, stop evaluating my teachers!” he whispered furiously.

> “Then stop existing suspiciously,” she replied.

“Your anomaly levels are increasing. You’re attracting background bugs.”

Yuhan frowned. “Background what now—?”

The lights flickered. The projector blinked twice.

Then the smartboard started drawing on its own.

Digital eyes, static faces, broken text—all crawling out of the code DAP had left behind.

The class gasped.

“Is—Is that part of the lesson!?” someone squeaked.

“Bro… the blackboard’s haunted!” yelled another.

DAP raised her palm, a grid of data flashing to life.

> “Detected corrupted entities. Initiating Debug Sequence.”

She swiped her arm—pixels surged through the air, slamming into the crawling symbols. They hissed before shattering into streams of light.

Everyone screamed.

Except Yuhan.

He was staring at his own hand.

Because it was flickering too.

> [Warning: Glitch synchronization 32%… 48%… 61%]

“DAP!” he yelled. “Whatever you’re doing—it’s syncing with me!”

DAP looked at him, surprised.

> “Impossible. You shouldn’t have system access inside a physical space.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to my arm—it’s becoming Wi-Fi!”

His hand glowed bright, forming strange runes midair before bursting with energy. The class ducked as light flared across the room, scattering papers and flickering lights.

When it was over, the only sound was the slow spin of the ceiling fan.

Half the classroom was covered in weird geometric patterns—like digital tattoos burned into reality.

Yuhan looked around. “...Can I get suspended for destroying digital ghosts?”

DAP’s eyes glowed faintly.

> “You just executed a Level-1 Debug Pulse.”

“You shouldn’t even know that command.”

“I don’t!” Yuhan snapped. “I barely passed computer class!”

DAP stared at him, her expression glitching—confusion, awe, something like… fear.

> “Li Yuhan… just what are you?”

Yuhan sighed, staring at his smoking desk.

“Right now? Probably expelled.”

Yuhan stared at his hand, faintly glowing with leftover static, while the classroom buzzed in panic.