Ho-cheol spread the paper once again, his gut urging him to check it one more time.
But all he could do was reaffirm an uncomfortable truth.
“This is unbelievable.”
Ho-cheol tossed the paper onto the table with a frustrated flick of his wrist.
“This image… it’s definitely the original.”
It was far too intricate to be mimicked by mere gossip or hearsay.
The shape and angle of the petals, the slight imperfections—every detail was painstakingly precise.
This was the work of someone with intimate knowledge of the original.
Perhaps karma wasn’t something one could sever at will.
The yearning for the cigarettes he had quit long ago wasn’t merely out of desperation over the dire situation—it carried deeper weight.
As Ho-cheol’s shoulders slumped, the dean let out a sigh in unison and asked,
“Is there a lieutenant you overlooked? Someone with the power and position to revive the organization?”
Ho-cheol crossed his arms, deep in thought.
It was a story from years ago.
Faces of villains who once belonged to the organization floated into his mind.
Doksu, Tam, Breaker, Insal—those notorious lieutenants.
Most of them were high-ranking A-class, with a few comparable to S-class.
Their personalities were strikingly similar, as if cut from the same cloth: violent, rebellious, and defiant of authority.
The only reason Ho-cheol had managed to gather those feral beasts and wield them as the organization’s limbs was because he had completely overpowered them.
But they were certainly not the type to recruit and lead others.
Closing his eyes to dig deeper into his memories, Ho-cheol eventually reopened them.
“All the lieutenants who would do something like this have already been locked up. Do you know how much I went through to set up the plan that wiped them out back then? There’s no way one of them escaped, right?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Ho-cheol picked up the paper he had discarded on the table.
“Then it’s not them. Besides, none of them would pull off something like this in the first place.”
Back in those days, loyalty among the key lieutenants of the organization was practically non-existent.
Some of them harbored ambitions, sure, but they would have founded new groups rather than mimic Ho-cheol’s footsteps.
“Unless someone confesses, how are we supposed to know who it is? It could have been some low-level grunt from back then who didn’t even have a rank, or maybe an outside collaborator.”
Who was behind the revival of the organization?
It wasn’t a question worth agonizing over—there was no answer to be found in the first place.
The bigger issue lay elsewhere.
“I can’t even guess their motive.”
Why?
Why would they use the organization’s symbol?
Ho-cheol crossed one leg over the other, resting his hand on his thigh as he tapped it rhythmically.
“To gain fame?”
No, that couldn’t be it.
The number of people who even knew about the organization—heroes or villains—was vanishingly small.
If someone simply wanted to ride on a name’s coattails, they would have been better off invoking the more notorious villain organizations that Ho-cheol had crushed with his own hands.
Dawn Assembly, Superhuman Liberation Corps, Skyover—groups that once dominated their eras only to fade into history.
Numerous organizations claimed to be successors to those, borrowing their names and reputations.
If fame was the goal, those names would have been sufficient.
On the other hand, if they wanted to quietly grow their power in the shadows, using the symbol of the organization was the worst possible move.
Even rumors of the organization’s resurgence would cause unpredictable repercussions.
Why else would the state have erased records of Ho-cheol’s capture and the organization’s destruction rather than boasting about it?
It was a testament to how much the government, the Hero Association, and even heroes feared the organization’s ideology and goals.
The moment whispers of their return spread, nations would mobilize their full force to respond.
It wasn’t logical, nor was it rational.
It would be nice to dismiss it as the act of some idiot drunk on rumors, but based on their actions so far, this was the work of skilled villains operating within a structured system.
They had a purpose that transcended logic and cost—a purpose Ho-cheol couldn’t fathom.
The dean, observing Ho-cheol, finally offered his own thoughts.
“This is just a gut feeling, but there’s something raw and emotional about the traces they left behind—something simpler and more visceral.”
“Emotional, huh? If they’re reviving the organization out of emotion…”
The rhythm of Ho-cheol’s tapping grew faster.
“Admiration, intoxication, arrogance, inheritance, revenge. Whatever the reason, it’s nothing pleasant.”
Whether one of those reasons was the truth or not, one thing was clear: Ho-cheol uncrossed his legs and
recrossed them the other way, openly displaying his distaste.
“They’re completely out of their minds.”
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a problem they could solve by sitting on a couch and brooding.
“Still, why have they suddenly revealed themselves so blatantly? That’s another mystery.”
“Oh, that part’s simple,” Ho-cheol said, raising three fingers as he stopped tapping his thigh.
“This wasn’t a mistake. The traces were intentional. The reason is clear.”
“A declaration of intent—a proclamation of war.”
The dean’s expression subtly contorted.
Ho-cheol fully understood that reaction.
Heroes who focus more on reason and logic than emotion and instinct could never comprehend this realm.
“If they succeed, they’ll make a grand declaration, boasting that their organization kidnapped the child of an S-class hero. The societal impact would be immense—especially since it happened at the Academy.”
Moreover, there were bound to be villains inspired by such madness. Ho-cheol couldn’t even fathom what would follow.
“And even if they fail, there’s no real loss. The ones who’ll get caught are just low-level villains motivated by money. But here, revealing their identity would make for a proper declaration of war. They’d also leave subtle hints, depending on the tracker’s state.”
A hero with a strong voice, knowledge of the organization, and the ability to exaggerate just enough.
In that sense, the dean was the perfect tracker.
“So… the organization anticipated the tracker and left this symbol behind?”
“It’d be nice if it’s an overestimation. But if it were me, that’s what I’d have done.”
“Incredible.”
Both focused on sorting through their complex thoughts. After a brief silence, the dean spoke.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“…What can I do, tied to the Academy like this? Unlike the union, this is completely beyond my ability. You or the other heroes need to handle it.”
“You’re good at talking, but your face says otherwise.”
At that, Ho-cheol raised his hand to feel his face. Indeed, he hadn’t even realized it. His expression was contorted with irritation and anger more than ever.
Letting out a soft sigh, he pressed the wrinkles on his forehead to smooth them out.
“Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve been this pissed.”
Not even during his villain days had he been this stressed.
“In fact, above all else…”
Just as Ho-cheol was about to say something:
Knock knock knock—creak!
So-hee, who had been waiting outside, knocked a few times before opening the door without waiting for a response.
“Hey, the association says the signal from the clock isn’t coming through! There’s a ton of noise interference. Did something happen?”
So-hee’s sudden entrance cut off their conversation. Ho-cheol erased his previously serious expression and shrugged nonchalantly.
“No idea. Isn’t this clock just defective? It’s been acting weird for a while now.”
He curled his index finger and lightly tapped the wristwatch a few times. Meanwhile, the dean discreetly slid the signal jammer back into his pocket.
“Really? Uh, are you guys still discussing classified stuff? Should I leave again?”
“…No, it’s all done. We were just reminiscing about some old, trivial memories.”
At that, So-hee nodded and entered the office fully. Covering the mouthpiece of her phone, she continued her call.
“Yeah, they’re saying it’s just a communication issue. Ugh. You hand out cheap equipment and then complain about it breaking. Makes me wanna bash something. Oh, no, I did say I wanna bash something, but I meant the broken clock. Don’t twist my words. You guys sit in air-conditioned offices throwing around a few items, and even that’s a mess. Imagine how great it feels for us in the field. Right? While someone here is practically living with a villain who’s racked up 200 years’ worth of sentences.”
As So-hee argued with the association staff over the phone, Ho-cheol rolled his neck to loosen his muscles.
“Anyway, can you release the combat records from the training hall soon? It’s been flagged as restricted evidence for days now. I assigned the kids to write a report on it, but it’s already been several days.”
“Hmm, homework. Got it. I’ll speak to the security team about it.”
Their conversation naturally shifted topics. But while the surface topic changed, the essence remained the same.
“And about my room—it’s starting to feel too cramped after staying there for a few weeks. Sure, it’s a single dorm, but it’s practically a cell. Got anything bigger?”
“If it’s bigger, wouldn’t cleaning become more of a hassle?”
“I don’t love cleaning, but I’d like to at least clean my own space.”
Ho-cheol felt this was something he had to resolve himself. It wasn’t some grandiose mission or destiny. It was as simple and natural as picking up trash you’ve dropped. A basic responsibility.
However, in his current situation, unable to leave the Academy, there were clear limits to what he could do.
“Is that so? Since you’ve already joined the union, they might bring up the room issue first. Well, I’ll try to lend a hand if I can.”
“Sure.”
On the surface, it seemed like an everyday conversation, but it wasn’t for them.
Understanding the true meaning hidden within their simple words wasn’t difficult for the two of them.
After exchanging a few more meaningless words, Ho-cheol stood up from his seat.
“All done. You can go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ho-cheol’s attitude was as relaxed and unhurried as usual.
However, the moment he turned around, So-hee, who had been leaning against the wall, gasped as if she’d seen something she shouldn’t have.
The expression on his face, one she’d never seen before, was utterly intimidating.
***
A week passed, and lecture time came around again.
Despite the organization’s renewed activity, classes proceeded as scheduled.
If anything, wouldn’t it be more important to dedicate oneself to teaching the next generation during such turbulent times?
Although the class was announced to be practice-based with no indoor gatherings, they were now sitting in a cramped lecture hall.
Ho-cheol couldn’t do much about it.
Due to the previous attack, all lecture halls were undergoing security inspections and upgrades, rendering them temporarily unavailable.
Ho-cheol stood next to the podium.
Leaning his elbow on it, he glanced around the lecture hall.
Though it was only the third week, the students’ atmosphere had changed noticeably.
They had gone from being snot-nosed kids to at least having a faint understanding of how the world worked.
“First, I have an announcement.”
Ho-cheol raised two fingers, moving them back and forth.
“The class leader, which wasn’t decided last time, has now been chosen. Class leader, stand up.”
At his words, Ye-jin slowly stood up.
Receiving everyone’s gaze, she blushed slightly and gave an awkward smile, seemingly a bit embarrassed.
The students widened their eyes in surprise at the sudden announcement and stared at her.
But a bigger surprise was yet to come.
“She’ll be the class leader for this week. As for next week…”
Before Ho-cheol could finish speaking, Da-yeon abruptly stood up.
“You two will alternate weekly. Of course, while it’s technically alternating, the reality is you’re both co-class leaders. All announcements, assignments, and miscellaneous tasks will fall to you two. At the end of this, there will be a vote to determine who’s more suitable as the permanent leader. Until then, feel free to work them to the bone.”
While called class leaders, they were essentially glorified slaves.
“And the next announcement. The report originally due today is postponed to next week. The training hall combat footage was flagged as evidence, so student access was delayed. For those who’ve already written their reports, feel free to revise and submit them.”
Most students let out a sigh of relief.
The task was already challenging enough, with the word count being nearly three times that of a regular assignment.
They were grateful for the extra week.
“That’s it for the announcements.”
Ho-cheol silently scanned the lecture hall.
“In the last lecture, we examined your limits while dealing with villains. In this one, we’ll explore your ceiling, and even beyond that.”
Someone gulped audibly, tension palpable in the air.
No one had any clue what would happen.
But Ho-cheol’s serious demeanor and the suffocating pressure in the room made it clear that this class would be no easier than the last.
Leisurely, Ho-cheol ran his fingertip across the top of the podium, brushing off dust.
“This session might be harder for some of you, depending on your temperament. But overcoming such trials is what makes a hero, isn’t it?”
The tension in the room reached its peak.
Unlike his usual habit of casually tossing out comments and gauging reactions, this drawn-out buildup was a first.
Everyone held their breath, focused solely on his words.
The first lecture had been a mere orientation, yet its pressure made it hard to breathe.
The second lecture involved a life-and-death struggle with actual villains under the guise of practical training.
And now, a third lecture, promised to be even tougher.
How cruel and unforgiving would it be?
“The topic of today’s lecture is…”
He flicked the dust off his fingers and spoke briefly.
“Self-introductions.”
Someone erupted into a violent coughing fit, as if they’d choked on their own breath.
Cliche Novel 