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The reaction was expected.

“Is this really such a big deal? A self-introduction?”  

Of course, not even half the students looked at Ho-cheol with incredulity. The other half, however, remained on edge.  

This was, after all, ‘Ho-cheol’s’ self-introduction task.  

Given everything he’d taught up to this point, there was no way this was going to be an ordinary introduction. Holding their breaths, the students waited for what he would say next.  

“How should we decide the order?”  

Ho-cheol opened his bag and pulled out the notebook he always used.  

“Let’s just go in attendance order. Number one, stand up.”  

The student assigned number one rose from their seat with a nervous expression. Unlike those with later numbers, they had no examples or guidelines to follow. They had to rely entirely on their instincts to complete the self-introduction. Their lips felt dry as they prepared to speak.  

Ho-cheol opened his notebook and lightly flicked his pen up and down in his hand.  

“Alright, begin.”  

The tense student swallowed hard and slowly began to speak.  

One by one, the introductions progressed.  

“…That concludes my self-introduction.”  

It ended more easily than expected.  

The student glanced at Ho-cheol for a reaction, then cautiously returned to their seat. Contrary to expectations, the introduction was remarkably ordinary and uneventful. Ho-cheol didn’t offer any evaluation or comment. He simply twirled his pen silently in his hand.  

After a brief moment of thought, he slowly shook his head from side to side.  

“Alright, fine. Next.”  

As the introductions continued, they reached the tenth student.  

Ho-cheol only gave slight nods of acknowledgment and occasionally jotted something down in his notebook. That was it.  

Seeing this, the students who had been on edge began to relax.  

There were evaluation criteria, but they appeared trivial.  

“Is that all there is to it? It really is just a regular self-introduction.”  

Even the previously stiff students started to ease up, focusing their attention on the self-introduction session.  

Of course, it was merely the students’ imagination. The reality was far from it.

The reason Ho-cheol showed no reaction was not because their introductions were correct. It was because they were such a mess that he couldn’t even figure out where to start criticizing or scolding them.

What he demanded from their self-introductions wasn’t their names, hobbies, future dreams, favorite foods, or seasons.

What is a self-introduction? At its essence, it was a condensed exchange of information pushed to the extreme.  

Information that could be revealed without harm and information that must be concealed at all costs, sometimes even false information for the sake of deception.

When they became heroes in the future, their information would inevitably become widely known as vulnerabilities. But it wasn’t just heroes. For villains, managing information wasn’t a choice—it was a necessity.

In this line of work, where even trivial information could cost a life, understanding this was a fundamental part of their education. Yet the sight of the students failing to grasp the essence of this and delivering ordinary introductions was beyond absurd—it was outright astonishing.

Normally, he would have stopped everything immediately and taught them how to do a proper self-introduction. But…  

Watching them enthusiastically declare their future dream of becoming S-rank heroes left him deflated. He could only sit quietly and listen.  

Well, fine… maybe they deserved a break after last week’s hard work. And, who knows, their future dreams or favorite foods might not be entirely useless information.  

A bit of goodwill like this was part of a professor’s charm, wasn’t it?  

Eventually, all the students had finished their introductions. Ho-cheol closed his notebook and leaned against the lectern.  

“Originally, today’s class was supposed to include an urban combat exercise. We’d divide into teams of heroes and villains and conduct a combat simulation. But due to unforeseen circumstances, we can’t use the training facility.”  

Those damned villain scum had disrupted the schedule and caused endless headaches.  

He turned around and stood before the blackboard on the wall.  

“So, unfortunately, we’re stuck with a meaningless theory lecture.”  

Ho-cheol wasn’t particularly thrilled, but what could he do? His theoretical knowledge came from a few books he’d read just in case, books that made him think, ‘It’s not bad to know this, but do heroes really need it?’  

Sure, he could arrange the content somewhat, but theoretical lectures all ended up the same, didn’t they?  

The remaining time passed with a tedious lecture that felt like a word-for-word reading of the textbook.  

***

Ho-cheol checked the time and put down the chalk he was holding.  

The massive blackboard covering one wall of the lecture hall was densely filled with what he had written.  

Looking at the students, who had been frantically taking notes without a moment to breathe, he said casually,  

“Let’s wrap it up here for today.”  

Ho-cheol left, but not a single student stood up. They couldn’t even think about leaving until they finished copying everything down.  

Murmurs of confusion mixed with disbelief echoed throughout the room.  

What? Why is he such a good teacher?  

There wasn’t a shred of doubt about Ho-cheol’s abilities. The overwhelming display of his power last week, defying matchups and grades, had left them speechless.  

But his skill as a teacher was an entirely different matter. He had no prior experience as an educator and, being a former villain, expectations for his teaching skills were nonexistent.  

Yet today’s lecture had completely overturned their assumptions.  

He was good. That was the only way to describe it.  

Although he sped through the material at a grueling pace without breaks, it was simply his style of teaching and not necessarily a flaw.  

One by one, the students finished taking notes, stood up, and left the lecture hall.  

Before long, the room was quiet. Only Da-yeon remained seated.  

Arms crossed, she stared blankly at the blackboard.  

Her friends, noticing her lingering, approached cautiously.  

“…What’s wrong?”  

Though her face was expressionless, her friends, who had spent nearly a year by her side, knew better.  

Da-yeon was clearly upset. Not quite angry, but more than just sulking—a uniquely ambiguous state. In any case, it wasn’t good.  

One of them glanced between Da-yeon and the blackboard and asked, “Was the lecture not good?”  

Da-yeon slowly shook her head.  

There was no way it wasn’t good. No, it was undeniably excellent. It was incomparable to the other lectures that merely regurgitated theory and recited textbook content.  

Even when based on the same materials, Ho-cheol’s lecture stood apart. His unique perspective led to different interpretations and alternative solutions to the same problems.  

Da-yeon’s discontent wasn’t with Ho-cheol’s lecture, but with the situation that followed.  

She was deeply unsettled by the soaring recognition of Ho-cheol’s abilities.  

Every time he revealed a new skill, her desire to monopolize him as her own mentor only grew stronger. Yet the likelihood of that future seemed to diminish even further.  

When other students dismissed him, she had already hesitated to make her case. Now, with him gaining widespread acknowledgment from the class, the idea of him becoming exclusively her mentor felt even more unattainable.  

She simply couldn’t imagine such a scenario.  

Initially, she thought the key was to make up for her own inadequacies and become someone worthy of his guidance. But now, it felt like he was advancing far beyond her reach.  

She pulled out her phone.  

Dialing a familiar number, she bit her lip anxiously.  

It was no longer a time to worry about means or methods.  

***  

As Ho-cheol descended the stairs of the lecture hall, he rubbed his forearm.  

“Figures. Theoretical stuff just doesn’t suit me.”  

Standing in a cramped lecture room, chalk in hand, droning on and on, made him feel like breaking out in hives.  

He was halfway down the stairs between the third and second floors when someone hurried over to his side.  

“Hello, Professor.”  

By now, there was no need to wonder who it might be.  

It was the staff member who had previously encouraged him to join the union.  

Without stopping, Ho-cheol asked, “What’s the matter?”  

He had joined the union and figured he wouldn’t need to deal with them for a while, but…  

“I just wanted to inform you that your union membership process is complete.”  

The staff member matched his pace and handed him a shopping bag.  

“Here are a badge with the union logo, a T-shirt, and other commemorative items.”  

“Ah. I see.”  

The items, mostly in red hues, struck him as a bit ideologically suspicious. Surely, they wouldn’t dare put something like ‘Paradise for the Workers and the People’ on the logo, right?  

“Congratulations on joining the union.”  

He was now officially part of the union. So-hee had joined too, for good measure.  

As ridiculous as it all seemed, if someone in the union was indeed leaking academy information, there was no way he could let it slide.  

Even though no one else was around, the staff member glanced around cautiously before lowering their voice.  

“And the union leader has expressed a desire to meet with you.”  

Ho-cheol’s hand, which had been rummaging through the shopping bag, froze.  

“Oh, really?”  

This was news he welcomed.  

If he were to point fingers at the most suspicious person in the union, it would undoubtedly be the union leader.  

If that leader turned out to be the one selling academy secrets, it would be a simple matter of delivering a few well-placed punches to resolve the issue.  

Figuring it out wouldn’t be hard. With his experience, it would take just a few exchanged words and a bit of eye contact to get a solid read.  

“Should I go to them?”  

Come to think of it, who even was the union leader? Probably one of the professors.  

Still, anyone capable of standing up to the dean wouldn’t be an ordinary figure.  

“Oh, no need for that. The leader plans to visit you personally in the near future.”  

“I see.”  

“And…”  

The staff member pulled out a new envelope and handed it over.  

“Here’s a new official memo.”  

Apparently, the internal systems were undergoing a full inspection, so emails and other communications had been completely shut down, forcing everything to be delivered manually.  

‘What a hassle. Honestly, wouldn’t it have been easier to just use the regular postal service instead of all this fuss?’  

Ho-cheol opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. As he slowly read through the memo, his eyes widened.  

“What the…”  

He stopped in his tracks, stunned, his mouth agape.  

Seeing his reaction, the staff member offered further explanation.  

“It’s only natural for you to be surprised, Professor. Yes, all the other professors reacted the same way.”  

“…So, if this memo isn’t some cruel joke—if it’s actually serious…”  

The staff member confirmed with finality.  

“Yes. The inter-departmental MT has been scheduled.”  

“Huh.”  

A faint exclamation escaped Ho-cheol’s lips, though it was far from a positive one.  

“Truly, this is just the kind of event the academy would come up with.”  

Holding a villain attack against the academy, and yet planning an outdoor event? Clearly, someone had gone mad. Moreover…  

“There wasn’t even an MT scheduled in the original academic calendar.”  

To think they’d conjure up an event out of thin air.  

“Correct.”  

The staff member nodded promptly, well aware of the situation.  

In the long history of Clington, the concept of an MT (Membership Training) had never existed. It didn’t align with the academy’s ideals, and with mountains and lakes conveniently located within the campus grounds, there was no need to travel far.  

Sure, there were camping programs, but even those were always resolved within academy grounds.  

“Also, according to the schedule, it overlaps with the athletic competition. Could this be a replacement for that?”  

“Due to the villain attack, the athletic competition has been canceled entirely.”  

Every mid-April, the academy hosted an athletic competition.  

It was one of the few large-scale events where the academy opened its doors to the public. Citizens and external guests would flock to the event, making it a spectacle.  

But given the current climate, it was understandable that hosting such a large event would feel too risky.  

Despite its role in showcasing the academy’s prestige and securing donations and sponsorships, the risks far outweighed the benefits.  

If anything, proceeding with it would likely face significant backlash. The cancellation made sense.  

But replacing it with an MT?  

Whose harebrained idea was this?  

“So, where’s the location?”  

The staff member widened their eyes slightly at the unexpected question but quickly returned to their usual expression and responded matter-of-factly.  

“That’s for you to decide, Professor.”  

Ho-cheol looked back at the memo. Unlike the athletic competition, which was conducted as a large-scale event, the MTs would be divided by departments and sub-groups.  

Everything, including the location and schedule, was left entirely to the discretion of the assigned professor.  

If one wished, they could choose a leisurely retreat at a resort, or, on the contrary, opt for intense, hellish training.  

This part was rather appealing.  

As he slowly descended the stairs, he asked again,  

“If it’s an MT, it means the students will leave the academy grounds. Isn’t that even more burdensome?”  

To his muttered question, the staff member responded as if waiting for it.  

“Exactly. No matter how secretive the location is, ensuring absolute safety is impossible. That’s why our union opposed this plan, but unfortunately, the dean pushed it forward adamantly, leaving us with no choice.”  

Ho-cheol furrowed his brow and came to a stop.  

“This was the dean’s idea?”  

“Yes.”  

If such a crazy suggestion had come up, one might expect it to be shut down at the dean’s level. But to think the source of this madness was the dean himself.  

For a moment, Ho-cheol wondered if the dean had lost his mind. Seeing his expression, the staff member quickly chimed in.  

“We also find it difficult to understand the dean’s intent. An MT, in this climate? The official reasoning is that it emphasizes unity and camaraderie among students over competition, unlike the athletic competition. But frankly, it’s hard to accept.”  

“Unbelievable.”  

They had, of course, attached some lofty justification, but it lacked any substance.  

“The union opposed the MT, right?”  

“Not just the union. Professors aligned with the dean, as well as the neutral parties—essentially, everyone except the dean himself—are in overwhelming agreement that this MT is a bad idea.”  

“Anyone sane would think so.”  

Even from a villain’s perspective, Ho-cheol couldn’t justify it. How much less, then, would hero-affiliated academy staff accept such nonsense?  

Why?  

The dean, the union, the students—this was a risky choice that benefited no one.  

And yet, if the dean was pushing it so fervently, there had to be some ulterior motive behind it. If it wasn’t senility, there was undoubtedly a scheme in play.  

He let out yet another sigh and folded the memo in half.  

“Well, I understand.”  

“Very well, then.”  

As the staff member disappeared, Ho-cheol perched on the stairway railing, sinking deep into thought.  

In truth, Ho-cheol didn’t have an issue with the concept of the MT itself. It was just bad timing.  

The intent behind it was clear.  

Compared to the athletic competition, where students were pitted against each other and had to show off their abilities to a broad audience, the MT allowed for tailored scenarios and methods, making it far more beneficial for growth.  

Even with a simple two-night, three-day course, he could think of more training ideas than he could count on both hands.  

If the students were currently at a 10 out of 100, the MT could likely push them to at least a 30.  

As he pondered this, still mulling over the implications, a familiar face appeared from below.  

So-hee looked up at him with wide eyes and asked,  

“What are you doing up there?”  

“What about you?”  

“It’s been a while since the lecture ended, but you still hadn’t come down.”  

“Ah, nothing much.”  

He slid down the handrail and landed at the bottom of the stairs.  

In So-hee’s hand was a shopping bag identical to his. She must have received hers just now.  

Looking at her, he asked,  

“You’ve heard about the MT, right?”  

“Oh, yes. I heard from the association that a cooperation request was sent. I don’t have any assigned classes or groups, so I figured the academy would let me know later.”  

“Is that so? Then take a look at this.”  

Ho-cheol pulled the folded memo from between his fingers and handed it to her.  

As So-hee read through the memo, he asked, “What’s this cooperation request about?”  

“It’s about related matters. Every assigned professor is supposed to accompany their group, but the contract with the association prohibits you from leaving academy grounds, right?”  

Under the contract between the academy, the association, and Ho-cheol, he was strictly forbidden from stepping outside the designated boundaries of the academy under any circumstances—even in cases of natural disasters or national emergencies.  

“That’s right. That’s true. So, what am I supposed to do? Not go?”  

It seemed like he’d be stuck hosting an MT within the academy grounds. Not that he minded, but the students might shed tears of blood.  

“That’s why they sent the cooperation request. It’s a formal request to make an exception for official duties, allowing you to leave the grounds.”  

And at that moment—  

“Hah.”  

Ho-cheol clicked his tongue in disbelief. He realized the dean’s intentions.  

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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.

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A brief silence followed, and then Ho-cheol finally realized what the words meant.  

“Class rep. Oh right, we were supposed to pick one back then but didn’t.”  

He subtly covered his mouth with the back of his hand. His half-closed eyes seemed to express just how much he hated dealing with such trivial matters.  

Why is this one so interested in something like this, while the Demon blade couldn’t care less about titles or recognition?  

Still, it didn’t feel right to outright dismiss her for being annoying. 

‘Should I just tell her to take the role?’  

While he was pondering, Ho-cheol turned his head to the back.  

He noticed Da-yeon’s friends, as well as Ye-jin, who had leaned out far enough to expose not just their heads but their torsos.  

‘So it was them. I thought I felt some boring stares ever since we started talking.’  

Ho-cheol raised his hand and beckoned with his finger.  

Da-yeon’s friends tilted their heads away, instinctively realizing they weren’t the ones being called.  

Ye-jin descended the stairs and stood beside Da-yeon with a peculiar expression. A mixture of gratitude for being acknowledged, guilt for meddling during her shift, and curiosity about the class rep position all flickered across her face.  

Ho-cheol glanced at her attire and asked, “Do you work here?”  

“…Yes.”  

“I see. But if you were curious about who would become the class rep, you should’ve come along. Don’t just send your friend.”  

Ye-jin waved her hands in a flustered response.  

“No! That was just her acting on her own! And we’re not even friends!”  

“Then you’re not interested in being the class rep?”  

After briefly gauging Ho-cheol’s expression, Ye-jin lowered her hands and answered quietly.  

“That’s not it…”  

“Alright.”  

Ho-cheol crossed his arms and alternated his gaze between the two.  

“To be honest, neither of you seems fit to be the class rep. Like how kindling and logs serve different purposes, you’re not the type to lead and take care of others.”  

The blunt evaluation made Ye-jin shrink back, and even Da-yeon, who had been standing confidently, began to look deflated.  

Ho-cheol raised three fingers over his crossed arms.  

“Both of you lack qualifications. The only difference is how many friends you have who might vote for you.”  

Neither of you has the eloquence to win people over, the charisma to dominate a room, or the ability to embrace and guide others.  

“To give you an idea of how minor the difference is, if someone bought hamburgers for everyone during the next lecture, they’d likely get picked as class rep.”  

Based on potential voting outcomes, Da-yeon, who at least had a small group of acquaintances, might win. But if a class rep were to be chosen, shouldn’t it at least be someone who could actually help the students?  

After a moment of silent contemplation, Ho-cheol seemed to come to a decision and reopened his eyes.  

“For now, take turns. We’ll go with a biweekly rotation system for the class rep.”  

“What?”  

Both of them let out dumbfounded exclamations in unison.  

What academy in the world alternates its class reps every other week?  

Besides, neither of them was in it for the flimsy title or trivial bragging rights that being a class rep might bring.  

The role itself didn’t matter much—it was merely a means to an end.  

But a biweekly rotation? That meant splitting any opportunities in half, and no matter how they looked at it, it felt like a loss.  

However, Ho-cheol, already firm in his decision, asked them sternly, “Do you know the names of all your classmates?”  

Both of them fell silent simultaneously.  

They didn’t.  

There was no reason they would.  

Their reaction was an answer in itself, and Ho-cheol chuckled incredulously.  

“I may not take attendance seriously, just counting heads and moving on, but I’m sure there are classes where the instructor calls out names for roll call. This just shows how little interest you have in the class.”  

Ho-cheol’s gaze shifted back to the students still on the stairs.  

“What about you guys? Does anyone here know all the names of our classmates?”  

A single student with pigtails timidly raised her hand.  

“I do know all their names.”  

“Then she’d make a better class rep, wouldn’t she?”  

“Ahaha…”  

The girl let out a small laugh but quickly shut her mouth when she felt the piercing gazes from Ye-jin and Da-yeon.  

Ho-cheol turned back to the two and said, “I can’t just hand over the title to someone solely because they applied. Prove that you have at least the minimum qualifications—communication, leadership, charisma, anything.”  

At last, Ye-jin and Da-yeon nodded seriously, seemingly accepting his words.  

They even felt a twinge of shame.  

Their motives for seeking the position had been purely self-serving, but Ho-cheol seemed to be taking the matter seriously.  

Of course, Ho-cheol’s true intentions were far from noble.  

What was a class rep? Unlike other instructors, he couldn’t have an assistant under his supervision, so this was his one legitimate way of obtaining someone to do his bidding.  

The difference between having one person and two was enormous.  

There were lecture materials to prepare, after all. This arrangement worked out perfectly.  

“Take turns for now. In a month, there’s a midterm evaluation. Around then, we’ll hold a vote to decide who’s better suited to lead the class.”  

Both of them nodded vigorously.  

“This is an assignment just for the two of you. Oh, and as for whoever gets picked as class rep this time…”  

Since he’d stirred up competition, he figured he might as well dangle a carrot to make them work harder.  

Ho-cheol grinned.  

“I’ll give more positive consideration to that suggestion you brought up back then. No promises, though.”  

The words sounded impressive but were essentially empty.  

Still, Ye-jin and Da-yeon’s eyes widened in surprise.  

Even though they instinctively knew it was likely a bluff, the reward was too enticing to dismiss.  

As they mulled over his words, a new question came to mind.  

He had said “you both,” not “you.”  

What had the other person proposed to Ho-cheol?  

Could it be… the same thing as me?  

Realizing this, both of them shot sharp glares at each other simultaneously.  

The class rep title was negotiable, but this was not something they could yield.  

“Oh.”  

Ho-cheol added one last thing.  

“Obviously, if neither of you meets the mark by then, there’ll be no vote. I’ll just make her the class rep.”  

“Wait, I’m not comfortable with that.”  

“I’ll give you extra credit.”  

“…I’ll do my utmost.”  

“That’s settled, then.”  

Ho-cheol gestured with both hands, shooing them away.  

“Now, stop blocking the café entrance and get going.”  

***

The following evening, Ho-cheol responded to a sudden summons to the dean’s office. It wasn’t entirely unexpected; in fact, it was surprising that it had taken four days for this call to come.

The dean’s business trip, which Ho-cheol thought would last a day or two at most, had stretched nearly three days.  

Ho-cheol entered without knocking and froze in place momentarily.  

He frowned, covering his nose with his index finger.  

“Did you have blood stew or something?”  

Even someone like Ho-cheol, who was accustomed to the scent of blood, found the stench overwhelming. How many people had to die for it to smell this strong? If no one had died, that would be even more horrifying.  

The dean, standing with his hands behind his back and staring silently out the window, lowered the blinds. He turned to face Ho-cheol.  

The man looked like he had aged ten years in just four days.  

After a long moment of silence, he motioned toward the sofa with his chin.  

“Sit down. Let’s talk.”  

Ho-cheol sat comfortably on the sofa while the dean took the seat opposite him.  

“A lot has changed in just a few days. First…”  

The dean rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.  

“You’ve joined the union, haven’t you?”  

“Yeah. I was lying down yesterday, and it pissed me off how the salary association keeps bleeding us dry. But you didn’t call me just to give me flak for that, did you?”  

“No. You did well. Either way, you must have suspected something. You think this recent attack is tied to the union?”  

Ho-cheol, testing the waters, probed to see how much the dean already knew. Judging by his response, the dean was fully aware of the academy’s current situation.  

“…If you knew, then that’s its own problem. It means you’re aware but can’t act.”  

“I have my suspicions, but only circumstantial evidence—no hard proof. And more than that…”  

The dean sighed and ran a hand down his face.  

“Because they were once comrades. I suppose I want to believe in them to the very end. But now, with things escalating this far…”  

“No, you keep believing.”  

Ho-cheol interrupted, propping his legs up on the cracked coffee table and wiggling his toes.  

“I’ll do the doubting. Let’s stick to what we’re good at.”  

“I’ve ended up burdening you unnecessarily. The union is a tricky area for me to handle. It seems they have stronger ties with the media than I expected, and we’d lose in a public opinion battle.”  

“That so? Makes sense. To challenge someone of S-rank power, they’d need that kind of influence. So, is that really why you called me here? To talk about the union?”  

“Of course not.”  

The dean pulled a fist-sized mechanical device from his pocket. Pressing a button on it released a faint static noise.  

“What’s that?”  

“A signal jammer. Your wristwatch—it has a listening function, doesn’t it? What I’m about to tell you is too sensitive to let the association overhear.”  

At the dean’s request, So-hee waited outside the room.  

The association would likely detect the jamming signal and summon her within three minutes, so they needed to finish the conversation quickly.  

The dean wasted no time getting to the point.  

“Over the past four days, we interrogated the villains you subdued and traced their backers. They’re no ordinary group. The way they covered their tracks, leaving no evidence, reminded me of your villain days.”  

“I was thorough with cleanup back then. But is that the important part?”  

“No. What’s significant is where the trail went cold. At that location, we found one piece of evidence left behind—as if they wanted to show us they’d been there. It was deliberate, almost boastful.”  

Ho-cheol smirked cynically.  

“Well, there’s no shortage of egotistical, delusional villains. Maybe this’ll be easier than I thought. People like that are 99% overconfident fools.”  

He thought the dean could probably crush this group without even needing union involvement.  

“This is what they left.”  

The dean pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ho-cheol.  

“Couldn’t you have just sent a team to deal with—”  

Ho-cheol unfolded the paper and stopped mid-sentence.  

Even the mocking smile that had lingered on his lips vanished completely.  

He flipped the paper over to check the back, then looked up at the dean.  

The dean’s expression was grave, devoid of any jest or exaggeration.  

Ho-cheol leaned back against the sofa.  

“Even asking if this is real feels stupid. I know it is. But just in case…”  

He let out a hollow laugh.  

“Is this real?”  

“It is.”  

The dean nodded solemnly, understanding Ho-cheol’s reaction. It had taken him multiple confirmations before he could accept the reality himself. If it had shaken him this much, how would it affect Ho-cheol?  

The dean spoke to Ho-cheol, who was staring dumbly at the paper.  

“Is this karma catching up?”  

Ho-cheol snapped out of it and folded the paper in half. He knew this was the kind of thing that would make the association froth at the mouth if they found out.  

“Let’s not get dramatic with words like ‘karma.’ It’s just…”  

After a brief pause, he chuckled bitterly.  

“Trash I thought I’d cleaned up crawling out from under the bed again.”  

The organization had no name.  

Neither heroes nor villains knew its true nature.  

Even the few who might have understood it had been swallowed by the darkness it resided in.  

The only trace it left was a single distorted chrysanthemum wherever it struck, as if mocking its victims.  

Ho-cheol tilted his head back and muttered under his breath.  

“This is driving me insane.”  

“It’s not just a copycat, is it?”  

“How many fully functioning villain organizations would be crazy enough to mimic this?”  

The former symbol of fear, Ho-cheol, ran his fingers through his hair roughly, clutching the paper tightly between his index and middle fingers.  

The folded paper revealed glimpses of a chrysanthemum drawing.  

“Why is this back?”  

The organization Ho-cheol had once dismantled and buried had reemerged before him.  

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