Chapter 1: Transaction
“It’s a simple transaction. C-grade: 1 year. B-grade: 10 years. A-grade: 30 years”
The Director of the Hero Association’s Legal Department.
The middle-aged man who introduced himself as such continued speaking.
“S-grade: 100 years off.”
He placed a thick stack of documents down and leaned back in his chair.
“How about it? For someone like you, with 188 years left on your sentence, this must be a tempting offer.”
The Director pushed up his glasses, which had slipped down his nose, and clasped his hands together.
His utterly relaxed demeanor exuded confidence that this deal was as good as done.
But beyond the transparent wall, the young man listening to him merely propped his chin on his hand, observing the Director with little apparent interest.
He lightly brushed back his unkempt hair and tossed out a single remark.
“The number changed two days ago. It’s 187 years now.”
The Director’s fingertips twitched.
No clock, no calendar—not even a window in this solitary cell.
Aside from the three meals a day, there was no way to gauge the passage of time.
Had he really been keeping track of every single day for years?
Hiding his surprise, he gave a short nod.
“Ah. Is that so? My apologies.”
“Apology’s fine. That’s not the important part.”
The Director, taken aback by the young man’s unexpectedly lukewarm response, pressed further.
“What’s wrong? Isn’t this an offer with no room for hesitation?”
A total sentence of 195 years.
Only 8 years have passed so far.
Under the special villain penal code, parole was impossible for the young man before him.
No one in their right mind would want to stay locked in such a dreadful solitary cell until they died of old age.
Yet, he still wore a languid—no, bored—expression, merely blinking his eyes.
The Director found the sight somewhat exasperating.
“Are you seriously planning to stay in this prison until you die of old age?”
Villain Jeong Ho-cheol.
That was a story from over a decade ago.
The Director had once seen Ho-cheol from a distance.
Back then, during his villain days, he felt like something beyond human.
A blade so sharp it could cut just by being seen.
A ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment.
A ferocious, starving beast.
No description ever seemed sufficient for him.
But now, the man beyond the wall was nothing more than an idle drifter, wasting his days away.
Yawning lazily, Ho-cheol scratched his cheek and smacked his lips.
“Well, it’s not that I’m uninterested, but it feels kinda fishy. Honestly, isn’t this a scam?”
“A scam?”
“I’m a bit embarrassed to say it myself, but given what I’ve done, you’re saying you’ll let me out?”
Ho-cheol’s doubt was understandable.
Even searching through the country’s history, there was no precedent for a villain greater than—or even comparable to—him.
In fact, the 200-year sentence was handed down even after omitting crimes the government couldn’t dare reveal.
If those had been exposed, 200 years?
500 years wouldn’t have been enough.
The Director stroked his chin and responded.
“It’s hard to explain in detail, but let’s call it adult circumstances.”
“That makes it even more suspicious.”
Ho-cheol shot him a look full of distrust.
Such statements were usually just a cover for shady intentions.
“If you’re planning to make me do something weird, forget it. I’m done with bad stuff.”
“I understand your concerns, but it’s not like that. You’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Times have changed.”
Ho-cheol, still skeptical, nodded for now.
“Well, no newspapers come in here, so I’ll take your word for it. But still.”
The angle of the arm propping his chin tilted further. His cheek was now almost touching the table.
“There’s something else I don’t get. Honestly, this is why you seem like nothing but a con artist.”
He scratched his ear with his pinky.
“You’re telling me to babysit kids at the academy? And I’ll get a sentence reduction based on the hero grades that come out of my class?”
In all his life, he never imagined he’d see a comedy where a villain was assigned to teach at a hero academy.
And to think, he was the star of that comedy.
“What kind of nonsense is this?”
If he were an association official and needed to use a villain for some reason, there was a far simpler and easier path.
“From your perspective, wouldn’t it be easier to have me take down S-grade villains? Or, if not that, throw me into gate suppression to slit monster throats.”
Even if Ho-cheol had a natural talent for teaching, raising academy fledglings into proper heroes would take years.
For immediate results, having Ho-cheol hunt down S-grade villains’ heads would be quicker and easier.
“If you genuinely cared about the citizens, you’d have asked me to eliminate villains, not train heroes.”
For the first time since starting the meeting, the Director, who had been conversing smoothly, fell silent.
He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.
Truthfully, he hadn’t anticipated this kind of back-and-forth.
He thought the mention of a sentence reduction would have Ho-cheol biting the bait eagerly.
Now, it seemed possible the deal might fall apart entirely.
After weighing the importance of the information, he opened his eyes again.
“Alright. I’ll explain step by step. First, deploying you to fight villains or suppress gates is impossible. Even this conditional release and sentence reduction faced fierce opposition from the association’s purists. If it weren’t for the current state of emergency, this deal wouldn’t even be on the table.”
Ho-cheol’s half-closed eyes twitched.
A spark of curiosity flickered in his now slightly clearer gaze.
“State of emergency, huh.”
Now this is starting to sound a bit interesting.
Meanwhile, the Director took off his glasses and rubbed the wrinkles on his brow with his free hand.
After smoothing them out a bit, he continued.
“Even if we deployed you to fight villains, if civilian casualties occurred, public opinion would demand we throw you back in prison.”
Even if the public didn’t think that way, the purists would latch onto political or ethical issues.
No, that would be the least of it.
Those types were vicious enough to provoke Ho-cheol into causing trouble first.
“And gate suppression is the same. Even if we deployed you purely for that purpose, no one would welcome your presence in a situation tangled with corporate and national interests. If you were sent in, the donations to the association would be cut in half… no, they’d vanish entirely.”
“Is that so? The association’s weaker than I thought.”
“But the academy’s different. At least within the academy, we have complete control, and no outside noise will leak out.”
“So, the higher-ups, worried about votes, chose the next best option instead of the best one.”
Ho-cheol waved his hand mockingly.
“I get it. But setting aside the public and politicians, would the heroes actually allow me to walk free?”
It was an obvious question. The Director answered immediately.
“That’s not an issue. Only a handful of heroes know your face and real name. Convince them, and that’s that. Oh, and of course, your public identity will be a C-grade villain selected as a test case for the villain rehabilitation project.”
A C-grade villain.
At that level, even an ordinary person with a gun or a car could take them down.
The academy and media wouldn’t be too wary.
Ho-cheol was about to nod when a sudden question made him tilt his head.
“But among those few heroes you need to convince, there’s that Sun guy, right?”
S-grade hero.
The Sun.
When naming the strongest hero, his name came up without hesitation.
“That guy’s not exactly easygoing.”
His strength wasn’t the only issue.
His unwavering sense of justice was so firm he’d advocated for the death penalty for villains.
Naturally, Ho-cheol himself was the prime example.
If he fiercely opposed Ho-cheol’s release, even politicians would feel the pressure, wouldn’t they?
“Hmm. That’s…”
The Director opened his mouth as if to say something but fell silent again.
Ho-cheol’s question wasn’t one he could easily answer. It wasn’t ignorance—it was the biggest shame of modern hero society.
But if it was Ho-cheol, he’d find out eventually.
Rather than hiding it, confessing the truth now to build even a sliver of trust would be more beneficial.
As long as the ‘real purpose’ didn’t come to light, that was enough.
The Director sighed as if lamenting and said.
“He’s retired.”
“Really? He’s a bit old, but he should still be in his prime. Did he get injured or something?”
Ho-cheol let out a small laugh.
Even he found the question absurd.
A monster who, if he wanted, could erase a city from the map.
The idea of someone that powerful getting injured was unthinkable.
Maybe he got married?
“No. He turned into a villain.”
“Huh?”
For the first time, Ho-cheol let out a dumbfounded sound.
He straightened up, abandoning his chin-propping posture, and leaned forward.
His demeanor was completely different now.
“That sanctimonious, justice-obsessed old man? So, did you catch him?”
“Yeah. It took four S-grades and a dozen A-grades to barely apprehend him. Even then, two of the S-grades were so badly injured they retired.”
Ho-cheol tapped the desk lightly, clearly impressed.
“Now things are starting to make sense.”
There weren’t even 20 S-grade heroes in the country.
For three to retire at once was beyond a crisis—it was catastrophic.
S-grade heroes weren’t just about maintaining public safety; they were the nation’s power and pride.
The Director emphasized in a serious tone.
“This is top secret, by the way. Don’t spread it. They’re all officially on hiatus for classified missions.”
Ho-cheol smirked, letting out a mocking chuckle.
“Even washed-up heroes are used like this? That’s harsh.”
Even retired, their reputation alone could suppress villain activity.
Facing the still-serious Director, Ho-cheol waved his hand.
“Don’t worry, I’m not that loose-lipped. I was wondering why you’d drag someone like me out, but it seems the good heroes are being pulled back into the field.”
The Director, caught off guard, averted his gaze and cleared his throat.
The symbol of peace.
The invincible hero.
A hero whose mere existence reduced crime rates by over 10%.
The Hero Association was currently facing its worst manpower shortage in history.
“Man, you should’ve just said so from the start.”
“I suppose so.”
“This is definitely getting interesting.”
Ho-cheol stood up.
“If I agree to your terms, when do I start?”
“The paperwork’s all done.”
The Director picked up the documents he’d shown earlier.
“Sign these, and it takes effect immediately.”
“Great. Let’s see them.”
“Wait a moment. I left my communicator outside when I came in. I’ll call the guard to bring the documents.”
“No need for that.”
Ho-cheol stretched and stood up. He raised his index finger and pressed it against the transparent wall separating him from the Director.
Tap -
“What, we are doing E.T. instead of a handshake?”
The Director said with a half-smile.
But then, he jumped up in shock at the absurd scene unfolding before him.
Ho-cheol’s finger slowly but surely pierced through the wall.
“Wait! What are you doing!”
Crack-crack-crack—!
A wall that wouldn’t crack under gunfire or grenades couldn’t stop a single finger.
In mere seconds, his finger pierced through the 10cm-thick wall.
Ho-cheol didn’t stop there; he dragged his finger downward.
Down, left, up, right.
With a sharp noise, his hand carved a perfect square.
Finally, he tapped the center of the square—pop—and a hole appeared.
Weeee-eeee—!
The ceiling lights turned bright red, and a shrill siren blared. From a distance, shouts of a level-one alert echoed.
The culprit, Ho-cheol, casually reached through the hole and grabbed the documents.
Looking at the Director, who was standing in an awkward half-crouch, he snorted.
“Why so surprised? Did you really think you could keep me locked up?”
“H-How…”
The Director was beyond shocked—he was dumbfounded.
Of course, with Ho-cheol’s past abilities, breaking the wall would’ve been nothing.
But the shackles he wore were supposed to suppress his powers.
And yet, he’d pierced the wall so easily.
It hit him late.
Ho-cheol hadn’t escaped because he chose not to, not because he couldn’t.
A prison hundreds of meters underwater.
Hundreds of armed guards, power-suppressing shackles, missile-proof doors, an invincible security system—none of it could stop Ho-cheol.
This was the worst-case scenario.
Yet, for some reason, the Director felt no sense of danger.
Ho-cheol, sitting on the desk and reading the documents, looked utterly peaceful.
More than that, he felt an odd sense of unease.
Why had Ho-cheol, who’d been so relaxed until now, caused such a scene just to get the documents faster?
“…I see.”
The Director slumped back into his chair.
This was a message from Ho-cheol. If he could do this, so could others with similar abilities.
The Director resolved to change The Sun’s cell block as soon as he returned.
But one question remained.
“…Why haven’t you escaped until now?”
Ho-cheol, still reading the documents, said casually,
“Just.”
He wet his fingertip and flipped a page, scanning the contents quickly.
“Doesn’t look like you tampered with the contract. Not that you’d dare if you got caught.”
The Director clenched his fist. In a serious tone, he pressed again.
“Don’t brush it off. I need to know why.”
“Alright, I’ll tell you.”
Without looking up, Ho-cheol answered briefly.
“Because it’s a bad thing to do.”
A simple, obvious reason.
It wasn’t among the reasons the Director had anticipated.
He was speechless.
Having finished reading, Ho-cheol looked up and asked.
“I’d like to sign now. Got a pen?”
Nothing that could be used as a weapon was allowed.
It was a basic rule for villain visits.
But the Director quietly took a pen from his pocket and handed it over.
“Thanks.”
Ho-cheol immediately signed his name.
Bang—!
Less than a minute later, heavily armed guards burst in.
Breaking down the door, they aimed their guns at Ho-cheol. But he calmly continued signing.
“Is the Director alright?! Team 1, protect the Director and subdue the escapee! If he resists, sh—”
Before the security team could pull the trigger, the Director raised his hand to stop them.
“Enough.”
“But, sir, this situation—”
The Director crossed his arms and said to the security team leader.
“This was all intentional on my part. He pointed out a flaw in this facility, and at my request, he demonstrated it. So, stand down. I’ll explain the details to the warden myself.”
“Understood…”
The team leader hesitated but eventually backed off with a sigh.
As a public servant, he didn’t have the guts to defy a superior so far above him.
As the security team left, Ho-cheol finished signing and handed back the pen and documents.
“You’re not completely clueless. Here, signed. Can I go now?”
The Director, taking the documents, shook his head in disbelief.
“Sorry, but you can’t leave right away. We need to process your release.”
Ho-cheol scratched the back of his head.
“Come on, don’t be such a bureaucrat. Can’t you just pull some strings?”
Of course, he couldn’t.
* * *
Four days later.
Rumble—!
Chains clanked as the massive iron gate opened.
The gate, dozens of meters tall, swung wide, and Ho-cheol stepped out.
“Hm.”
He looked up at the sky. Bright sunlight poured down from the sun overhead.
“…Never thought I’d see the sun again in my lifetime.”
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, savoring the warmth and the synthesis of vitamin D.
About 30 minutes passed. Coming to his senses, he looked around.
“By the way, no one’s here to pick me up?”
They’d said someone would meet him at release time, but no matter where he looked, there wasn’t a soul in sight—not even a rat.
How long did he wait, squatting by the roadside?
Vroom—!
A heavily tinted car sped up and slid to a stop in front of him.
The window rolled down, and the woman at the wheel lifted her sunglasses to meet Ho-cheol’s eyes.
“Hey, sorry about that. Traffic was worse than expected. You’re Jeong Ho-cheol, right? Released today?”
“Are you the watchdog the association sent?”
The woman nodded. Her brown bob, reaching her shoulders, swayed lightly.
“Yep. Han So-hee, Agent from Legal Team 3. And ‘watchdog’? How about something softer, like ‘partner’? Anyway.”
She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it over.
“Nice to meet you?”