Chapter 16: Self-Introduction
The reaction was only natural.
What grand thing was coming?
A self-introduction?
Of course, less than half the students stared at Ho-cheol with bewildered eyes.
The other half stayed tense.
This was Ho-cheol’s self-introduction, after all.
Given his past lectures, it couldn’t be ordinary.
They held their breath, awaiting his next words.
“How should we do the order?”
Ho-cheol opened his bag, pulling out his usual notebook.
“Might as well go by roll call. Number one, stand.”
The first student rose, visibly nervous.
Unlike those later in the order, they had no examples to follow, relying purely on instinct to get through it.
Their lips were dry as dust.
Ho-cheol opened his notebook, twirling his pen up and down.
“Alright, start.”
The tense student swallowed and slowly began.
The self-introduction proceeded.
“I’ll conclude my self-introduction.”
It ended more easily than expected.
The student glanced at Ho-cheol and cautiously sat.
Contrary to expectations, the self-introduction was utterly ordinary and uneventful.
Ho-cheol offered no critique, silently twirling his pen.
After a moment’s thought, he tilted his head side to side.
“Alright, next.”
The introductions continued, reaching the tenth student.
Ho-cheol only nodded, occasionally jotting something in his notebook.
Seeing this, the tense students relaxed considerably.
There was some evaluation at play, but that was it—just a normal self-introduction.
They loosened up, focusing on the task.
* * *
Of course, that was their imagination.
The reality was far different.
Ho-cheol’s lack of reaction wasn’t because their introductions were correct.
They were so abysmal he didn’t know where to start scolding.
What he’d asked for wasn’t names, hobbies, aspirations, favorite foods, or seasons.
What was a self-introduction?
At its core, it was condensed information warfare.
Information safe to reveal, secrets to hide, even lies for deception.
As future heroes, their information would become weaknesses, widely known.
Was it just heroes? For villains, too, information management was mandatory, not optional.
In a world where a single detail could cost a life, this was vital training.
But the students, clueless about its essence, gave mundane introductions, leaving Ho-cheol beyond baffled—dumbfounded.
He should’ve stopped them and taught proper self-introductions.
Seeing their earnest declarations of becoming S-grade heroes sapped his energy, leaving him to listen silently.
Fine.
They worked hard last week.
Let them relax for one.
Besides, their aspirations and favorite foods weren’t entirely useless.
Winning hearts was part of a professor’s finesse.
Eventually, all the students finished.
Ho-cheol closed his notebook and leaned on the lectern.
“Today’s lecture was supposed to be urban combat training, splitting into hero and villain teams for a simulation. But unavoidable circumstances made the education hall unavailable.”
Damn villains, screwing up the schedule and forcing me into the union.
He turned to the chalkboard.
“So, we’re stuck with a pointless theory lecture.”
He wasn’t thrilled, but what could he do?
His theoretical knowledge came from a few books read “just in case,” wondering if heroes even needed them.
He’d arrange it decently, but theory lectures were all the same.
The remaining time was filled with a dull lecture, like reading a textbook verbatim.
* * *
Ho-cheol checked the time and set down the chalk.
The massive chalkboard covering one wall was packed with his notes.
Looking at the students, who’d been scribbling without a break, he said lightly,
“Let’s wrap up here.”
No one stood immediately, still finishing their notes, too intimidated to move.
Murmurs of disbelief mixed with confusion filled the room.
What?
Why’s he teaching so well?
No one doubted Ho-cheol’s strength.
His ability to ignore rank and compatibility last week was overwhelming.
But his teaching skill was completely unknown.
As a former villain with no educational experience, they hadn’t expected much.
Yet today’s lecture shattered that.
He taught well.
There was no other way to put it.
The relentless pace without breaks was harsh, but that was his style, not a flaw.
One by one, students finished and left.
In the quiet classroom, Da-yeon remained, arms crossed, staring blankly at the chalkboard.
Her friends, noticing, asked cautiously,
“…What’s wrong?”
She seemed expressionless, but after nearly a year with her, they knew better.
Da-yeon was pissed.
Not full-blown anger, but more than just sulking—an ambiguous state, definitely not good.
Someone glanced between the chalkboard and her.
“Was the lecture bad?”
She shook her head slowly.
No way it was bad—it was clearly excellent.
Unlike other lectures parroting textbooks, Ho-cheol’s was different.
His unique perspective offered new interpretations and solutions to the same problems.
Her issue wasn’t the lecture but what followed.
She was deeply uncomfortable with Ho-cheol’s rising reputation.
Every new skill he showed fueled her desire to monopolize him, but the odds of that dwindled as students recognized him.
He’d rejected her proposal when they disrespected him—would he become her mentor now that they admired him?
She couldn’t picture it.
She’d thought finding her missing qualifications was a priority, but he was racing too far ahead.
She pulled out her phone, dialing a familiar number, biting her lip.
No time to be picky about methods anymore.
* * *
Descending the lecture hall stairs, Ho-cheol rubbed his arm.
“Theory’s not my thing.”
Holding chalk in a cramped classroom, blabbing away, felt like hives breaking out.
On the stairs between the third and second floors, someone ran up beside him.
“Hello, Professor.”
No need to think—he knew instantly.
The staffer who pitched the union.
Ho-cheol kept walking.
“What’s up?”
He’d joined the union, so he figured they wouldn’t meet for a while.
“Your union registration’s complete, so I’m here to inform you.”
Matching his pace, the staffer handed him a shopping bag.
“Union logo badge, t-shirt, and other souvenirs.”
“Oh, right.”
The red-heavy logo and souvenirs seemed a bit ideologically suspect.
Not some worker’s paradise nonsense, right?
“Congratulations on joining.”
He was officially in, along with So-hee.
What a pointless hassle, but if the union was leaking academy info, he couldn’t ignore it.
The staffer glanced around, though no one was near, and spoke cautiously.
“The union chair wants to meet you soon.”
Ho-cheol’s hand, rummaging through the bag, froze.
“Oh?”
Good news.
The chair was his top suspect.
If they were the leak, a few punches would settle it.
Spotting a leaker was simple.
With his criminal experience, a look and a few words would tell him enough.
“I should visit them?”
Who was the chair?
Probably a professor, not ordinary if they opposed the president.
“No need. The chair will visit you soon.”
“Got it.”
“And…”
The staffer pulled out a document envelope.
“New official notice.”
With the internal system under review, emails were down, and everything was hand-delivered.
What a pain.
Why not just mail it?
Ho-cheol opened the envelope, pulling out a sheet.
His eyes widened as he read.
“What’s this?”
He stopped, gaping in disbelief.
The staffer added.
“Understandable reaction. Every professor reacted like this.”
“…So, this notice isn’t a sick joke?”
The staffer drove it home.
“Yes. A department-wide MT has been decided.”
“Huh.”
Ho-cheol let out a small, unenthusiastic exclamation.
“Very academy-like event.”
A field trip after a villain attack?
Insane.
“There wasn’t an MT in the schedule.”
To create one out of nowhere?
“Yes.”
The staffer nodded, knowing full well.
In Clington’s long history, MTs didn’t exist.
They clashed with the academy’s ethos, and with mountains and lakes on campus, there was no need to go elsewhere.
Camping happened, but on-site.
“And the schedule overlaps with the sports festival. Replacing it?”
“The sports festival was canceled due to the attack.”
Every mid-April, the academy held a massive sports festival, opening to the public.
With citizens and outsiders flooding in, it was too risky now.
Despite sponsorships, donations, and prestige, the danger was too great.
Canceling made sense, but replacing it with an MT?
What idiot suggested this?
“So, the location?”
Caught off-guard, the staffer blinked but answered naturally.
“You decide that, Professor.”
Ho-cheol reread the notice.
It wasn’t a unified department trip—each class went separately, with location and schedule left to the professor.
He could choose a relaxing resort or brutal training.
This I like.
Descending the stairs, he asked,
“MT means students leave campus. Isn’t that riskier?”
The staffer, as if waiting, replied.
“Exactly. No matter how secret the location, safety’s not guaranteed. The union opposed it, but the president pushed hard, so… here we are.”
Ho-cheol frowned, stopping again.
“The president’s idea?”
“Yes.”
He should’ve vetoed this insanity.
But the president proposed it?
For a moment, he wondered if the president had lost it. Noticing his expression, the staffer chimed in.
“We don’t get it either. An MT now? He says it’s for bonding and unity over the sports festival’s competition, but it’s hard to accept.”
“Seriously.”
The reasoning was flimsy, with no substance.
“The union’s against it?”
“Not just us. The president’s professors, neutrals—everyone but him thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“Sane people would.”
Even Ho-cheol, thinking like a villain, found it absurd.
Heroes at the academy?
No way they’d buy it.
Why do it?
A risky, no-win choice for the president, union, and students.
Yet the president pushed it, so unless he was senile, there was a scheme.
Sighing for the umpteenth time, Ho-cheol folded the notice.
“Got it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The staffer left, and Ho-cheol sat on the stair railing, deep in thought.
The MT itself wasn’t the issue.
The timing was bad, but the intent was clear.
Unlike the sports festival’s competition and public exposure, an MT allowed tailored scenarios for growth.
A three-day trip? He could think of countless training ideas.
Students scoring 10/100 now could hit 30 post-MT.
If not for the organization’s return.
Lost in thought, a familiar face appeared below.
So-hee, eyes wide, asked,
“What’re you doing there?”
“You?”
“It’s been ages since class ended, and you’re not down.”
“Eh, nothing much.”
He slid down the railing.
So-hee held a shopping bag like his.
Just got hers.
He asked?
“You heard about the MT?”
“Oh, yeah. The association sent a cooperation notice. I don’t have a class or lecture, so the academy will tell me later, I guess?”
“Hm. Look at this.”
He handed her the folded notice.
As she read, he asked?
“What’s a cooperation notice?”
“Related to that. Each professor goes with their class, but your contract with the association bans leaving campus.”
No matter the circumstance—natural disasters, national emergencies—Ho-cheol couldn’t leave the academy grounds.
It was in his deal with the academy and association.
“Right. So what? I can’t go?”
Stuck holding an MT on campus?
Fine by him, but the students might cry blood.
“That’s why the cooperation notice. It’s a request for an exception for official duties.”
And then.
“Huh.”
Ho-cheol clicked his tongue, realizing the president’s intent.