Chapter 17: Test
Ho-cheol swallowed the admiration that rose to the tip of his tongue.
Fretting within the confines of the academy led nowhere.
He had to admit it—this time, the president’s hero mindset outpaced his own.
The president cared little for petty academy politics or the union’s opposition, brushing them aside.
Instead, he was orchestrating from a much higher vantage point.
Ho-cheol leaned against the railing, tilting his body.
So-hee, concerned, asked?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just lost in thought.”
He fell silent, pondering, pressing his forehead and temples with his thumb.
How far had the president planned, and how much had he grasped?
The president’s goal wasn’t the MT or the union—it was likely the contract between Ho-cheol and the Hero Association itself.
His prediction was spot-on.
To the president, citizens’ lives and students’ safety were paramount.
Authority or prestige meant nothing compared to those absolute values.
The greatest threat to those values now was the villains targeting students—specifically, the “organization.”
The president knew its danger well.
Even without Ho-cheol, its core, he didn’t believe another villain could match that strength.
But using its name meant it couldn’t be ignored.
With danger looming, the situation was grim.
The academy was split by interests and ideologies, with students and professors at a lower caliber.
Regrettably, the president’s prowess was a shadow of his prime.
Requesting aid from other S-grade heroes wasn’t feasible—the hero world faced an unprecedented manpower shortage.
Mobilizing such forces for mere circumstantial evidence was impossible.
Nor could he ask the association for help.
If the new organization was half as capable as Ho-cheol’s, they’d have double-digit spies within the association.
How could he trust mere bureaucrats, not even heroes?
So the president turned elsewhere.
Jeong Ho-cheol.
Knowledgeable about the organization, with S-grade-level strength, and only teaching once a week—a near-idle asset.
Moreover, Ho-cheol saw the organization as a threat, eliminating betrayal concerns.
His only issue? The contract’s strict limits on his actions.
The president’s solution was simple.
A small degree of freedom was all he needed, and the president could provide the pretext.
The absurd MT schedule was crafted for that purpose.
Ho-cheol uncrossed his arms and turned to So-hee.
He’d need to hear the president’s true intent, but he had a sense of it.
The association’s reaction was key.
Squatting on the stairs, checking the union’s souvenirs, she looked up as he asked?
“So, the association’s response?”
“Mixed. Some say public duties allow exceptions. Others say no exceptions, period.”
“They’ll allow it eventually.”
His calm, confident tone made So-hee shrug.
“Well, the academy’s the boss. The naysayers have no real leverage, so they’ll cave.”
Ho-cheol’s relationship with the association wasn’t clearly superior or subordinate.
He didn’t care much for freedom or release, and the association, desperate for manpower, had pulled him out like borrowing a cat’s paws.
But between the association and the academy, the hierarchy was clear.
Technically, the association was higher, but the president, an S-grade hero, and Ho-cheol flipped that balance.
The academy, stuck managing a ticking bomb like Ho-cheol, held the upper hand.
If they rejected him, the association would be caught in the middle.
Having tolerated Ho-cheol so far, the association had to concede this much.
Besides, the association had other motives, requiring them to avoid petty conflicts.
“Tell me when they decide.”
“Got it.”
Even if it was split now, an answer would come soon—likely in his and the president’s favor.
“Let’s grab food.”
“Figured it out?”
“Yeah.”
He glanced at his watch, its constraints binding him—space, time, traits.
“Want katsu today.”
“Campus katsu’s meh. The taste is boiled, not fried.”
“Healthy, then…”
Only time and traits remained.
The next day, So-hee delivered the association’s notice approving the contract exception.
* * *
Two days later, at lunchtime.
Ho-cheol summoned Da-yeon and Ye-jin.
Despite being in the same year and department, their schedules rarely overlapped, leaving little time to meet.
How were students busier than their professor?
They managed to carve out a slot.
At the same café where they’d crossed paths before, Ho-cheol, Da-yeon, and Ye-jin sat around a terrace table.
Sipping coffee, he set the cup down and said briefly.
“MT in two weeks.”
“Eh?”
“What?”
The two, staring tensely at him, wore dumbfounded expressions.
“It’s confirmed, but I haven’t planned the schedule or location.”
A lie.
He’d mapped out the location and schedule to the minute.
Three days of pure training—no second would be wasted.
“You’re class leaders, so you should know. Thought I’d hear your opinions too.”
The reason for calling them and lying was simple.
They were scapegoats.
The MT’s events would likely spark outrage.
Harsh beyond skill-building.
Making them think they had a say would force them to endure, no matter how grueling.
Unaware, the two perked up, excited by the unexpected event.
Ho-cheol stated his purpose.
“Mountain or sea for the MT?”
They rolled their eyes, pondering, then answered.
“Mountain, obviously.”
“I want the sea.”
Their answers clashed simultaneously.
“Oh, come on.”
Ho-cheol sighed, propping his chin.
Why was nothing ever easy? If they’d agreed, it’d be simpler.
He didn’t care either way—the outcome was set.
“This is a problem.”
They’d been ignoring each other, but this wasn’t something to brush off.
Ye-jin gripped the table, passionately listing why mountains were better.
“It’s not summer—the sea's no good. It’s too cold to even dip your toes. Plus, mountains only have bugs to worry about, and now’s perfect—no mosquitoes or flies.”
There were other reasons, but those were excuses.
The real reason?
Sea, tourist spot and inflated prices.
For her, the sea was a nightmare.
Even water costs a premium.
Mountains?
Foraging season for wild greens like deodeok or yams.
Free food and drink everywhere.
Sure, the coast had forageable food, but she wasn’t a strong swimmer, and it was mostly fresh seafood.
Above all, she couldn’t afford a swimsuit.
That was the killer.
“I like the sea. I want the sea for the MT.”
Da-yeon answered, eyes fixed on Ho-cheol.
The academy had mountains on-site.
Want to sleep in one?
Climb and camp.
Why go on an MT for that?
Neither could understand the other.
“What do you do at the sea now? Can’t swim, just splash around? A valley’s better.”
“Sea. If you want to hike on an MT, go alone.”
Their sharp disagreement didn’t budge.
Ho-cheol watched their ten-minute debate silently.
No end in sight.
He downed his half-full coffee and stood.
“Sort it out. If you can’t, we’ll vote next week.”
The word “vote” made them nod eagerly.
Unlike the delayed class leader vote, this was weeks away—no way they’d yield.
Seeing this, Ho-cheol couldn’t help but smile.
Whatever the vote, the destination was set.
And it was hell.
* * *
On the way back to his dorm, Ho-cheol bought snacks at a convenience store and sat on a bench.
With So-hee practically living in his dorm, alone time was rare.
The close monitoring was over, so why was she still there?
She wasn’t quiet either, chattering nonstop until quitting time.
Not that he minded, but he needed moments like this.
Leaning back, he closed his eyes.
Two problems faced him.
Improving students’ grades for his sentence reduction.
Dealing with the organization he’d failed to fully dismantle.
Both were daunting for the current Ho-cheol.
Neither could be abandoned, making them a heavy burden.
If the new organization followed the blood-soaked rules he’d set, they weren’t just another villain group.
They weren’t merely strong—they were different.
Before villains, they were seasoned hunters.
Relentless, targeting weaknesses, wearing down foes, striking at their weakest moment like beasts tearing into a throat.
They never showed a hair until victory was certain.
Only an overwhelming force could beat their numbers and strategy.
He clenched and unclenched his fist slowly.
By raw specs, he matched his prime.
His “accumulation” was even greater.
But in precision, sharpness, and adaptability, he couldn’t compare.
To prepare for the worst, he needed near-real combat training.
The best?
A full-on fight with real villains or heroes.
But that was impossible.
Going all-out against students who’d collapse in one hit was laughable.
Planning ahead, he sensed someone nearby and opened his eyes.
In the quiet street, a kid stood before him.
A few steps away, clutching a teddy bear, the kid stared at him.
The bear’s eyes seemed to do the same.
Maybe ten years old, on the cusp between child and girl.
Her pristine clothes and glossy bear suggested expense.
Meeting her steady gaze, he leaned forward, aligning their eye levels.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a candy.
He didn’t like kids, but he wasn’t cruel enough to show it.
He offered the candy on his palm.
The girl stared at it silently, then turned her head sharply.
Ho-cheol, embarrassed, withdrew his hand.
Not a fan of nurungji flavor?
Instead, she walked over and sat beside him.
Her feet, not touching the ground, swung back and forth.
After a brief silence, she spoke.
“An inadequate educator.”
His hand, unwrapping the candy, froze.
He couldn’t forget that phrase—he’d said it in his first lecture.
He slowly turned to the kid.
Her puffed cheeks, ripe for pinching, betrayed her displeasure.
With a slow deflate, she relaxed them.
“It means substandard. Practically useless.”
Her mature tone and vocabulary clashed with her appearance, but the serious mood stifled any comment.
“Do you have any idea how hard our academy’s professors have worked to train proper, exceptional, great heroes?”
He watched her silently. Her tone grew heated, her swinging legs quickening.
“A mere C-grade villain dares judge our esteemed faculty as a bunch of idiots. How infuriating.”
She hopped off the bench.
“Conversely, I got curious.”
Turning to face him, she spun around.
“Let’s see the skills of this combat advocate. Are you just a loudmouth, or…”
The teddy bear, now larger than before, wasn’t his imagination.
She tossed it lightly.
Instead of falling, it bent at the waist, landing on the ground.
The bear swelled, and soon Ho-cheol had to look up.
“…a first-rate who can judge other professors.”
The bear—no, now a real beast—raised its front paw high.
“No worries. Just a light test.”
It slammed down toward Ho-cheol.
Boom—!
The ground shook, a massive crater forming where the paw struck.
Dust rose.
The girl covered her mouth with her sleeve.
Its power dwarfed a real bear, enough to pulverize civilians or low-grade awakenings.
But she wasn’t worried. She’d aimed at his feet, not him—a mere threat.
Show me the skill that took down those villains.
Time passed, but no movement stirred in the dust.
She frowned.
Knocked out?
As the thought hit.
“Huh.”
A low, sigh-like voice sounded.
“What’s this? One comment pissed you off so much you come whining?”
Tap tap.
Brushing dust from his clothes, he sighed.
“Feeling ignored stings, sure. But swinging out of nowhere? That’s low. Too much for hazing.”
The dust settled, and he wiped his face.
“Is this academy full of people who aren’t even human, let alone heroes? Or is it because I’m a former villain that you look down on me?”
He stepped through the dust.
“A light test? I’d like to test you. Let’s see how great your vaunted professor skills are.”
Loosening up, he declared.
“If you’re inadequate, I’ll spank you until you’re polite.”