Academy’s Villain Professor

Chapter 9: Bait

Ho-cheol’s plan stretched on for a full ten minutes.

It was an impromptu scheme crafted upon entering the president’s office.

Yet, his explanation flowed without a hint of hesitation or doubt, the framework of his plan solid and clear.

“But in that situation, we let them slip away intentionally. Let them escape.”

His explanation neared its end. Immersed, he clenched and unclenched his fist, raising his voice.

“Then we identify their backers and arrest the rest.”

Finally, Ho-cheol perched on the sofa’s armrest.

He shrugged, his eyes brimming with confidence as he looked at the president.

“How’s that? It's not easy to wrap it up cleaner than this.”

The president was dumbfounded by Ho-cheol’s self-assured attitude.

Parts of the plan were sloppy, and, as expected from a former villain, some elements were risky and illegal.

Certain aspects were also impractical given the academy’s current situation.

Still, Ho-cheol’s plan carried undeniable persuasiveness.

It was far better than vague promises to increase security personnel.

The illegal or rough parts could be tweaked or overlooked.

The plan’s critical condition was far too dangerous.

The president sighed silently.

His reactions during Ho-cheol’s pitch were varied—interest, doubt, shock, anger, and finally, resignation.

He’d wanted to interrupt, to call it insane, multiple times.

His head throbbed.

Closing his eyes, he covered them with his hand.

A long silence followed.

Ho-cheol, having said his piece, waited for a response.

The president, overwhelmed, didn’t know what to say.

After a lengthy pause, he finally spoke.

“That’s absurd. Too dangerous.”

“Knew you’d say that.”

Ho-cheol gave a bitter smile, expecting the reaction.

At least the president hadn’t stormed out calling him crazy.

That was something.

The president parted his fingers, his narrowed eyes glaring at Ho-cheol through the gap.

“I can accept manipulating the academy’s defense system or security rotations to lure an attack.

But…”

He sighed again.

“Forcing me to leave the academy is too much. It leaves the academy defenseless.”

[Execution day: The president will be absent from the academy.]

“No matter how I think about it, it’s unreasonable.”

For the president, this condition was unacceptable.

“No, it’s non-negotiable.”

Ho-cheol was unyielding.

Other conditions could be adjusted, but this was mandatory.

If the president refused, the plan would collapse entirely.

Ho-cheol, arms crossed, tapped his arm with his index finger.

“The academy’s defense system and security are just side dishes. Without the main course, it’s a minor incident we’d shrug off.”

The academy’s independent defense system?

Professors, former heroes?

Military-grade security?

Those were only a fraction of the academy’s strength.

The president was the academy’s ultimate trump card.

In a proper card game, playing him would guarantee victory.

But the opponent was a villain.

Rules meant nothing to them, nor did victory.

As long as they achieved their goal, any sacrifice was acceptable.

Ho-cheol crossed his legs.

“It’s not just about setting a trap for them. Think about it—what happens if you stay holed up in your office?”

If he were a villain—no need for hypotheticals.

Even during this conversation, dozens of ways to neutralize the president flashed through his mind.

Most succeeded, causing massive casualties.

…It was a grim thought.

“Villains know they can’t win with you here. So how do they keep you from interfering? Kick you out of the academy. How? Simple.”

Ho-cheol stood.

“The easiest way? Simultaneous terrorist attacks in nearby cities.”

There were cities around the academy.

Due to its unique status, those cities had fewer and lower-quality heroes relative to their size.

If villains launched a coordinated attack?

The academy would get support requests, and the president couldn’t stay idle.

“You wouldn’t stay put in that situation, would you?”

The president couldn’t answer.

As Ho-cheol said, if nearby cities were attacked, he’d send everyone except a skeleton crew to help.

Staying to prepare for unconfirmed villains would invite media backlash.

Worst case, the villains might delay their plans, seeing the president still there.

With a far graver expression, the president asked?

“Scale of the attacks?”

“Doesn’t matter. The point is getting you out. They’d make it big enough that a few professors couldn’t handle it.”

The president’s face twisted.

Innocent citizens hurt or killed just to divert his attention?

The thought made his blood boil.

Ho-cheol gave a bitter smile.

“Even a winning hand’s useless against someone who ignores the rules.”

“So, if I’m gone, there’d be no external attacks?”

Ho-cheol nodded without hesitation.

“They’d throw all their resources at the academy. Higher chance of success.”

The retired professors’ diminished combat ability supported this.

The president sighed for the umpteenth time, then asked another question.

“What if the villains realize it’s a trap and don’t act?”

“That’s why we push them harder. Like I said—leak a rumor to the media.”

The president finally understood Ho-cheol’s second critical condition.

“…A new presidential candidate.”

Clington’s presidents were always retired S-grade heroes.

Naturally, any candidate would be S-grade too.

Even if not combat-oriented, no average villain could scratch one, even with a truckload of them.

Containing one S-grade required city-scale terrorism—what about two?

It was fake news, but villains had no way to verify it.

The thought alone would chill their spines.

“They’d have to act, even if their plan’s months or years in the making. Nothing baits impatience like this.”

Seeing the president still deliberating, Ho-cheol spoke firmly.

He was frustrated by the situation.

Worrying about morality, ethics, or laws in a crisis like this?

No wonder heroes never caught him back then.

“Sure, it’s fake news, morally dubious. Some retired S-grades might get media hassle. So what? Has anyone hurt? Killed? Financial or time losses? Compare that to lives. Tell them to suck it up.”

There were other reasons, but he didn’t elaborate.

The president was trustworthy enough for a hero, but too many ears were listening.

Valuable information was worth more than the fewer who knew.

“Besides, your plan means you’d face most of the villains. Can you handle it in your current state?”

“Hm.”

Ho-cheol paused.

At the archery range, he’d realized something small.

Testing it outright would draw attention, so this situation was a chance to confirm it.

He shrugged, grinning slyly.

“It’s a special case this time. They’ll let a little overstep slide, right?”

“Perhaps.”

The president closed his eyes.

He mulled over Ho-cheol’s plan.

His brow twitched, and sighs leaked from his pursed lips.

Still eyes closed, he spoke.

“Even if it goes perfectly, we break even. Halfway, it’s a failure. If it fails, we take the fall—jail wouldn’t be surprising.”

As a retired hero, following protocol meant, at worst, losing his position.

If he prioritized his honor and safety, he could reject Ho-cheol’s plan.

He held the moral high ground.

But he couldn’t.

Because he was a hero.

Yet Ho-cheol wasn’t a hero or even an educator.

One positive moment wasn’t enough to trust him.

“I’m a hero and Clington’s president. I’d do anything to protect students, so I can’t reject your plan, dangerous as it is. But you’re different. Even if you’re trying to be good, there’s a limit. You’re supposed to be cautious for your sentence reduction. Why take this risk?”

Ho-cheol didn’t answer.

After a long silence, the president opened his eyes.

He had a mountain of questions.

But he shut his mouth.

Ho-cheol’s expression was resolute, brimming with certainty.

Before someone convinced of their righteousness, any question felt trivial.

The president bowed his head, sighing heavily—a different kind from before.

Raising his head, he asked a new question.

“Exact timing?”

* * *

Two days later, Monday, Education Hall .

At precisely 9 a.m., the locked doors opened.

Students gathered at the entrance.

Among them was Da-yeon’s group.

A blonde student yawned, grumbling.

“Ugh, Monday first period. What a hassle.”

A girl with pigtails, hands in pockets, flapped her coat like a penguin.

“But aren’t you a little excited?”

“For what?”

“This hall’s usually for third-years or external heroes’ rank tests. Assistants said it’s a first for second-years. Plus…”

She pulled a palm-sized baton from her pocket, twirling it.

“They told us to bring personal weapons. I’ve been dying to use this.”

They’d brought weapons as per the administrative notice.

The blonde nodded slightly, agreeing.

She preferred moving her body over scribbling in a cramped classroom.

Though she doubted how impressive a “practical” lesson from a villain professor would be.

Glancing back, she saw Da-yeon a step behind, her usual bored expression and bow protruding from her back.

The blonde couldn’t understand.

Why stick with archery? Wasn’t it time to give up?

So stubborn.

She kept it to herself, fearing Da-yeon’s wrath.

Entering, they were greeted by a vast gymnasium-like interior. In the center sat a lone, ordinary chair.

Why was it there?

As they were puzzled, Ho-cheol’s voice came from behind.

“Forty-three. No tardies or absences.”

They turned. Ho-cheol, in the same suit as last week, stood with hands behind his back.

The students parted like a receding tide.

Split into two groups, the doors closed, and Ho-cheol walked through.

Staring straight ahead, he spoke.

“I said we’d have a test today.”

Some students’ faces fell. Who liked tests, even if expected?

Reaching the center, Ho-cheol adjusted his clothes and sat on the chair.

“That’s canceled.”

The students’ expressions brightened.

He’d planned to test their practical trait application for real combat.

But with a villain attack near certain, wasting their stamina and focus was pointless.

Why test for real combat when the real thing was coming?

“A few things to do first.”

He paused, scanning the students.

Unlike last time, he didn’t project his aura, yet they stepped back, chilled by a creeping sensation.

“We’re picking a class leader.”

The tense atmosphere dissolved instantly.

Students whispered.

All that buildup for a class leader?

Not even a grade representative—just a leader, barely a resume booster.

With the underlying disdain for Ho-cheol, there might not be any volunteers.

Unfazed, Ho-cheol opened his bag, pulling out a notebook and pen.

“Any volunteers, step forward.”

Most expected no one would.

No one stepped up.

Or so it seemed.

Da-yeon lifted her chin, straightening her back.

She tugged at her uniform’s shoulders with her thumb and index finger.

Normally, she wouldn’t consider a role like class leader.

But not now.

Her relationship with Ho-cheol was merely student and professor.

The biweekly tutoring was just his goodwill and curiosity, liable to end anytime.

For her, who wanted more, the class leader role was a chance she couldn’t miss.

Plus, it could be a pretext to increase tutoring frequency or time—a calculated move.

She stepped toward Ho-cheol without hesitation.

Students called out, startled, but she didn’t care.

Their voices didn’t even register.

Above all, she was the only one suited to be his class leader.

Her stride was confident.

I’m the only one.

Muttering inwardly, she emerged from the crowd and stood before him.

* * *

In the corner, Ye-jin sighed.

She recalled last week.

He’d told her to participate actively in class.

He’d even thrown a flirtatious question about her family.

She was surely the student most vivid in his mind, for better or worse.

Her personality wasn’t suited for drawing attention like a lab rat, but what choice did she have?

She was already marked.

Besides, professor-recommended scholarships depended on evaluations, not grades.

For someone desperate for money, class leader was a must.

The only concern was her tight part-time job schedule after Monday lunch.

Surely a class leader wouldn’t get stuck with extra tasks outside class?

She pushed through the opposite group of students.

Both, thinking He’s obviously calling me, approached Ho-cheol without hesitation.

Only when they reached him did they notice each other.

They stopped, turning to lock eyes.

No words, but their gazes screamed, Who’s this guy?

Ho-cheol, looking at them, muttered in surprise.

“Two volunteers? Unexpected.”

The class leader came with little authority and pointless tasks.

Two volunteers?

He paused, then asked?

“I didn’t prepare for a vote. So, first…”

Zzt

A faint, subtle noise—not heard, but felt—made Ho-cheol stand.

Turning, he stared at the hall’s corner.

In a corner unnoticed by all, black mist began to rise.

He pulled out his phone.

It showed “No Service,” most functions dead.

The entrance was likely locked too.

With no windows, he and the students were completely isolated.

Well-prepared.

The mist grew rapidly, soon larger than a person.

“What’s that?”

Some students, finally noticing, stared and whispered.

Ho-cheol, eyes on the mist, spoke.

“Villains. Step back, form groups of four by roll number. You learned villain response protocols in the first year, so I won’t explain.”

Villains.

The word rang clear.

“…Villains?”

Ye-jin asked, incredulous.

No way it’s real.

But the malice and murderous intent from the mist made it clear this was no prank.

Betraying their hopes, Ho-cheol declared calmly,

“Freeze, and you’re dead.”