episode_0004

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As I pressed the four numbers in order, the door lock clicked open with a nostalgic beep.

Perhaps because it had been so long since I last entered this place. For some reason, my chest felt unsettled.

It was akin to revisiting a house I’d moved away from as a child after a long absence—or so I imagined.

…Truthfully, I had no experience with that, so I didn’t really know how that would feel.

The bathroom light and kitchen light switches were easily confused, so for a brief moment, the sharp click, click of the switch echoed repeatedly—but only for a moment.

Once I hit the correct light switch, the room—darkened by the pouring rain outside—began to fill with white light.

I tossed off my coat, which made a damp squelch with every movement, and took in the familiar scenery.

A 10-pyeong studio apartment. A decent enough space for a single person to live comfortably. The soundproofing was excellent too.

Apart from the landlord being overly affectionate and wasting twenty minutes of my time with pointless chatter whenever I had to call her, I was fairly satisfied with this place.

It’s been a while since I’ve been here too. My first studio, bought with my own hard-earned money back in my first year of high school.

Right after I secured the deposit, I signed a lease for a two-room apartment—only to fall victim to a rental scam.

After that, I moved into an officetel.

Since I’m not the neatest by nature, the place was a bit dirty.

I grabbed a half-empty 2L water bottle carelessly strewn on the floor and gulped it down greedily.

The water was ice-cold because I hadn’t turned on the boiler, filling my stomach with liquid chill.

And with it came a trivial thought that brushed across my mind.

When I slammed my cheek hard enough to splatter blood on the table.

When I unilaterally broke the contract with the “company.”

When I was nearly hit by a truck.

When I spoke with that rookie hero whose name I still didn’t know.

A sensation lingered, tugging at a corner of my heart—one that felt eerily dreamlike.

After experimentally investigating her preferences thoroughly,

then meticulously storing all of it in my mind without forgetting—while pouring cold water down my throat—

only now did it truly sink in.

Pfft….

…

It felt like I was alive.

I finished practicing my typing.

After a quick shower, I opened Notepad beneath the window and began searching for answers to the various things I’d been curious about.

Regression to the past, time reversal, mental disorders where one believes they’ve returned to the past, etc., etc….

While some results mentioned depression and schizophrenia, none of it was compelling enough to catch my interest.

Then whose doing was it that I returned to the past?

Or, rather—why had ten years’ worth of memories suddenly been crammed into my head?

Regrettably, the open internet had its limits.

But even if I sought out a psychiatrist, I doubted it would help much.

How would they react if I introduced myself with, I’m from the future, ten years ahead?

The answer was obvious.

Until I could accurately predict major future events, both the doctor and I would label me a madman.

Ah, whatever.

Forget about consulting a doctor.

Once those events actually unfold, the fact that I’ve returned from the future will become undeniable.

Hmm.

If I’m really anxious, maybe I should just embrace these ten years of youth I’ve been given.

…It can’t be schizophrenia, right?

Refusing to entertain the thought further, I pressed the backspace key firmly.

Next, I looked up the recruitment guidelines for Mirren Academy, one of the hero-training institutions.

I lazily tapped the keyboard for Mirren Academy, then scrolled down without much enthusiasm—clack, clack.

The first thing I saw was the practical exam.

Not particularly important.

At least, not for someone vaguely superhuman like me. But for healers—irreplaceable assets—it was a different story.

Next. Written exam.

Staring at those two words for a long moment, I eventually gave up and moved on.

The reason was simple.

Villains don’t study.

Then, my mouse paused somewhere else.

There, written in plain text: Recruitment Period.

The first digit was a 1.

December. Then January.

According to my phone, right now was February.

Seemed like I wouldn’t be meeting her through this route.

She mentioned looking for a weekend part-time job, so maybe I could scout stores with those kinds of flyers.

Or fake a chance encounter while she was heading home after classes. That sort of thing.

Then again, if even that was too much effort, I could just drop the whole idea.

It wasn’t like the old days where cities only had a handful of heroes.

Nowadays, practically every high school class had at least one or two superhumans.

The issue was just that fewer of them had powers strong enough to be worth pursuing.

Anyway.

I could discard the plan if it was too troublesome, but since she was a student at Mirren Academy, there was always the chance of meeting other heroes through her, right?

If I got lucky and built rapport with her, why toss aside such a fortunate opportunity?

Besides, many famous heroes were Mirren graduates, so maybe…

…For now, maybe I should just prepare properly.

I titled the file ‘1’.

After tossing the 22KB Notepad file into a desktop folder labeled ‘Puppy’, right before shutting down—

—I noticed a word written much further down, near the very end.

Curious, I scrolled further.

What awaited me there was—

“…Huh.”

A ‘Job Posting’.

“…….”

Click.

Clack, clack.

The soft sound of a mouse wheel turning echoed quietly.

The slogan—

“The Finest Heroes, Born from the Finest Academy”

—was so embarrassing he couldn’t bear to look at it.

Seok Jaehwa, the principal of Mirren Academy, sat before his laptop, tapping the desk restlessly with his fingertips.

Of course, it wasn’t the former that embarrassed him.

Given how many heroes they’d produced…!

What embarrassed him was the latter.

The Finest Academy.

This didn’t just mean prestige-wise.

As a former hero himself, Principal Seok had gone above and beyond to recruit the best active heroes from various fields to teach his students.

He prided himself on having cutting-edge combat dummies and AI training systems unparalleled by any other academy.

And he spared no expense in supporting students to hone their abilities to the fullest. (Though, technically, it was their tuition fees paying for it anyway.)

Within such facilities, students freely attended classes, designed their own curricula, trained without restraint, and formed bonds with peers—

—blossoming like countless blooming flowers.

Seok Jaehwa truly believed Mirren Academy was the elite among elites.

He was satisfied.

If everything had gone according to plan—

No, if only one thing had gone according to plan—

—he would still be basking in that satisfaction.

“…No rumors of him enrolling anywhere else?”

Muttering to himself, Principal Seok flipped open the enrollment list again.

His gaze halted at the section under ‘S’.

Nothing.

He checked once, twice, multiple times—still nothing.

The healing-type superhuman—Seo Woojin.

That bastard.

Where the hell was he?

Had he already joined some agency as a sidekick?

“Ugh…”

Of course, a healing-type superhuman didn’t need to attend an academy.

Domestic hero agencies clamored for them, and overseas, where healers were even rarer, the highest bidders would happily scoop him up.

Not to mention rumors that this particular student loathed media exposure—something Seok had dug up ages ago.

If he’d quietly aligned himself with some agency without announcing it, even the principal wouldn’t know where to look.

He had connections, but none where it mattered.

But from interviews and cross-referencing with alumni from the same middle school, there was one confirmed detail.

The reporter described Seo Woojin as “an ice-cold, rigid student who knew an unsettling amount about heroes.”

His former classmate called him “a gloomy hero-obsessed creep who looked normal but had a hobby of digging up heroes’ personal lives.”

In other words, he liked heroes.

Or rather, he liked information about heroes.

Lots of it.

Which was why Principal Seok had assumed this:

Wouldn’t someone like that prefer an academy brimming with rookie heroes over some agency where the heroes were already established?

A classic case of wishful thinking.

“Damn it.”

Maybe money had outweighed fresh intel after all.

Closing his laptop with a sigh, Principal Seok slumped deeper into regret over things he hadn’t done.

Not reaching out to Seo Woojin out of fear of pressuring him.

Drafting—but never sending—a heartfelt, thousand-word plea for him to choose Mirren.

And so on.

“If only I’d actually reached out… What now?”

Seo Woojin was the only healing-type superhuman his age.

The next youngest was a chubby-cheeked fifth grader.

Which led to one deeply embarrassing predicament.

The academy had prepared…

…a small infirmary for him on the first floor.

Assuming he’d enroll, of course.

“…….”

It’s fine.

They’d designed it to be soundproofed and cozy, given his reclusive reputation—but whatever.

If they stuffed a regular medic in there, at least emergencies would be handled.

They could spin it as “additional construction due to the main infirmary being overcrowded.”

Not like anyone would buy that, but it was better than nothing.

Sure, they’d get judgmental stares for wasting funds on useless facilities when they could just increase hero support budgets—but that was unavoidable.

Sigh.

Straightening his clothes, Principal Seok rose from the sofa.

His stomach ached.

From the stress of imagining those stares.

Just then—

“Hm?”

Checking his phone, he saw two missed calls from an unknown number.

Ah. He must’ve left it on silent earlier when eating lunch.

A careless mistake.

“Hmm…”

Scammers usually only called once.

Who could it be?

Straight to his personal number, bypassing the administration office?

Rubbing his grumbling stomach, he lifted the phone.

“Hello?”

“It’s real, I swear!”

“Yeah. Got it.”

“My ankle was so swollen, like it was about to burst, and then—just like that—!”

“I said I believe you. Lee Hayoon. Please. Stop. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Ah, okay!”

“…Anyway. Glad it worked out. Your ankle’s fixed, and you’ll get 100% of the support funds too. This month’s budget was tight.”

Second floor of Mirren Academy’s gym—

Near the women’s showers.

The low hum of a hairdryer filled the air as ink-black hair swayed lightly.

Then, once again—

—within seconds, the previously still strands stirred like restless flames.

“You’ve never been healed by a healer before either, right?”

“…No.”

“It feels so weird? Like there’s this warm energy wriggling inside you…”

“…So loud… …Ugh…”

“It spreads all through your body, squirming around, then—pop!—it’s done.”

“…….”

“After this, I can’t settle for just casts anymore…”

“…….”

“H-Hey, Jiyoon? You missed a spot here and—”

“Do it yourself. I want to look around the academy more.”

“Huh…? Meanie… You’ve got remedial classes soon too…”

“…….”

Thud.

Thud.

The slow footsteps paused momentarily.

The hair—now almost entirely bleached white from mana—

—only revealed its original black strands when swaying.

Short, snow-white hair.

“…You’ll stay quiet, right?”

“Mmfh—!” (Muffled agreement.)

“Don’t force yourself. Just… be quiet. My head hurts.”

“Mm-hmm.”

(Probably your fault anyway.)

Left unspoken.

“…Oh, sis.”

“What?”

“That room on the first floor of the main building—the one with no nameplate?”

“Huh?”

“Saw it this morning.”

A low hum of thought followed—

—drowned out by the hairdryer’s roar.

Lee Hayoon—Evolution-type superhuman, Limiter Release.

A second-year at Mirren Academy and prospective hero—finally answered after a long pause.

“No idea?”

“…Never mind. My bad for asking.”

“No, seriously, there wasn’t a room like that before… Maybe another classroom?”

“Sure. Now stay quiet.”

“Pout…”