episode_0005

I don’t know what to wear.

Would a white outfit look bright and nice?

Or would it not matter if I just wore my usual gloomy black clothes?

I didn’t consider any other colors.

Because villains stubbornly stick to monochrome outfits.

In fact, my closet—belonging to a former villain—was filled only with a few white clothes and an overwhelming number of black ones.

Of course, when you think about it, it’s a pretty shitty philosophy.

But based on experience, most villains gave off that vibe.

A few days before the raid, that bitch Yozora, who suggested drinking at my place, was flashy, but in terms of color, she still had a similar feel.

The same went for the other villains whose names I can’t even remember now.

At best, jeans were the height of their fashion sense.

“A watch… I don’t have one. Huh.”

Unusually warm for February, but still midwinter.

Instead of a medical professional’s white coat, I wore a long padded jacket with white fur, grabbed my wet umbrella again, and left the house.

Alright. Time for the interview.

5

There’s a saying: “Pull the iron horn while it’s hot.”

The original meaning is an old proverb that wouldn’t resonate much even if explained, but it essentially means to act decisively when an opportunity arises.

Principal Seok Jae-hwa really liked this saying.

The reason was simple.

Because he was a simple man.

“Hmm-hmm~”

Overthinking and complex calculations didn’t suit his temperament.

If a villain appeared before him, he’d punch them to death with all his might.

If he found a villain’s hideout, he’d raise his knee and crash, smashing it to pieces.

He didn’t negotiate with villains.

If he couldn’t decide on food, he’d default to jajangmyeon.

Even if everyone was gathered, if there was nothing else to do, he’d disband them immediately.

Even if he was lounging at home watching TV, if a call for backup came, he’d charge without hesitation.

If someone he missed contacted him, instead of saying, “Let’s meet tomorrow,” he’d blurt out, “Let’s meet now.”

That was the life of Seok Jae-hwa, former No. 5 hero of South Korea.

And so, Seok Jae-hwa, the current principal of a hero training institution, thought:

“It’s really a relief that I get to meet Seo Woo-jin like this, even if it’s late.”

Enough to personally serve him a cup of instant mix coffee with a smile.

Meanwhile, Woo-jin briefly glanced at the capsule coffee machine in the distance before turning his attention to the paper cup in front of him.

He had questions but didn’t ask.

Because he preferred instant coffee anyway.

He figured the place just had expensive decor.

“It feels like I just called you, but you got here quickly.”

“I live nearby.”

“Living nearby… Good.”

In truth, this kind of question in a part-time job interview usually translates to, “Can you come in at short notice if we call you urgently?”

Especially in cafes or convenience stores where no-shows without notice are common.

But Principal Seok Jae-hwa was simple.

A healing-type transcendent. He was just happy at the thought of adding Seo Woo-jin to his bouquet.

More precisely, the wire that would tightly bind the bouquet together.

Or maybe the non-woven fabric inside or the wrapping paper on the outside.

“Looking at the time, it took a little over 30 minutes.”

“Including time to prepare… Yes, about that.”

“Good. Very good. Commute won’t be an issue…”

Not that it mattered even if it were.

Couldn’t he just solve it by buying a house?

“I explained things like your health teacher qualifications and the position during the call, so no need to go over them again, right?”

“Yes. Since you said it’s all up to the principal’s discretion.”

Miren Academy, a prestigious institution.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t national or public but a private academy.

“That’s the gist of it, but that’s a bit too blunt.”

“Logically speaking, there’s no reason not to hire me as the health teacher.”

“Well, that’s true, but…”

Healing-Type Transcendent (Position: Health Teacher)

It felt like a national-level hero stepping in to deal with petty thugs.

Woo-jin quietly rubbed his fingertips.

The position of health teacher was somewhat lacking for binding a healing-type transcendent, but it didn’t matter.

Position: Health Teacher at a Hero Training Institution.

Where else could he meet so many injured heroes in one place?

Of course, if his encounters with heroes had been a bit more dramatic and intense, it would’ve been perfect.

But he’d long since given up on that.

Getting slashed to death by a scythe the size of a person, vomiting blood—that was a bit too far from his preferences.

Even if it wasn’t his ideal, the safer option was better.

‘…Now that I think about it, wasn’t that woman also from Miren?’

Where was the Reaper from again?

As Woo-jin absentmindedly traced the rim of the paper cup, recalling past information, the principal’s face suddenly came into view.

He seemed to have something to say.

“That part.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to discuss that part with you, Woo-jin.”

“…Salary negotiation?”

“No. The part about being a health ‘teacher.’”

Principal Seok Jae-hwa folded the question sheets he’d brought in half as he spoke.

He’d brought them for formality’s sake, but now that he thought about it, they were unnecessary.

Because I’m the principal.

“Why a teacher and not a student?”

“The application period for students had already passed.”

A simple reason.

Thanks to that, Seok Jae-hwa could nod without much thought.

“Then I have a proposal.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of being a health teacher, would you consider enrolling as a student? I can arrange it.”

“Not really a tempting offer. There’s nothing in it for me.”

Truly so.

If Woo-jin entered the academy as a ‘health teacher,’ he’d receive a decent monthly salary.

But if he entered as a ‘student,’ his income would vanish, and he’d instead have to pay tuition.

And if you asked whether being a student had any advantages, not really.

From the start, what hero training institutions taught prospective heroes boiled down to ‘how to kill villains,’ no matter the form.

As a healing-type transcendent, Woo-jin had no way to kill villains.

Meaning: Nothing to learn.

Well, there was the option of killing them through sexual means, but…

He kept his mouth shut, thinking it sounded like a tasteless joke.

“Woo-jin. This might be incredibly rude, but…”

“Yes. It’s fine. I’d like to think I have a strong mentality.”

“…I’ve heard you’re very fond of heroes.”

“…….”

Not really a rude thing to say.

Woo-jin sipped his coffee and nodded.

He remembered spending 20 minutes describing a hero with a face perfectly to his taste during a 10-year-old interview.

He thought it had been edited out, but rumors must’ve leaked somehow.

…A bit embarrassing, though.

“So wouldn’t it be better to build strong friendships with fellow transcendent students rather than staying confined to the infirmary as a health teacher? They’re future heroes, after all.”

“Not a wrong point.”

It wasn’t wrong.

But.

“I’m not sure why you’re going this far to accommodate me, though.”

It was a little suspicious.

Whether that was really the reason he wanted him to enroll as a student.

Woo-jin crossed his arms and studied the principal.

Not that he thought the principal had some ulterior motive.

At most, it’d be for publicity: ‘Our academy has a healing-type transcendent!’

But wouldn’t that work just as well if he were a health teacher?

In fact, wouldn’t being a health teacher be better? Why insist on being a student?

‘Come to our academy, and all your injuries will heal!’—that should be enough.

That was Woo-jin’s take.

“…It’s just.”

“Yes.”

“You’re 20, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Isn’t it too early to be a ‘teacher’ at an age when you should be enjoying your youth?”

“…….”

But the principal was simple.

Just a warm, straightforward person.

Someone who still suited the title of ‘hero’ more than ‘principal.’

Seo Woo-jin quietly replied,

“…I’m fine with it.”

Of course, he didn’t mention that he was actually 30.

Small talk done.

Duties as a health teacher.

Work hours (surprisingly, some flexibility was allowed).

Academy rules.

Salary negotiation.

A crisp but oddly dissatisfying white health teacher’s coat, etc.

By the time they wrapped up the remaining details, a red hue shimmered beyond the curtains.

“…On paper, you’re a ‘teacher,’ but to the students, I’ll introduce you as a ‘health committee member.’ It might be awkward for them to address someone their age or younger as ‘Teacher.’”

“That’s fine.”

“Kids these days care a lot about that stuff.”

“Yeah.”

In the end, aside from the salary, wasn’t this practically the same as enrolling as a student?

If he’d explained it this way from the start, Woo-jin would’ve just nodded.

Crushing the empty paper cup and tossing it into the trash, I checked my phone notifications before standing up.

The empty notification screen was typical.

“Then I’ll take my leave. Just to confirm, I start tomorrow, right?”

“Yes. Some second and third-years are already at the academy.”

“Feels like high schoolers attending supplementary classes during vacation.”

“It’s a bit different. The top students are out on field training. Only the troublemakers who didn’t get offers from agencies are left.”

“Ah.”

So the girl I saw earlier was a troublemaker too.

…Well, seeing how she couldn’t control her strength and got hurt, she was a troublemaker.

Given Miren’s reputation, she’d be among the top 1% of troublemakers, though.

After a quick farewell to the principal, I stretched my stiff body and headed to the first floor.

Hmm. The infirmary I’d be using is tucked in a corner of the first-floor main building.

I should check the location now to avoid issues tomorrow.

Might as well inspect the door and walls while I’m at it.

Being the main building, there were no students in sight—just a few heroes who looked like teachers passing by.

A male hero with an upper body resembling a bull,

A male hero wearing seven rings on his left hand (whether magic-related or just his style),

A male hero with a buzzcut straight out of an R-18 game, the epitome of a P.E. teacher.

All male heroes, so I had no idea who they were. No need to greet them either, so I ignored them and headed to the corner.

The place I arrived at was…

“…….”

A lone door, with nothing else around it.

This should be the corner the principal mentioned.

But it didn’t look like an infirmary at all—no pictograms recognizable to anyone, young or old.

At the very least, there should’ve been a green cross.

Or a sign saying ‘Infirmary.’

For privacy’s sake, there wasn’t even a small window on the door.

I liked that.

The handle itself felt high-end when I touched it.

+1 point.

…But the location and vibe…

Was this originally a storage room repurposed as an infirmary starting tomorrow?

If so, I’m a bit skeptical about the soundproofing.

Keeping expectations low, I opened the door.

Fortunately, the door itself felt very sturdy.

Despite the heavy drag against the floor, it opened silently—probably lined with something like felt tape.

+3 points.

Inside, it was unexpectedly not a storage room but a standard infirmary layout.

Not huge, but around 15 pyeong (~50 m²).

Slightly larger than the ones I’d seen in high school, but otherwise ordinary.

Strangely, it looked untouched by human hands. Maybe because patients rarely came here?

Thinking about it, that made sense.

Unsure about tidying up (not my strong suit), I stepped inside, catching a whiff of an unnamed, refreshing deodorizer.

First, I adjusted the curtains that were spread wide open, tied helplessly by strings.

Finally, some relief for my eyes.

Turning my gaze, I saw an L-shaped desk and, beyond it, several beds covered with white sheets.

The desk was whatever. The beds mattered.

Not expecting much from infirmary beds, as long as they were moderately soft and could hold two adults’ weight, they’d do.

Should I test one? Without thinking, I approached a bed—

“…?”

—and spotted a pair of worn-out canvas shoes in front of the white-sheeted bed.

Small, old canvas shoes, slightly splashed with mud from the rain.

The owner must’ve had small feet.

“…….”

More importantly, why were these here?

Staring at the shoes, I slowly pulled back the white sheet covering the bed.

Inside, there was a guest who’d arrived before me—

—fast asleep, completely unaware of the world.

A girl with snow-white, medium-length hair that lightly covered her left eyebrow and shoulders, perfectly framing her face.

Back when I played with a villain with that exact hairstyle, she’d thrown a fit, screaming it was ‘hobo-chic.’

Probably because her face was small enough to pull it off.

The chest rising and falling with each breath under the white knit sweater was one thing,

The smooth thighs tightly encased in stockings stretched to their limit were another,

But my gaze briefly landed on the black wired earphones connected to her slightly exposed ear.

In an era of wireless earbuds, she must’ve been the type to obsess over wired ones for sound quality or whatever.

Though these looked really old.

…Anyway.

“…….”

What to say?

Somehow, she…

Felt familiar.

Tilting my head, I studied her face a little longer.

“…Ah.”

I remembered.

Codename: Witch.

A witch who turned social parasites into beautiful ice sculptures before shattering them without a trace.

A witch who never once smiled.

A witch famously shrouded in mystery regarding her private life.

South Korea’s No. 8 hero, ten years later.

Lee Ji-yoon, ten years younger, lay defenseless before me.

In slightly shabbier shape than I remembered.