Academy’s Villain Professor

Chapter 31 : Lecture (2)

“Hold on.”

Ho-cheol pulled a remote from his pocket.

After pressing a few buttons, a harsh grinding sound echoed, and the entire education hall trembled.

The ceiling, adorned with ordinary lights, split open, revealing a complex mechanical device.

“Seven minutes isn’t long, but with over forty students, it’s too much to allocate individually.

Waiting time aside, it’s impossible to face everyone in one lecture.”

The device—a chaotic fusion of countless intricate machines—left everyone staring with question marks above their heads.

Ho-cheol tilted his head back to inspect it.

Range set about right?

He activated the hall’s true function, unused last time.

“It partially replicates certain special gate phenomena.

One reason is that this hall’s among the academy’s priciest buildings.”

Light shot from the device, encircling only Ho-cheol and Da-yeon, leaving other students untouched.

Everyone gaped at the light, but Da-yeon, inside it, felt a fleeting unease and furrowed her brow.

“This is…”

“Inside this light is a fully isolated space. We can see each other, but interaction like communication is impossible. Space expands, time flows differently. A 1:3 ratio—seven minutes here is about two outside. Perfect for this lecture.”

The insane operating cost was a downside, but not his concern.

With the money I brought, this is fine, right?

“The ratio can go up to 1:10, but that’s too much. This is just right.”

Even for sturdy augmentation-types, this was the limit.

Other types, slightly tougher than normals, struggled at double speed.

He waved the sand timer.

“Shall we start when I flip this?”

“Yes.”

He flipped the timer.

At that moment.

Zip—!

An arrow flew at his forehead.

Just before piercing, he tilted his head, dodging.

“Straight for the forehead? Not bad.”

He’d expected her to aim timidly for the twig or his limbs, but she grasped the lecture’s essence.

Crouching, he set the timer down.

As he straightened, three arrows targeted his vital points with pinpoint precision.

He clicked his tongue.

Can’t dodge these with my current specs.

Gripping the twig, he swung lightly.

It traced a semicircle, grazing the arrows’ sides.

The force was minimal—barely a nudge—but enough.

The arrows, trajectory skewed, veered off harmlessly.

Not dodged or blocked—just redirected.

Da-yeon froze, staring dumbly, forgetting her next attack.

Amazing or incredible didn’t cut it.

This transcended skill.

Snapping back, she resumed her assault.

If she stayed calm, an opening would come.

After deflecting her tenth arrow, Ho-cheol scratched his nose.

“Hm.”

A subtle unease at his fingertips—a faint lack of strength.

“You used your trait.”

He clenched his fist.

Da-yeon’s trait: [Plunder].

A common trait, varying in what it steals.

Hers was straightforward.

“My stamina’s drained, just a bit.”

Deflecting another arrow, he nodded.

The difference was minute, but he felt it—each contact sapped his stamina like drizzle soaking clothes.

“What’s the ratio of energy I lose to what you gain?”

“About 20% now.”

“Useless ratio. Still, it’s double effective since it’s enemy stamina. Absorption method?”

“Normally, it transfers to me, but only with direct contact. Here, the stolen stamina gathers in the arrow, then dissipates.”

She recited what she’d once told him.

“Greedy.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

The stamina loss was negligible but not meaningless.

A minute’s attack proved its effect.

In a prolonged fight, it’d shine.

The Swordmaster’s trait also thrives in long battles. Is this hereditary?

Dismissing the thought, he pointed the twig at her.

“You’ve heard this before, but as your instructor, I’ll ask again. You’re using your trait inefficiently. Ever considered a sword, or close-range combat to maximize it?”

“No.”

A firm, confident reply.

He stared silently, then nodded.

“Alright. Feedback needed, excluding that.”

Even mid-conversation, her attacks didn’t stop.

He deflected effortlessly, but he was impressed.

She’d mastered his teachings and targeted weaknesses well.

She hadn’t dislodged the leaf, but this was…

“Not bad.”

Dodging an arrow, he ran a hand through his hair.

Two minutes had passed.

“Let’s raise the difficulty.”

So far, he’d tested her attack patterns and trait use.

The lecture’s theme—“overwhelming foes”—started now.

He tapped the ground with his toe.

The light mood vanished instantly.

Da-yeon nocked an arrow swiftly.

Before she could fire, he vanished, leaving an afterimage, reappearing right before her.

She shot and retreated, but couldn’t widen the narrowed gap.

He thrust the twig forward.

She gritted her teeth, swinging her bow to deflect it like he had, but his attack was faster.

Tap—

The twig’s tip touched her neck easily.

Though gentle, it hit a vital point.

“You’re dead once.”

His declaration came as the leaf tickled her nose, but she had no time to feel it.

Lowering the twig, he stepped back. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed.

Gasping, she clutched her neck—not just from the hit.

She felt strange being alive. His fleeting “I’ll kill you” intent had seared into every cell.

He scratched his head with the twig.

“Too much to stand?”

“N-No, it’s not…”

She tried to rise but fell again.

Her body, convinced it was dead, ignored her brain’s commands.

He crossed his arms, rubbing his forearm.

“Too soon for this.”

The killing intent was deliberate.

An overwhelmingly stronger foe’s essence was simple: someone who could kill you at will, crushing even resolve with raw fear.

Countless heroes failed to overcome this, doomed to mediocrity.

He couldn’t help it.

Human instinct reacted sharply to death, no matter how often faced. He could provide experience, but overcoming it was up to her.

Without conquering it, she’d remain a mediocre hero.

Sadly, she was stuck there now.

He’d hoped for instant growth, but it was too much for a student.

He sighed faintly.

“My expectations were high.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze.

His eyes held disappointment, and more.

She couldn’t bear it.

Biting her lip, blood’s metallic taste grounded her.

I’m alive.

Why act like a corpse?

Muttering, she staggered up.

Drawing an arrow, her expression was graver than before.

He widened his eyes, surprised.

Wiping away his earlier disappointment, he smiled lightly.

“Good. That’s it. One death? Come at me again.”

One hundred thirteen.

That’s how many times Da-yeon “died” in the next five minutes.

* * *

Rustle—

The sand timer’s last grain fell, signaling seven minutes’ end.

He lowered the twig.

“That’s it for number one.”

Da-yeon sprawled on the floor, gasping.

Not from death’s weight, but sheer exhaustion.

Her trait, pushed to its limit, left her head splitting.

Sweat poured like rain, her soaked clothes clinging, but she had no energy to care.

Panting, she rasped,

“How… how did…”

He saw her movements clearly.

His speed wasn’t vastly superior, and his absurd skill showed only briefly.

Their specs and techniques were equal. Yet…

“Why couldn’t you block once, and I never got hit?”

“Why…?”

“Simple. I was faster.”

He tapped his temple with the twig.

“Not physically—in consciousness.”

She stared blankly, uncomprehending.

“Let’s go theoretical.”

He pulled the remote, pressing the power button.

The light around them vanished.

Beckoning with his finger, he called the students over.

They shared such lessons.

“Combat strategy splits into three tiers: direct reading, reflexive thinking, preemptive awareness.”

The alien concepts left students blinking dumbly.

“Direct reading’s simple—see an attack, react. Purely visual.”

He raised the twig high, letting it fall slowly to tap Da-yeon’s forehead.

“Ow.”

“Next, reflexive thinking. What did I do before swinging?”

A student answered.

“Raise your arm.”

“Right. The grip suggests swinging, not thrusting. Predicting the next move from prior cues—stance, distance, grip, footing, trait type, power—and acting first is reflexive thinking.”

Posture, distance, hand position, grip, foot spacing, body height, trait strength—using these to mirror the next move and counter it was the basis.

“From here, trait battles gain depth. Winning depends on how much you perceive beyond the visible. More intel, more advantage.”

A clear step above direct reading, it was beyond students’ grasp yet.

“Top heroes take this as a baseline. Academy professors know it. Why’s it new to you? Simple.”

He spun the twig, arms crossed.

“They can’t verbalize it. They know it instinctively but can’t explain. Master reflexive thinking, and even equal specs give you a crushing edge.”

A trump card flipping specs and compatibility—the wall Da-yeon felt.

“Then…”

She asked urgently, a bit resentful he explained after her turn.

“How do I learn it?”

“Experience through real combat. That’s all.”

His obsession with practicality.

“I’m not saying master it now. Just knowing it exists changes how you approach it. Never stop thinking. Your body moves in battle, but your mind must race faster.”

He waved the twig side to side.

“That’s it. Step back.”

A student raised a hand.

He nodded.

“You didn’t explain the third tier.”

“Preemptive awareness? You wouldn’t grasp it anyway, so I skipped it.”

It was beyond effort or experience—a vicious concept that could crush vague talents if taught poorly.

Self-realization in combat was best.

“Any volunteers?”

Several hands shot up.

He picked the fastest.

The student, gripping their weapon, stepped up.

Before activating the ceiling device, he glanced aside.

“Move over.”

Da-yeon, still sprawled, raised trembling arms.

“I… can’t move.”

“Ugh.”

He sighed.

* * *

With the last student down, nearly five hours of combat training with forty-three students ended.

“Well…”

He held the twig up to his face.

The leaf dangled, half-loose but still attached.

“No passes.”

No full marks, not even a pass.

The students slumped, dejected.

He remained unfazed.

This outcome was expected.

Dislodging the leaf would’ve stumped even a mob of mid-tier B-grade heroes.

Passing was impossible.

Yet the unexpected gains satisfied him.

Real combat sharpened their movements noticeably.

The lecture’s true goal was assessing their combat ability and trait weaknesses firsthand.

Fixes could come at the MT in ten days.

He blew lightly.

The leaf fell with a snap.

Students laughed in disbelief.

Five hours of all-out effort couldn’t budge it, yet it fell so easily?

Picking it up, he said curtly.

“No passes, but many came close. No one was abysmal enough for a failure. A satisfying result.”

Expecting a scolding for failing, they gaped, surprised.

“Now, your reports.”

He called the class leaders, Da-yeon and Ye-jin, who hauled stacks of papers from the entrance.

Handing them out, he said,

“Feedback on your assignments. I marked errors with notes, but no scores. Learning’s your goal—wrong answers aren’t flaws. No need for grades.”

Seemingly kind, but students, burned by him before, sensed dread.

As expected, his next words were grim.

“These notes aren’t answers but guide you there. Revise and resubmit.”

Someone screamed.

* * *

Post-lecture, Ho-cheol yawned lazily, heading to the president’s office.

He knew why he was summoned—post-auction matters, likely.

Entering without knocking, the president, buried in paperwork, didn’t look up.

“Are you insane?”

“Perfectly sane. Why call me just to curse?”

The president thought it too mild.

This was gentle.

He opened a drawer, pulling out Ho-cheol’s MT plan.

“Location, transport, schedule—all insane. It took me over two hours to read these few pages, I was so dumbfounded.”

He waved the plan.

“An uninhabited island? A fine, wilderness experience could be memorable. But no infrastructure? No lodging, no bathrooms, no meal plans?”

Ho-cheol, puzzled, countered,

“Why prepare meals? It’s an island—nature’s buffet. Free gourmet food you'd pay for elsewhere.”

“Really, calling you mad would offend lunatics worldwide. They’d protest the comparison.”

Lodging, meals, schedule—all a mess, but a bigger issue loomed.

“No medical provisions? It’s far from the mainland. What if a student’s hurt?”

“That island’s safe—no venomous snakes or mushrooms. I can handle basic surgery or first aid. Just pack a portable clean room and medical tools.”

He spoke confidently.

Beyond red ointment, he was skilled in major trauma—vascular damage, organ injuries, CPR—near-expert level.

The president, briefly shocked, understood.

Villains couldn’t visit regular hospitals.

Underworld doctors existed, but were scarce.

Demand outstripped supply.

Even serious injuries had to be self-treated.

Without such medical knowledge, survival was impossible.

“That’s reassuring. But…”

Separately, he asked a critical question.

“Got a license?”

“Nope.”

Unable to hold back, the president roared, hurling the plan.