"I’ll save the heroes."
"...What?"
Her expression shifted—confused, intrigued. Just the reaction I was aiming for.
"Did I hear that right?" she asked, brows slightly furrowed.
"Yeah," I nodded.
"You want to save the heroes?"
"All of them. Across the world, if possible."
"That’s... quite the ambitious goal. Unusual too."
"I know."
Every word I said ca straight from the heart. It wasn’t for show.
Too many characters had died for no good reason—pointless sacrifices, cheap emotional payoffs, or just because the plot demanded it. And most of those deaths? They were heroes. People who deserved better.
I always hated it when my friend—the author—went on one of his killing sprees. But as a reader, there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
Now, though... I had the chance. And I wasn’t going to waste it.
At the very least, I wanted to save the ones I could.
Especially Ryen and Leo Taylor.
They were the protagonists, but even they weren’t spared from the tragedy. They both spiraled into depression because of how the story was written.
"I want to help the heroes—the ones who die without anyone ever helping them. Because they’re the ones who spend their lives saving others."
Yeah, it was a little cheesy.
But that kind of idealism? It worked on people like her.
Ten years of web novels had taught how characters like her tick. I wasn’t making the sa rookie mistakes.
"Huh..."
The chairman tilted her head, her gaze distant for a mont. Then she nodded slowly.
"You don’t strike as entirely virtuous," she said. "But I can tell—you’re not lying."
Damn right. I was dead serious.
"So this ’saving heroes’ thing... Is that why you tried to stop the academy attack?"
That was the reason.
Because I wanted to help Ryen.
...And also, I wanted to save myself.
That part ca first, honestly. But she didn’t need to know that.
So I just smiled.
I waited for her to say sothing, but instead of speaking, she quietly stood up from her seat and began walking toward .
My heart skipped a beat.
Did I screw up sowhere? Was it the smile? Did she think it was suspicious?
Was she thinking, "He knows too much. Better erase him before he becos a problem."
Crap.
But thankfully, none of that happened.
She didn’t glare at or throw any accusations. Instead, she gently reached out and ruffled my hair, a warm smile spreading across her face.
"I’m sorry," she said softly. "I didn’t realize you were such a timid, easily startled kid."
"...What?"
"I an it. It was impressive how you answered so honestly, even though you were clearly on edge."
Huh?
That... wasn’t the reaction I expected.
Sure, I tried to co across as a decent person, but I didn’t think she’d see right through my nerves like that.
"Lena was right. You really are just a ’good kid,’" she said with a light chuckle, then pulled sothing from her pocket and handed it to .
I blinked.
A small bottle?
Wait—was this a potion?
"I didn’t an to scare you," she said, "but I ended up doing it anyway. So consider this a little compensation. It should help with recovery—physical or magical."
...Wow.
The Chairman wasn’t just sharp. She actually understood how to deal with people. She knew that scaring soone—even unintentionally—ca with consequences. And instead of brushing it off, she offered a gesture of goodwill.
Way more reasonable than I’d expected.
Definitely not the sa person from the novel.
Back there, she was portrayed as a cold, no-nonsense woman. But that was probably because both Ryen and Leo constantly pushed her buttons. If they had been ordinary students, I doubt they would’ve gotten off so easily.
"It looks like you liked my gift, huh?"
"Huh?"
Ah, crap. My poker face must’ve slipped.
I was just too excited. I couldn’t help it.
She smirked. "Anyway, back to the main topic—when can you et your father?"
I took a deep breath, composing myself. "Who?"
She gave a flat look. "Your father."
Oh. Right. That was why she called here in the first place.
"I can et him tomorrow."
"Good. I’ll let him know."
Well I was prepared to et him.
It’s just normal eting between father and son, right?
---
The Next Morning...
Let take back everything I said.
I wasn’t ready for this.
If it had just been a normal father-son eting, I might’ve been fine. Awkward, sure—but manageable.
But this?
Yeah. I was not prepared.
"I’m here to escort you, Young Master."
...What?
Standing at my door was a white-haired butler, streaked with a few strands of black, bowing in a perfect ninety-degree angle the mont I opened it.
His posture, his crisp uniform, around him—it all scread old money. The kind of wealth that didn’t flaunt itself because it didn’t need to.
"Uh... escort ?" I asked, still half-asleep and clutching my toothbrush like it was a dagger.
"Yes," the butler replied without lifting his head. "The Master has requested your presence at the family private resturant. A private car is waiting."
Master.
Estate.
Car.
I hadn’t even gotten to rinse yet.
"...Can I—uh, get dressed first?" I muttered.
"Of course, Young Master. I shall wait precisely seventeen minutes. Any longer and the schedule may be disrupted."
He stepped back and stood perfectly still outside the door like so kind of aristocratic gargoyle.
This was bad.
This was very bad.
I could handle tension. I could bluff my way through verbal chess matches with terrifying won like the Chairman.
But I couldn’t play the young master role in this drama.
And let’s not forget about my roommate reaction.
Leona Harper—no, Leon Harper, as far as the world was concerned—was right there. She looked between and the butler, wide-eyed, completely dumbfounded.
I could practically hear her internal dialogue screaming: What the hell is this guy’s background?
God, this was so embarrassing.
The butler remained in his position, unmoving, like a statue carved from pride and punctuality.
Leona—Leon—blinked again, slowly processing the scene. Her hair was still tousled from sleep, her pajamas rumpled, but her eyes were sharp now. Suspicious. Incredulous.
"...You’ve got a butler?" she asked, voice flat.
I hesitated.
Technically... yes?
"I didn’t ask for one," I muttered. "He just... showed up."
"Showed up? Dressed like that? With a car?"
"Yeah. Apparently my ’father’ arranged it."
Leona folded her arms and leaned against the wall, expression unreadable. "So. You’re rich."
"I—I an, I guess? I don’t feel rich."
She arched a brow. "Your toothbrush says otherwise."
I looked down.
It was made of silver.
When the hell did I get a silver toothbrush?
The butler cleared his throat politely. "Young Master. Sixteen minutes remain."
Right. Crisis mode.
I darted back into the room, slamd the door shut, and began scrambling to find sothing decent to wear. Nothing too flashy, nothing too common. Sothing that said, I know I’m privileged but I’m also humble and competent and don’t secretly want to die from anxiety right now.
...Yeah, not happening.
By the ti I ca out, dressed in the most neutral, non-threatening outfit I could find (dark blazer, white collar, clean pants—no insignia), Leona was still standing there, eyeing like I’d grown two heads.
"You’re eting your dad at a restaurant?" she asked.
"Apparently a private one."
She nodded slowly. "So, noble."
"Don’t."
"Fine. Aristocrat."
"Don’t."
"Fine. ’Young Master.’"
"...I hate you."
She smirked. "Good luck."
I stepped into the hallway, where the butler gave a single approving nod. "Fourteen seconds early. Excellent."
The mont I left the dorm building, I knew I was out of my depth.
My father wasn’t just rich.
He was filthy rich.
So yeah, of course a guy like that would have an elite butler on standby.
...Man. Aren’t transmigrators supposed to be poor?
Why’d I have to end up with the ultra-rich villain dad?
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