Valor was the Hero Association's most elite training facility, an awe-inspiring fusion of magic, technology, and modern engineering. Built on a massive artificial island off the eastern coast of the U.S., it spanned an area nearly twice the size of Manhattan. The complex housed over 5,000 cadets, with 1,300 first-years alone. Just two weeks earlier, 2,000 support-class students had graduated, making room for new recruits from around the world. Competition here was fierce, brutally so. For most 17- to 19-year-olds, this wasn't a school. It was a crucible.
From year two onward, the student population grew even larger, as aspiring battle-mages transferred from the National Arcane University, another 200 to 300 students. By then, Valor became even more intense.
But Valor wasn't only cadets. It housed instructors, cafeteria staff, researchers, janitors, recruiters, engineers, medical professionals, security teams, and even government liaisons. The island's total population reached nearly 50,000.
It was no surprise that Valor drew massive investment and global attention. In the world of my novel, the U.S. was no longer the sole superpower—countries like South Korea had risen to parity. Why? Because I wanted, simple as that.
Still, the character I now inhabited, Noah Swagger, was technically one of the elite. He had made it into Valor's combat division. But his destiny? Entirely unlinked to the main storyline. I had never written anything about him. He wasn't important. Which meant he wasn't burdened by some grand fate or tragedy.
He could live quietly.
Honestly, I wanted that too.
I exhaled slowly, standing in front of my classroom door.
[Novice – Veritas]
"Novice" meant first-year. "Veritas" was our class designation. Basically, this was Class 1-A.
I already knew Grayson Locke and Ethan Ward were in this class too. Grayson, the proud heir with a superiority complex. Ethan, the naturally gifted swordsman. I remembered the messy classroom politics that would soon erupt, Grayson's schemes, his dominance, the way everyone would get pulled into his orbit whether they wanted to or not.
I took a breath, then opened the door.
The classroom was sleek and sterile, white with soft-glow lighting. Three tiers of long desks rose toward the back of the room. I spotted Grayson Locke immediately, sitting in the very back, eyes closed, hands in his pockets. His long-time friend, Yvonne Lancaster, chatted beside him, completely ignoring me.
Thank God.
I slipped into a seat at the edge of the middle row. The front of the room had no chalkboard, just a transparent screen that projected holographic text and images. I sighed.
Back in school again. After already having gone through military service in the real world, no less.
There truly was no worse curse.
"…Yaaaawn."
Valor's semester started in February. It was freezing outside, and the warmth of the room only made me sleepier. It was 8:00 A.M., and class wouldn't begin for another 30 minutes. I hadn't even meant to arrive so early. The teleport portal from D.C. to Valor had been faster than expected, and I assumed I'd get lost, this place was enormous.
Thankfully, the Cube had its own bus system running every 10 minutes across campus. That wasn't in the original story. I'd made my protagonist walk everywhere for dramatic effect. Apparently, now that the novel was "real," it was correcting my plot holes.
Whatever. I was too tired to care. I laid my head on the desk and let sleep take me.
---
"Now!"
A thunderous voice snapped me awake. I jolted upright.
A tall man stood at the podium, eyes sharp as a hawk.
"Today's the first day, so we won't dive into anything heavy," he said. "But I hope you've all done your morning drills. Mana is thickest before dawn, ideal for training."
Morning drills? Right. I had included that in the story. The training grounds opened from 5 to 8 A.M. to give the main characters a chance to bond.
"Let's start with introductions. I'm Scott Havers, your supervising instructor this year."
I vaguely remembered him from my outline.
"My national rank is 3,850. Global rank: 9,737. By the Association's classification, I'm a Grade 5, High-Intermediate Hero."
Gasps and wide eyes rippled across the room. Not surprising. Only about two million registered heroes existed worldwide. Being in the top 10,000 was no joke.
"That's enough about me," he said with a smirk.
"The first day always brings nerves. Maybe you didn't sleep, maybe you're eager to prove yourself, or maybe you're just excited to see someone cute again."
The class chuckled, but his smile faded quickly.
"Valor isn't what it used to be. There's no time for romance here. What awaits you is real combat. You will learn what fear tastes like."
The sudden chill in his tone made my stomach knot.
Combat training? Great. I had to do that, too?
"Valor judges you by one thing: results. That's what the guilds care about, and that's what we'll grade you on. Fairly, but strictly. If you fall behind, you repeat the semester. You can only be held back twice. Fail a third time, and you're out. If you can't become a hero, you'll be redirected to security, intel, or mercenary work. I'm sure none of you came here for that."
Instructor Havers scanned our expressions.
"I see a few familiar faces…"
So did I.
Ethan Ward. Grayson Locke. Yvonne Lancaster. Nadia Chase. Princess Rachel Arkwright. Ian Yeong.
The six main characters of the story. Grayson sat beside Yvonne, while Ethan and Nadia kept a competitive distance from each other. Rachel sat alone, as usual, and Ian sat directly behind Ethan.
"At Valor, you'll refine what you've learned so far and face live combat simulations," the instructor continued. "Nothing here will be easy. Prepare yourselves."
He paused, then gave our first task of the semester:
"Your first activity today: choose your main weapon."
---
Weapon Selection Room
"Any weapon you can imagine is available."
That was no exaggeration. This room had everything: swords, spears, sabers, daggers, rapiers, bows, guns, gauntlets, halberds, axes, whips… even obscure ones like the kusarigama.
A main weapon wasn't just for training. It shaped your fighting style and became your identity as a hero. Once chosen, it couldn't be changed for six months.
Training versions were provided, but even those were worth millions of won on the open market.
I had no idea what to pick.
I didn't know anything about Noah Swagger's preferences. Or abilities. Or even physical aptitude.
The other cadets fanned out, stepping in front of their chosen weapons. Instructor Havers gave a reminder:
"Pick carefully. You'll be stuck with your decision for a while."
The popular choices were predictable.
Ethan chose the sword, naturally.
Grayson stood in front of a spear.
Roughly 70% of the class clustered around the "holy trinity": sword, spear, and saber.
But not everyone followed the trend.
Yvonne chose a whip.
Nadia picked a bow.
Rachel stood before a rapier, calm and confident.
And me?
…I just stood there.
"Noah Swagger," Instructor Havers called out. His voice echoed through the room. "Why are you still standing?"
All eyes turned toward me—Ethan's, Grayson's, everyone's.
Crap.
I hated this. Being the center of attention.
Still, I slowly stepped forward toward a lonely weapon no one else had even glanced at.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't traditional. It wasn't even considered heroic.
But it was practical.
Simple. Clean. Distant.
And it had a trigger.
A handgun.
The weapon that every other cadet had scoffed at.
To most heroes, it was just a lump of metal. Useful in civilian life, maybe. But a joke on the battlefield.
Still, this was the only weapon I felt even remotely comfortable holding.
Close combat? Forget it. Blood? No thanks.
"Noah Swagger."
Instructor Havers called again, voice growing sharper.
I didn't answer. I just reached out and grabbed the gun.
It was cold and surprisingly heavy. The metal bit into my palm. The scent of oil and faint rust filled my nostrils.
I turned to face the others.
And dozens of stares met mine.