BIAC 02

Chapter 2

“…Ha.”

The instructor standing before him sighed quietly.
At that sound, Uriel finally realized what he had done.

Just moments ago, the instructor had called him aside and said with calm gravity:

“I recognize your effort. But there are times when effort alone isn’t enough.
Sometimes, stepping back is also an act of courage—one that takes its own kind of strength.”

That had struck something raw in him.
And before he knew it, Uriel had done something utterly unthinkable—
he had talked back to the instructor.

He had actually demanded, voice raised and trembling,
that the instructor take back his words.

A student—one of countless trainees—
daring to challenge a veteran who had survived countless battles
and now trained others to survive the same.

‘…Foolish.’

Foolish beyond belief.

He had lost his temper, letting emotions dictate his actions.

That man standing before him was no ordinary instructor.
He was the most renowned figure in the Imperial Military Academy—Theresia Academy.

Though he had joined only a month ago,
he’d already secured a permanent position as an instructor—
an accomplishment nearly unheard of.

On the battlefield, he had been called the Butcher,
for the sheer number of demons he had slain,
and also the Axe-bearing Angel,
for the countless comrades he had saved from death.

He was the only man of common birth to receive
the Empire’s highest Medal of Honor.

And despite that prestige,
he wasn’t one of those instructors who let power rot their soul.
If anything, he despised such people.
He was fair, rational, and disciplined to the core.

His every action stemmed from one wish—
that his students might, in battle, kill a little more—and die a little less.

There was no comparing Uriel to him.

Especially in combat—
there wasn’t a single person in Terezia who could afford to ignore his judgment.

‘And yet I, a mere student, questioned his decision…
No wonder he sighed.’

He assumed that sigh was disappointment,
and he prepared to bow and offer a belated apology.

But then—

“Then prove it.”

“…Sir?”

“Prove that I’m wrong. That you’re right.
Effort alone may not be enough in this world—
but sometimes, it’s precisely that effort that makes the impossible possible.
Prove it, Uriel.”

“…”

“Do your best.”

With that, the instructor patted his shoulder and turned away.

The tone was calm, almost too calm.
It could have meant ‘Let’s see if you’re truly worth it’—
but even that…
even that felt like the greatest encouragement Uriel had ever received.

Everyone else had moved ahead.
He was still stuck at the bottom of the class rankings.
He had struggled and struggled, yet nothing ever went his way.

They said effort can’t beat talent.
They said he was the perfect proof of that.

Everyone advised him to quit—to find another path.

And maybe they were right.
Maybe this was nothing but stubbornness.
A doomed, foolish obsession that would one day consume him whole.

But still—
he couldn’t give up.
He had a dream, one that he would gladly die chasing,
so long as he could die smiling at the end.

He had spent so long walking that lonely road—
without praise, without encouragement, without a single hand to hold.

And yet now…

“Do your best.”

That single phrase lingered in his chest.

For his dream—
and for the first person who had believed in him—
he vowed he would prove it.

That he could make the impossible, possible.

He wandered aimlessly until he found an empty bench and sat down.
Above, the sky stretched wide and blue. A cool wind brushed his face.
Everything felt real—too real.

So no, he didn’t need to slap himself to check.

“Mm.”

A body that wasn’t his. A life that wasn’t his.
He had been possessed—without warning, without reason.

At first, he’d been terrified.
Now… he was just trying to process it.

It helped that he recognized what had just happened.
That scene with Uriel?
It was a segment straight out of the story mode of “The Empire Needs a Hero!”

Uriel was one of the supporting characters.
And this place—this Imperial Officer Academy, Theresia—
was the very same training ground for the heroes of that game.

And as for him?

He was the instructor.

Just like in the game.

‘I remember now… the player’s background, too, right?’

He’d always focused more on the characters than the player character himself,
so his own backstory was hazy.

Still—he recalled the essentials.

The instructor—Deus—had joined the academy only a month ago.
He was a decorated veteran of the war against the demons,
a soldier among soldiers.

A commoner in an empire still ruled by noble blood.
A rare, uneasy position.

‘Wait… speaking of names—what’s mine here?’

He glanced down quickly at the badge on his chest.

Please, anything but that old username…

“…Phew.”

He exhaled in relief.

If it had said [Take me home] like his old game nickname,
he might have strangled himself on the spot.

Instead, the badge read:

[Deus]

That was better. Much better.

And with that name came a flood of memories—
not from his world, but this body’s world.

A poor boy, born to loving parents.
A village burning in flames.
A mother and father who died shielding their son.
Then, the battlefield—years and years of blood, death, and survival.

From a boy soldier, to a hardened veteran.
From a faceless grunt, to an elite fighter,
until finally, a commander of the Empire’s special forces.

‘…Guess that explains the calluses.’

His palms were thick with scars and hardened skin.

This body had fought and bled and killed its way through hell.

And now, that same man—he himself—was to train the next generation of heroes.

‘So this is what all those reincarnated protagonists go through…’

He chuckled faintly.
All those stories where the hero fumbled about in confusion,
he finally understood why.

A wave of nausea hit him. His head spun.

He might have thrown up—
if not for the sound.

Rustle—

Twenty-seven meters behind.
Human footsteps, adult male, not demonic.
No intent to ambush, but not friendly either.
Unarmed—most likely.

He knew all that from a single sound.

Every muscle tensed. The instincts of a soldier screamed readiness.

But he didn’t move.
He knew exactly what came next.

A light thwack—

“Hey, commoner.”

Something struck the back of his head.

Even expecting it didn’t make it less irritating.

He turned, forcing a smile.

“…Instructor Ludvig.”

Exactly as illustrated—
golden hair, haughty smirk, pure arrogance incarnate.

Instructor Ludwig.

The first antagonist you meet in The Empire Needs a Hero!
A noble supremacist to the bone.

How many times had he wanted to throttle that bastard when playing?

“Come with me. The Headmaster’s calling.”

At Theresia, instructors technically held equal rank.
No seniority by years served—
only by ability.

But unofficially?
Nobles still lorded over common-born instructors like him.

“Why are you just sitting there? Get up. Move.”

The man’s tone oozed disdain.

‘Gods, that face is punchable,’ he thought,
but said nothing, simply falling in step behind.

As they walked the corridors, he took in the surroundings.
Just like in the game—only now, everything was real.

The Academy that would forge the Empire’s heroes.
Students striving to become saviors.
Teachers dedicating their lives to shaping them.

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Sir?”

“Why the Headmaster would summon a commoner like you personally.”

He bit back a sigh.
Typical Ludwig.

Still, he decided to test something.

“Well, if the Headmaster calls, I must go.
Do you happen to know why, sir?”

“I don’t.”

“Ah.”

“And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell a brainless peasant.”

“…Right.”

No change. The man was as loathsome as ever.

“You’re lucky, commoner. With so many dead in the war,
I suppose they had to prop someone up as a hero—
to keep the fools cheering instead of complaining.”

There it was—the backstory.

In truth, Deus was a war hero,
but part of his fame had been politically manufactured
to pacify the restless common folk after massive wartime losses.

The Empire had handpicked a soldier of humble birth
and exalted him as a symbol of merit and unity.

That soldier—was him.

But the cost was doubt and resentment from the nobles.

“Who knows if you were ever that great to begin with,”
Ludwig sneered.

Deus almost laughed.
Because the truth was the opposite—
his achievements were understated, not exaggerated.

They reached the Headmaster’s office.

“Headmaster, it’s Ludwig. I’ve brought Instructor Deus, as you requested.”

“Come in,” a calm voice replied.

“Go on, commoner. Mind your manners.”

He stepped inside, resisting the urge to punch the man squarely in the jaw.

The Headmaster—Vincent Nicolaus—was a silver-haired noble,
but unlike Ludwig, he valued merit above bloodline.

“Welcome, Instructor Deus. Thank you, Ludwig.”

“No trouble at all, sir. I found him resting quite comfortably, as it happens.”

The jab was obvious. Deus ignored it.

“Good. I won’t take much of your time, Deus.
I have a student I’d like you to supervise personally.
Starting next week—can you handle that?”

“Which student, sir?”

The moment was familiar.

This was that scene—
the start of the main storyline.

He already knew what name would be spoken next.

“Her Highness, the Seventh Princess.”

“What—? Your Highness?! Headmaster, surely you can’t mean—”

“Enough, Ludwig. This was her request.”

The man stiffened, jaw tight.

“Her Highness heard of your deeds, Deus, and expressed great interest.
She wishes to receive special instruction from you personally.”

“I see,” he said evenly.

Vincent smiled.

“A rare spirit, that one. Despite her noble blood,
she longs to fight beside her people.
She’s earnest—sincere.”

Deus nodded politely, as though weighing the offer.

The Headmaster’s expression brightened,
confident that the instructor would accept.

But instead—

“I’m sorry, Headmaster,” Deus said quietly.
“I must refuse.”

The room fell still.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”