We were assigned to the same class.
Jerry...
Coincidence? Maybe. But it felt more like the universe doing one of those cheeky nudges it was so fond of—like when you hear an old song the day after dreaming about it. Familiar. Ironic. Slightly suspicious.
•••••••
Classes at MetaHuman Academy weren't like anything I'd ever seen—not in my life or my past, and not even in those weird interdimensional fever dreams from the Academy orientation files. It was a bizarre blend of old-school tradition and bleeding-edge tech: floating staircases, chrome-tiled corridors with memory foam floors, and bulletin boards that blinked like sentient beings judging your GPA.
The first week wasn't about choosing anything. It was about observation. Evaluation.
And not just them watching us—we were watching, too. Trying to figure out what all this meant.
They gave us samples of everything. Combat theory. Digital alchemy. Support architecture. Tactical simulations. There were lectures on interdimensional ethics and mana stability. We even had a course where the professor spent twenty minutes arguing with an AI assistant over the morality of teleporting sandwiches.
It was fascinating. Exhausting. And totally unlike the cubicle graveyard I used to call life.
The big thing that stood out, though?
The roles.
MetaHuman roles weren't just "classes" like in a game. They were philosophies. Ways of living. Templates that shaped how you approached the world, and how the world will treat you.
There were Frontliners—fighters, duelists, vanguard mages, all about charging ahead and getting their hands dirty.
Support Types, who orchestrated from the back—healers, tacticians, engineers, analysts. The ones who turned chaos into harmony.
Specialists, who bent the rules. Summoners, information brokers, psychics, dimension-walkers. They didn't fit cleanly anywhere, and that was the point.
And then there were rumors of a fourth type—unofficial, unspoken.
No one talked about it openly. But sometimes, in the quiet between classes, I'd hear snippets in the hallway:
"Did you hear someone awakened into a Rift-type last year?""Impossible. That's just a myth. You'd go insane."
Whatever it was, it wasn't for first-years.
We were still nobodies.
•••••••
The orientation day ended with a "Role Overview" in the support wing—a room that felt more like a spaceship's nerve center than a classroom. Keyboard gauntlets. Neural interfaces. Tactical AR simulations projected across floating panels. It was beautiful. Familiar. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath.
The instructors didn't make us touch anything yet—just watch.
Observe.
Try to imagine what we'd become.
But my fingers twitched anyway. Muscle memory from another life.
On one of the projection screens, an emergency simulation unfolded. Dimensional breach. Civilians trapped. A frontline team deployed to hold the perimeter, while support units managed evacuations, cast enhancement fields, monitored rift distortion levels. No fighting. Just pure logistics.
I saw a guy in a virtual command chair directing it all with calm precision. The team moved like clockwork.
And for a second… it felt like I was back on the old system. Late shift. Ten chats deep. Firewall flickering, headset buzzing, adrenaline in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Except this time, people were actually listening.
•••••••
Jerry, naturally, was less interested in simulations and more fascinated by the giant vending machine that dispensed hot wings and existential dread.
"They got a combat kitchen, bro," he whispered, pointing at a pop-up restaurant manned entirely by culinary androids. "One of the teachers said chefs used to be a subclass. Can you imagine?"
"I mean, they do have something called Flaming Reduction Sauce," I said, scanning a menu that featured things like Solar-Baked Meteor Potatoes and High-Protein Phoenix Skewers—none of it magical, just marketing terms for energy-efficient, solar-cooked meals.
In this era, mana wasn't some spellcasting force—it was clean energy, harvested from the planet's natural flow and the sun's endless generosity.
He nodded with great seriousness. "Flavor is power."
Jerry hadn't changed. Not in spirit, at least. Still the same warm-hearted goof who once made spreadsheets look like art back at the BPO.
I hadn't told him anything or who I used to be.
Not yet, or maybe never.
•••••••
That night, I stared at the ceiling of our shared dorm.
The glow from Jerry's side of the room pulsed softly—he had a nightlight shaped like a tiny wyvern that projected stars on the wall. Said it reminded him of fireworks from his old village.
I didn't ask what village.
He didn't ask about the way I sometimes clenched my fist when the silence got too loud.
"Jerry's here…" I whispered to the ceiling, like it was a secret I didn't know what to do with.
If he was here—somehow reincarnated like me—was it a fluke?
A gift?
Or was someone playing with loaded dice?
•••••••
"RISE AND SHINE, FIRST-YEARS!"
The intercom crackled to life, followed by a voice that hit like rolling thunder. It was loud, sharp, and way too energetic for three in the morning.
"Report to the Grand Auditorium for your welcoming address! Attendance is not optional!"
I blinked up at the ceiling, trying to decide if I was dreaming. I wasn't. Jerry confirmed it with a groan from the bunk below, followed by the sound of blankets thrashing.
"I swear," he mumbled, "I thought we were under attack."
I sat up and rubbed the side of my face, still half-asleep. "Feels like it. aggh~"
Jerry peeked out from under his blanket, eyes squinting against the early light. "They couldn't have waited until, I don't know… a normal hour?"
"Normal doesn't seem like their thing."
He sighed and dragged himself out of bed like every movement was a personal betrayal.
"You think they're serious about the 'not optional' part?"
I was already pulling on my uniform.
"You can try. I'm not in the mood to test them."
He muttered something under his breath and started getting dressed. Neither of us spoke for a while—just the quiet shuffle of tired students trying to pretend this was fine.
Welcome week, they called it. So far, it felt more like survival training.
•••••••
The Grand Auditorium was a space opera fused with a dream—equal parts cathedral, command center, and conjurer's stage. Gravity-defying aisles curved through the air like stardust trails, framed by living stained glass that shimmered with shifting mythos and forgotten constellations. The main stage looked like it could deploy thrusters and breach orbit if provoked. Overhead, the ceiling pulsed with a live feed of the astral grid—possibly real, possibly illusion, definitely too expensive.
Students drifted in through portals and anti-grav lifts. Some blinked sleep from their eyes, others buzzed with suspiciously caffeinated energy. A girl coasted by atop a levitating cello strung with laser filaments. A boy sneezed and accidentally phased his notebook into nonexistence. Nearby, two chrome-plated counselor-bots were locked in a low-frequency debate over whether synthetic minds could minor in Emotion Theory.
And then… the lights dimmed like a spell being cast.
A man in a robe emerged onto the stage, cloaked in scholar-tech robes laced with radiant glyphs and fiberoptic veins. He moved like a storm given human shape—slow, deliberate, inevitable.
He was ancient—not in the brittle, half-there sense, but in the monolithic way that implied he'd survived the collapse of at least one timeline. His beard resembled a dark nebula. His glasses refracted reality in twin spirals, hinting at the bureaucratic void beyond.
He tapped his cane once—an obsidian rod humming with dormant code—and the room obeyed, falling into instant silence.
Principal Galfrey stepped forward, his presence commanding the attention of the entire hall. Clad in layered ceremonial robes that shimmered faintly with arcane threads, he raised his hand, and the room fell silent.
"Dear students… the future stands before you as a field—untouched, vast, endless in potential…"
Ten minutes in, the room's collective soul started evacuating through the exits.
"…and as you begin this sacred journey, remember the pillars of wisdom: duty, diligence, and—"
Somewhere in the back, a kid let out a heroic yawn, the kind that shakes mountains.
Jerry leaned toward me and whispered, "I swear if he says destiny one more time, I'm throwing myself into the Lost & Found bin."
"…discipline. And with discipline, there comes…"
He said it.
"…destiny."
Jerry dramatically mimed collapsing, arms sprawled, tongue sticking out like a tragic emoji. A few students snorted. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from cracking.
At some point, the speech transcended its own purpose and became a lullaby. A girl in the front row used another's shoulder as a pillow. Someone near the aisle muttered, "This has to be a Geneva Convention violation."
By the thirty-minute mark, time became a suggestion.
Finally—mercifully—he reached the end:
"…and so, with hope, courage, and unity… let this year at MetaHuman Academy… begin."
Silence.
There was a pause—because no one was sure if he was actually finished—then cautious clapping erupted. Slow at first. Then gradually more enthusiastic. Mostly from relief.
•••••••
As we left the auditorium, Jerry muttered,
"Well, if that speech was a MetaHuman ability, it'd be Sleep Induction, Grade A."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Yeah, if he spoke for ten more minutes, I think my soul would've reincarnated again."
"What?" Jerry said. I ignored him just looking straight out of nowhere. But deep down… even with all the drowsiness and dragging speeches, I couldn't deny it: This was the beginning of something big. Even if it came wrapped in yawns.
––-
We navigated through the Academy's bustling corridors, surrounded by the chaotic ballet of students—some showing off new gadgets, others zipping through the air with unstable hover boots. Holographic signs shifted to guide us to our next destination. It was all chaotic, brilliant, and borderline overwhelming.
A group of students strutted past us with synchronized swagger, like they were auditioning for a high-budget magical boy band. One of them, tall and smug with hair slick enough to deflect laser beams, whispered something to his buddy and smirked.
Then, at the same time, they all flicked three crumpled papers over Jerry's shoulder with perfect casual malice.
As if time had slowed down.
My hand moved before my brain caught up. Fingers curled instinctively, snatching each paper mid-air with mechanical precision. I tucked them in my pocket without breaking stride.
"Kids," I muttered.
Jerry blinked, not even registering what had happened.
"Yeah, sounding like an old man, old man," he mumbled, already distracted by a vending machine on the wall that looked more like a sentient puzzle cube.
I chuckled, then caught my reflection in the polished wall.
---
As the crowd thickened, I felt something shift in the air. Just a whisper of change.
Maybe it was the academy's ancient magic.
Maybe it was just the hormones of two hundred teenagers spiking all at once.
But I knew this year wouldn't just be about classes or stats or getting stronger.
It would be about discovery with this brand new life of mine.
I glanced at Jerry, who was now arguing with the vending cube because it gave him kale chips instead of a chip he had initially selected.
And for the first time in a long time… I smiled, not out of irony, but something warmer.
I reached out to steal a bite, but Jerry, without even looking, shifted just enough to keep it out of reach—still facing away, like he had eyes on the back of his head.
Maybe destiny wasn't so bad.
Even if it came with kale chips. It's not that bad either.