The massive stadium echoed with the rhythm of hundreds of footsteps as students wandered between towering racks of weaponry. Polished metal and humming tech lined the walls—gleaming swords, colossal hammers, sleek energy rifles that shimmered with embedded circuitry. It wasn't just a display of arms; it was a declaration of what this world demanded. Power. Precision. Purpose.
There was an entire section devoted solely to shields—heavy and ornate, meant to absorb impact and fear alike. Beside them, almost out of place, were other tools: a softly glowing first aid kit, a shovel etched with runes, and an advanced laptop sitting on a pedestal as if it belonged in a museum. A few students gave these items a passing glance, curious but uninterested.
But none of that mattered to me. Not really. I had made my decision before we even stepped inside.
The instructor's voice boomed through the loudspeakers, cutting through the ambient hum.
"Pick your weapon, students! This will define your role from this day forward."
The room buzzed with movement and chatter. Younger students darted between the displays, their eyes wide, their fingers tracing the edges of weapons like they were picking a favorite toy. They didn't see the weight of this decision, not yet. To them, this was still a game.
Jerry, standing beside me, couldn't contain himself. His eyes darted from rack to rack, stopping when they landed on the section with broadswords—massive, two-handed blades that looked more like slabs of metal than tools for finesse.
"There it is," he said, voice tight with excitement. "That one. That's mine."
His gaze locked on a single-edged giant. A broadsword that looked as if it had been forged to split mountains.
"I'm getting it, bro," he said again, this time louder, as if to convince himself it was real.
I didn't answer. It wasn't that I wasn't listening; I just didn't need to respond. My choice was already made. This moment was only a formality.
I stepped past the tech section, drawn for a moment by the quiet hum of energy coursing through an intricate spear and a magnetic bow. The pulse of technology beneath the weapons felt familiar, like something I might've admired in another life. But just beyond the glow of neon and chrome, there it was.
The double-edged sword. Simple. Balanced. Silent.
"Found you," I murmured.
It wasn't flashy. No elemental aura. No shifting geometry. Just steel, honed and waiting. Its edges were even, clean. Efficient.
I reached for it. The grip was worn smooth, but solid. The coldness of the blade bit into my skin like it belonged there.
I had been a multitasker in my past life—always juggling screens, monitoring chats, responding to stress with speed and structure. That instinct hadn't faded, even in this strange, new body. What I lacked in raw strength or magical aptitude, I had always compensated for with control.
And now, in this world of glowing swords and floating text boxes, control still mattered. Perhaps more than ever.
Every swing of this blade would be deliberate. Every movement measured. I wasn't aiming to overpower. I was aiming to outlast, to outthink.
"Are you sure about that one?" a voice behind me asked, light with disbelief.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to.
It wasn't about surety. It was about necessity.
Ever since I'd opened my eyes in this new life—reborn into a world far more advanced and far more dangerous than the one I'd known—I understood that change was inevitable, just like SOPs, CRMs, processes, and metrics. But beneath all the shifting rules, some principles endured.
Precision. Patience. Discipline.
There was comfort in that.
"Felix!" Jerry called, swinging his broadsword in a low arc. "This thing's perfect! Heavy as hell, but it just feels right."
I looked over. Jerry was grinning like a child on his birthday. His muscles flexed under the weight of the weapon, and even though he was slightly off-balance, he made it work. The broadsword was nearly half his height, but it didn't seem to faze him.
A loud metallic clang echoed as he accidentally knocked a helmet off a nearby stand. He winced, then shrugged with a sheepish grin.
"Careful," someone called out with a laugh. "You'll hurt someone before the class even starts."
"Maybe that's the point," another student joked.
Jerry shot a half-hearted wink in their direction. "I'll try not to break the floor."
I watched them for a moment—Jerry basking in the attention, the other students already forming groups, comparing weapons and stats. There was an energy in the air, a collective anticipation that thrived on spectacle and first impressions.
And then there was me.
My stats, displayed beside me on the floating blue panel, were no secret. Support class. High perception, stamina, and intellect. Virtually no offensive power. A few students slowed as they passed by, whispering just loud enough.
"Isn't he supposed to be support?"
"He should've picked the laptop."
"Or that toolkit. He doesn't have the muscle for a sword."
Their eyes lingered on the blade in my hand. Some were confused. Others were amused. A few were dismissive.
I didn't care.
I had spent too many years worrying about metrics, KPIs, and managerial expectations. I'd sat in front of too many screens, filtering through chaos and expectations, trying to meet invisible standards.
Here, the rules were different. But the stakes? The same.
I turned the blade in my hand slowly. It glinted beneath the artificial stadium lights. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a commitment. It was a promise.
The instructor, a tall woman with silver hair tied into a sharp braid, walked toward me. Her expression was unreadable.
"Felix, is it?" she asked.
I nodded.
She glanced at my stats. "A double-edged sword. That's a bold choice for your build. If anything, it's bad."
"It's not about the build," I replied.
She studied me for a moment longer. Then, with a nod, she walked away, moving to another group.
Behind me, two students muttered under their breath. "He'll regret it."
"Yeah. Just wait until training starts."
I let the noise fade.
I wasn't here to prove anything to them. This wasn't about performance. It was about alignment—choosing something that mirrored the way I thought, the way I moved.
The sword wasn't about domination. It was about clarity.
And I needed clarity.
Jerry was still swinging his sword a few feet away, utterly absorbed. He hadn't once asked about my choice, hadn't looked over, hadn't paused to check in.
It didn't bother me, not really. Jerry was sincere in his excitement, and that sincerity was rare. But in a way, it emphasized just how different our paths would be.
Around us, more students were finalizing their picks. One girl hugged a glowing staff to her chest. A tall boy in the corner tested a spear with a shifting blade. Laughter, cheers, and the occasional clunk of metal echoed across the stadium.
Eventually, the noise dulled. Weapons chosen. Conversations quieting. The instructor stepped back onto the central platform.
"You have made your decisions," she said. "These weapons will not just be tools. They will be reflections of your strengths, your fears, your future. You have chosen, and now your training begins."
Her voice echoed against the stone walls, final and heavy.
As she dismissed us to our designated training halls, I let my fingers rest on the hilt once more. The blade felt heavier now. Not in weight, but in meaning.
I looked down at the sword and then out across the stadium.
I had my choice.
And that, for now, was enough.