The smell of something… crispy woke me.
And not in the "perfect toast" kind of way. More like… "culinary war crime."
I rolled over, hair a disaster, shirt half-buttoned, and dragged myself upright—only to see the kitchen aglow with faint smoke.
Alex stood in front of the stove, stiff, staring at a charred pan with the lifeless remains of what used to be eggs.
"…You okay there, Gordon Ramsay?"
He didn't even look back.
"I followed the recipe."
"You mean the instructions on the back of the egg carton?"
"They were vague."
I sighed, brushing my bedhead from my eyes.
"Move over. I've got it."
He turned, blinking like he'd just been handed divine salvation—then immediately froze.
His eyes landed on me.
Specifically on my messy hair, my still-loose shirt collar that dipped to expose my collarbone, and the faint outline of my very not-jacked but weirdly defined frame.
His gaze lingered.
"…What?"
He coughed. "Nothing. You just… don't look like a morning person."
Nice save.
I pushed him toward the table. "Sit. I'll save breakfast."
---
Fifteen minutes later, I had eggs done properly, toast buttered, and some sweet fruit compote Matteo taught me how to make ages ago.
Alex looked stunned.
"You can cook?"
"Why do people always sound so shocked when they say that?"
"Because you look like a princess someone locked in a tower, not someone who dices onions."
…Ouch?
Before I could respond—
"FELIX MY STAR, MY MOON—YOU'RE BURNING THE MORNING WITHOUT ME."
The door swung open with an unholy level of energy, and Damian barreled in like lightning wrapped in chaos.
He sniffed the air.
"Wait. Is that—did you cook again?"
"Obviously," I muttered.
He grabbed a fork from the rack, stabbed a slice of toast mid-air, and took a bite.
"Bless you, you bakery-born god." Then he grabbed my wrist. "Now let's go. We're late!"
"I need to get dressed—!"
"You look fine!"
"I'm half dressed!"
"You're halfway to perfection!"
"Give me twenty minutes or I'm flash-blinking your eyebrows off."
"…Noted."
---
By the time we reached Ancient Studies, I was buttoned-up, presentable, and emotionally bracing for another boring lecture.
It wasn't.
The professor—a short, raven-haired woman with fox-like eyes and an unreadable smirk—stood before an enchanted crystal projector. She didn't speak immediately.
She pointed.
A map hovered in the air.
Blue oceans. Continents.
It was… Earth.
My Earth.
I froze.
"This," she said, "is the oldest recorded map we have from a vanished age. It is the foundation of our world's mythos. The Lost Realm."
Gasps echoed from the students.
Some took notes furiously. Others scoffed.
But I stared. Hard.
The shapes. The coastlines. Asia. Africa. South America. It wasn't close.
It was exact.
What the hell…?
The professor continued. "There are even fragments of what may have been literature. Here's a curious line we recovered from what we believe was a comedic codex..."
She waved her hand.
Text appeared in glowing runes—and then translated mid-air:
"Bruh. That's cap."
I choked.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Heads turned.
Students blinked.
The professor raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Anderson?"
I quickly straightened. "S-Sorry. That line just caught me off guard."
She tilted her head. "You understood it?"
Oh crap.
"Sort of…?"
She stepped forward, eyes glittering. "Do you know the old tongue?"
I hesitated.
If I said yes, they'd question me.
If I said no, I'd look like I randomly understood dead meme culture.
"…A little."
She beamed.
"Marvelous. Come. Read this one."
A new projection flickered up:
"One does not simply walk into Mordor."
I sighed. And read it aloud.
We spoke for five more minutes. In English.
Every other student looked baffled.
No one understood the words. Not even Damian.
When the professor dismissed class, she pulled me aside.
"That was flawless," she said. "Accent, rhythm, everything. Do you know what that means?"
I shrugged. "That I'm a nerd?"
"No." She leaned in, smile fading. "It means you know more than you let on. And I'd love to know where you learned it."
I smiled, tight. "Trade secret."
"Hmm. Very well. But I'll be watching you."
Fantastic.
Another person watching me like I was a riddle.
---
Later that night, in our dorm's common room, I stared out onto the balcony.
[Countdown: 118 Days Remaining]
Event: "A Tired Student"
Progress: 0%. Target: Unknown. Stress levels rising.
Behind me, Damian practiced low-tier lightning spells, muttering things like "Crackle Fang" and "Static Dart."
Alex read on the couch, oddly quiet.
And I?
I summoned the sword again. It flickered into my hand—slim and deadly.
"So," she said, "What's next, little hero?"
"I don't know," I whispered. "But I think… Earth was real here. Once. And now I'm the only one who remembers it."
She was quiet a moment.
Then: "Then maybe that's why you're here."