The light that seeped into my awareness this time wasn't accompanied by the sharp ringing of sirens, but by a dull, stubborn headache pulsing steadily behind my eyelids. At least that feeling was familiar, I thought with dry sarcasm as I forced my eyes open with painful slowness.
The dull beige ceiling of my new room—Adam Lester's room, the orphan with the strange skill and ridiculous stats—was still there, staring down at me in silence like a witness to the absurdity of my situation. So it hadn't all been a long, feverish nightmare caused by an overdose of cheap caffeine or the side effects of some poorly executed mad-scientist experiment with reality. Damn it… I had secretly hoped it was.
I sat on the edge of the bed, which still felt as rigid as a confession board, and felt the weight of the world settle on my narrow shoulders. F- rank in strength, the cursed status screen had reminded me earlier when it flashed through my mind. Thanks a lot for the constant reminder of my physical insignificance.
Last night—or rather what remained of that catastrophic night after my shocking and simultaneously disgusting discovery—I had spent staring at the ceiling like an idiot. My mind kept replaying the image of the status screen over and over again like a damaged recording tape.
[Narrative Architect's Blueprint (EX)]
Even now, after hours of blank staring and desperate attempts to find any logic in it, the words felt unreal, like something quoted from one of those terrible web novels readers mock in the comment section.
An EX-rank skill.
In a world where SSS was supposed to be the absolute limit of power.
And the skill was… for analyzing stories.
It was as if fate had decided to hand me the most powerful silver spoon in the universe, then toss me into an ocean of poisonous soup made of living nightmares—without a boat, or even a life jacket. Maybe with a sarcastic rubber float shaped like a yellow duck.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I wondered while rubbing my throbbing temple.
Should I start giving literary critique to ghosts before they decide which part of me they want to eat first?
"Excuse me, mysterious multi-tentacled entity with sticky appendages," I imagined myself saying. "Your character development lacks depth, and your subplot about devouring innocent souls is somewhat weak thematically. Have you considered adding some emotional tension—perhaps complicated family drama? It would make you eating us far more dramatically impactful."
I shook my head violently, trying to dispel those ridiculous thoughts.
No—sarcasm, no matter how sharp, wasn't going to save me from becoming a low-stat snack in this restaurant of horrors.
I stood up and walked toward the small desk, that modest monument to the simplicity of the original Adam Lester.
That status screen… could I summon it again by will?
I focused slightly, trying to recall that strange sensation—the faint prickling that had preceded its appearance yesterday.
Status, I thought firmly, as if sending a mental command to a stubborn computer.
As if responding to my order—or perhaps just another coincidence in the long list that defined my new life—the translucent blue panel appeared in front of me again.
The same disastrous information about my body.
And the same glowing golden skill that seemed to mock my physical weakness personally.
Name: Adam Lester
Age: 16
Race: Human
Rank: F-
Physical Stats
Strength: F-
Agility: F
Endurance: F-
Intelligence: F+
Perception: F-
Mana: F- (Inactive)
Skills
Narrative Architect's Blueprint (EX)
Ability to analyze and understand the fundamental structure and logical patterns of any embodied "narrative" or "story." Reveals hidden conditions, loopholes, and multiple possibilities within the narrative.
Note: The nature of this skill exceeds known standard classifications. It cannot be fully evaluated or understood, nor upgraded through conventional means.
So it was still there. Not a hallucination from sleep deprivation or the shock of my sudden transmigration.
I let out a deep sigh, feeling a mixture of despair and morbid curiosity rising inside me again.
"Ability to analyze and understand… reveals hidden conditions, loopholes, and possibilities."
I started reading the skill description again.
Slowly this time—like I was trying to extract some hidden meaning between the lines.
Did this mean… I could see the "solutions" to stories?
Not just analyze them like literary texts the way I used to in my previous life, but understand their inner mechanisms like a complex machine full of gears and secret switches?
I looked around the room.
Could I analyze something simple?
Something that wasn't actively trying to eat me?
I picked up the empty cup on the desk, the one stained with dried coffee—evidence of yet another miserable morning in the life of the original Adam Lester.
I focused on it, trying to activate the skill consciously.
Narrative Architect's Blueprint… analyze this damn cup.
Nothing happened.
No glowing lines around the cup.
No secret information appearing in the air like some cheap holographic display.
Am I doing this wrong? I wondered in frustration.
Or did the skill only work on "embodied narratives," like the description said?
What the hell did "embodied" even mean?
Did the object need awareness—or its own plot?
Deep down, I already knew what it meant. Horror stories.
Did this cup need a tragic past or unfulfilled dreams for my skill to analyze it?
A faint but sharp disappointment rose inside me. It would have been nice if I could analyze the perfect coffee recipe… or maybe a foolproof get-rich-quick scheme. At least those would have been useful in my daily life—which had suddenly become far more miserable than it used to be.
Then, as always, my thoughts returned to the most urgent problem.
My lie.
I couldn't just walk through the halls of Pioneer Academy proudly announcing that I possessed an EX-rank skill for analyzing stories while my physical stats made an earthworm look like a professional weightlifter.
They would laugh me to death.
Or worse… they would consider me a strange threat—an anomaly to be studied, dissected, or quietly eliminated.
No thanks. I had watched enough science-fiction movies to know how that story ends.
I needed a cover story, I decided with sudden determination.
A skill that sounded reasonable for someone with my catastrophic stats… yet could still explain any "successes" I might achieve by accident or through unbelievable luck.
Or perhaps thanks to that damned analytical skill of mine—the one that was still a complete mystery to me.
What if I claimed I had a low-rank skill related to luck or intuition?
Something like [Survivor's Instinct (D)], or perhaps [Lucky Loophole Finder (C)] if I wanted to be a little ambitious.
That might explain how I sometimes find "solutions," without implying any real combat ability—which was perfect, because I didn't have any.
Or maybe… maybe I should go in the exact opposite direction.
The "crazy psychopath" façade that had briefly entertained me yesterday.
If everyone thought I was unpredictable and a little dangerous, then maybe—just maybe—they'd leave me alone.
"My skill?" I could say with an empty smile.
"It's [Whispers of the Deranged – Rank: Unknown]. I hear things. Beautiful things… terrible things. And sometimes… I do what the whispers ask."
An involuntary cold smile formed on my lips as I imagined their reactions.
Yes… that might keep the busybodies away.
Or it might get me a padded room in the nearest psychiatric ward.
Besides, maintaining that kind of persona would be unbelievably exhausting. And I already barely had the energy to stay awake and think about how terrible my situation was.
"It's complicated," I sighed, feeling the dull headache begin to pulse again.
Everything about this new world was nauseatingly complicated.
Why couldn't I just be a boring side character who dies quietly and with dignity in chapter five?
I glanced at the small digital clock that was part of the transparent tablet device I still hadn't dared to touch.
7:00 AM.
The first "official" school day at Pioneer Academy, according to the date I had found on the computer.
What overwhelming joy… that I absolutely did not feel.
I walked over to the small wardrobe, which contained a desperately limited selection of clothes.
A dark gray suit hung neatly inside, looking as if it had never been worn before.
That must be the academy uniform, I guessed.
It looked professionally elegant.
And incredibly boring.
Exactly what you would expect from an institution that trains teenagers to fight nightmares while trying to maintain a façade of refined dignity.
"How did someone as weak as the original Adam even get accepted into such a prestigious academy?" I muttered, scratching my head as I glanced at the paper acceptance letter lying on my bed.
And why a paper letter in such an advanced world?
They could have just emailed it.
I began putting on the uniform, ignoring the question for now.
The white shirt felt a bit stiff around the collar, and the dark red tie felt disturbingly like a small noose tightening around my neck.
The jacket fit the slender sixteen-year-old body quite well, though the body itself still felt strange—like a borrowed suit I hadn't quite grown into.
When I looked at myself in the mirror again, I almost resembled a model student.
Serious.
Disciplined.
Ready to face the challenges of academic life.
Or at least… ready to try not to die.
"Well then, you cursed world," I said quietly to my reflection, which looked annoyingly composed.
"You've had an entire night for me to process and accept your particular brand of insanity. Let's see what exciting new disasters you've prepared for today's schedule."
I took a deep breath, trying to gather what little courage I had left—probably ranked somewhere around E--, if mental stats existed.
I picked up the acceptance letter and skimmed it again.
PIONEER ACADEMY – HIGH DIVISION
Office of Admissions and Registration – Zenith City
United Earth Alliance (UTA)
Official Notice of Admission
To: Mr. Adam Lester
Temporary Student Identification Number: 08272038-AL77
Dear Mr. Lester,
We are formally pleased to inform you that, after careful review of your file and an evaluation of your (presumed) potential, the Admissions Committee of Pioneer Academy has decided to grant you a seat in the First-Year Class for the 2054–2055 Academic Year.
As the world's leading training institution for confronting Narrative Phenomena and protecting the civilians of the United Earth Alliance, Pioneer Academy takes pride in selecting individuals with exceptional potential.
Your acceptance into this prestigious program is evidence of something—which we look forward to discovering alongside you.
We expect from you dedication, strict discipline, and a willingness to face challenges that may exceed what could reasonably be considered "safe" or even "sane" by conventional standards.
Please take note of the following conditions as part of your admission:
Attrition Rate:
Pioneer Academy does not guarantee graduation. In fact, statistics suggest the exact opposite for the majority of entrants.
We recommend updating your will—if you have one. Or if you possess anything worth inheriting.
Inherent Risks:
Training includes direct exposure to Narratives and Gates of various ranks.
Serious injuries are common, and death is—unfortunately—a statistically documented possibility.
The academy assumes no responsibility for lost limbs, permanent psychological trauma, or undesirable existential transformations.
Confidentiality:
All information related to Gates, Narratives, and any abilities discovered or developed within the academy is classified.
Any breach of this secrecy will be met with the maximum level of punishment.
Resources:
You will be provided with basic housing, meals, and a uniform.
Anything else is a luxury you must earn… or steal.
(We do not recommend the latter. We have cameras.)
You are required to attend the First-Year Orientation Assembly in the Grand Hall, Central Building, at 09:00 AM on August 28, 2054.
Note: Tardiness is unacceptable and will be considered an early indication of incompetence.
We look forward to seeing whether you will become a valuable asset to the UTA…
or simply another statistic in our records.
Respectfully,
Office of Admissions and Registration
Pioneer Academy
"We forge heroes… and preserve nations."
I opened the door of the room, ready to face my first day in this terrifyingly organized circus they proudly called "Pioneer Academy."
I stepped out of the gloomy apartment that had somehow become my new "home" and closed the door behind me with a dull thud.
The hallway in the residential building wasn't any better than the room itself. Dim lighting, the smell of old dust, and a silence that suggested the neighbors were either dead—or wished they were.
A perfect place to start a joyful new life, I thought as I walked down the worn stairs.
Now the next problem: how do I get to the prestigious Pioneer Academy, that monumental institution that builds human shields just to throw them into different stories?
From my frantic internet search last night, I discovered it was located on the other side of Zenith City. Which meant it definitely wasn't within walking distance—especially not with a body whose endurance stats were barely even rank F.
The original Adam Lester didn't have any personal vehicle. Not even a rusty bicycle. And I certainly hadn't found any cash or credit cards in the apartment.
An orphan.
Broke.
And about to be late for his first day at monster academy.
What a magnificent trilogy.
The only solution was public transportation…
A bus.
How luxurious.
I headed to the bus stop indicated by the primitive map application I had found on that cursed transparent tablet. The stop was moderately crowded, mostly with elderly people or workers who looked like they were heading to jobs they hated.
I didn't see any other students wearing the same boring gray uniform.
Maybe Pioneer Academy students had private drivers… or teleported.
Or maybe they were simply smart enough to live near the place where they studied.
When the bus arrived, I got on, trying to look confident—like someone who actually knew what he was doing.
The driver, a large man with the expression of someone who had seen everything and liked none of it, gave me a brief glance.
"Fare, kid."
I froze for a moment.
The fare. Of course.
Apparently things still weren't free in this futuristic world either.
I had nothing. No coins. No smart cards. Just empty pockets and an EX-rank skill for analyzing stories, which I doubted was accepted as a payment method.
I forced a nervous smile, trying to look innocent and slightly embarrassed.
"Uh… sorry. It seems I forgot my wallet at home. Can I pay when I get off or something? I have an important day at Pioneer Academy and I really don't want to be late."
I mentioned the academy's name, hoping it would inspire some respect.
The driver raised a thick eyebrow.
"Pioneer Academy, huh?" he said in a tone that carried absolutely no admiration.
"Well then, future hero. Sit in the back… and we'll talk about the fare later."
Later?
What did he mean by later?
A wave of anxiety washed over me. Would he hand me over to the police at the last stop? Would my "heroic" journey begin in a civilian jail for bus fare evasion?
I sat in the back, my heart beating a little faster.
The ride was long and boring.
The monotonous residential buildings gradually gave way to more modern commercial districts, and soon I began seeing glimpses of the breathtaking futuristic architecture that defined Zenith City's central area.
The closer we got, the more nervous I became about that "later" conversation with the driver.
When the bus began approaching a stop that looked close to the massive complex that had to be Pioneer Academy, my desperate plan started to form.
It wasn't a smart plan.
Not even a good one.
It was a classic Adam-style plan: improvise and run.
I watched the doors carefully.
When the bus stopped and passengers started getting off, I gathered every bit of agility I had—Rank F, remember—and prepared myself.
"Whoosh!"
The moment the rear doors opened, I dashed out as if my life depended on it.
Which, honestly, it might have—if the driver was the grudge-holding type.
"Hey! The fare, kid!" I heard the driver shout angrily behind me.
I didn't look back.
I ran.
I ran as fast as my sixteen-year-old body and its miserable stats could carry me.
Fortunately, there weren't many people in this area, and the driver apparently wasn't interested enough to leave his bus and chase me.
I finally stopped when my lungs felt like they were about to explode.
Panting, I leaned against a cold glass wall.
"Haah… haa… haa…"
After finally catching my breath, I looked around.
I stood in a wide plaza leading to the enormous entrance of a building that looked like a futuristic temple dedicated either to science… or the sacrifice of youth.
The emblem of a blue flame inside a silver shield hung above the entrance.
I had arrived.
Pioneer Academy.
And I had started my first day as a fugitive from bus fare justice.
What an epic beginning to my academic career.
"Welcome, new students of Pioneer Academy!"
The same powerful metallic voice I had heard during my online research echoed again—but this time it seemed to come from everywhere around me.
"All first-year students are requested to proceed immediately to the Grand Hall for the orientation assembly… Please follow the illuminated signs."
Glowing blue arrows appeared on the ground and even in the air, guiding me toward my inevitable fate.
I sighed.
Alright, Adam.
You survived the bus driver.
Now comes the hard part…
surviving the academy itself.
I joined the stream of students now flowing from different directions. All of them wore the same gray uniform, making us look like an army of worker ants ready to sacrifice ourselves for the queen.
The Grand Hall was…
Well, it was ridiculously huge.
A domed ceiling that seemed to rise endlessly upward, walls decorated with the academy's heroic—or tragic—history, depending on your point of view, and countless seats that were filling up quickly.
I found a seat in the back, trying to melt into the background.
Don't attract attention.
Rule number one of surviving any horror story: the one who attracts attention dies first… or becomes the protagonist.
And both sounded like terrible options right now.
While pretending to blend in with the wallpaper, I began scanning the crowd for familiar faces from "Pioneer Academy Chronicles."
It didn't take long.
Not far away, in the middle of a group of students who looked like they practically worshipped the ground he walked on, was Ethan Riddle.
His bright white hair looked even more striking in real life, and his blue eyes carried that spark of confidence that usually marked a hero. He was laughing loudly at something one of his friends had said.
Still the same charming idiot I remember, I thought, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
I wondered if he still shouted the names of his combat techniques before using them. How embarrassing.
In complete contrast, sitting alone in another corner was Drake Mallory, like a wolf watching a flock of foolish sheep.
His neat black hair and sharp dark eyes gave him a dangerous yet strangely alluring appearance. He scanned the hall with a cold, analytical gaze, as if evaluating everyone's weaknesses.
That bastard looks like he was born wearing a black leather jacket while listening to depressing metal music, I mocked silently.
I wondered who would become his first victim in this academy's little game.
Then Serena Valerian caught my attention.
She was sitting near one of the massive windows, with sunlight flowing over her long silver hair, making it look almost like a halo of moonlight. Her amber-colored eyes were focused on a book—or perhaps a tablet—in her hands, and her expression was calm and concentrated.
She looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing, which was rare in a place filled with confused teenagers.
At least there's one person here who doesn't look like they're about to have a breakdown… or commit murder, I admitted to myself.
Maybe I could learn something from her about how to stay sane.
…Or at least how to pretend to be.
Those were the big three.
The stars, the rivals, the talents who were supposed to shape the future of this sick world. And there were still other main characters who hadn't appeared yet.
And me?
I was Adam Lester, the guy who ran away without paying the bus fare, sitting in the back row and hoping nobody would realize that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing here.
Suddenly, the lights in the hall dimmed, and a tense silence spread through the room.
A middle-aged man appeared on the elevated stage. He wore a far more elegant uniform than ours, and his face carried a stern expression, as if it had been carved from granite.
"New students."
His booming voice echoed across the hall, accompanied by a faint reverberation.
"I am Dean Hargrove, the head of Pioneer Academy. Welcome to the beginning of what will be, for many of you, the most challenging—and exciting—years of your lives…"
What a hopeful and optimistic welcome speech, I thought, feeling the dull headache that had been bothering me settle in permanently.
I was definitely—definitely—in exactly the right place.