A man stepped into the rift, his silhouette outlined by its swirling edges. The ground beneath his polished shoes was nothing but a churning abyss, alive with unshaped energy. Beyond the threshold, a world sprawled out in jagged rawness. Shadows of creatures scurried, their shapes shifting between animal and something unspoken, their eyes glinting with ancient, untamed instincts.

  The man adjusted his tie, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The air here was thick with potential, every sound a whisper of untold stories waiting to unfold. “Legends,” he murmured, planting an American flag firmly into the soil. His voice cut through the dense air like a blade. “Or perhaps… a foundation.”

  Time passed in fervent flashes—stone transformed into walls, crude shelters gave way to sweeping architecture. Under his guidance, the inhabitants carved purpose into their world. They built tools, forged structures, and shaped dreams from his vision. Days melted into nights, the man tirelessly moving among them, his coat billowing like a flag of progress.

  Finally, he stood at the base of their crowning achievement. A towering building, its sleek design blending harmoniously with the wildness that surrounded it. He tilted his head, a hand adjusting the brim of his hat as his eyes lingered on the engraved name above the entrance: Parkulir High School. A smile—small, but triumphant—spread across his face.

  A sharp, grating beep cut through the quiet morning like an unwelcome intruder. The alarm clock on the nightstand blinked 6:00 AM in harsh red digits, screaming for attention. A pale hand shot out from under the tangled sheets and slammed it into silence.

  A muffled groan came from the bed as its occupant slowly stirred. A figure stark white save for the two black horns curving slightly forward from his forehead, pushed himself upright. His long, pointed ears twitched as if rebelling against the sound of the alarm, and his dark eyes cracked open reluctantly.

  The room around him was a chaotic mess. Laundry baskets, most of them overflowing, formed a treacherous obstacle course across the floor. Scraps of paper—notes, sketches, and attempts at homework that only had his name written, “Connor Gorbins,” were scattered like leaves after a storm.

  Connor scratched the back of his head, yawning wide enough to flash sharp teeth. The creature reached for an enchanted headband resting on the nightstand, its gentle, static hum pulsing against his fingertips as he slipped it over his horns. With a practiced flick, he unlocked his phone, the glow of the screen casting soft light over his unnervingly pale skin. As his thumb hovered over his playlist, the headband’s vibration shifted, tuning itself to the first notes of the song, seamlessly weaving sound into sensation. before swinging his legs out of bed. His tail, long and sinewy, dragged lazily behind him as he trudged across the cluttered floor, stepping over piles of clothes with practiced ease.

  He pulled on a crumpled T-shirt and a pair of shorts from a chair that served more as a wardrobe than a seat. His movements were slow, unhurried, as though time itself held no sway over him. His horns nearly grazed the top of the door frame as he stepped into the hallway, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights greeting him with their dull hue. With a flick of his tail, Connor shut the door behind him, leaving his small, cluttered domain behind as he began the slow march through the snow, fully indifferent to the atmosphere around him as he made his way to the bus stop.

  Connor arrived at the bus stop with no urgency, his steps slow, measured, indifferent to the crunch of snow beneath his feet. The air was crisp, but it barely registered against his pale skin. A small gathering of students stood in a tight circle near the curb, their hands outstretched toward the warm glow of a pixie hovering above them. The creature pulsed with golden light, casting flickering shadows on their faces as they huddled close, absorbing the heat it offered.

  Connor, standing apart, didn’t bother approaching. He wasn’t cold. Instead, he stood in the middle of the curve, hands in his pockets, head bobbing to a rhythm only he could hear.

  In the distance, another scene unfolded, its commotion forcing Connor’s scarce attention. A hulking figure, built like a runaway train, shoved through the crowd. In his grip, a severed, serrated hand dangled, its fingers clenched around a phone. The lock screen glowed, casting eerie light on the snow.

  A scratchy voice cut through the cold air like a whip, “Hey, give me back my phone,” A girl shouted, with tear streaks lining her undead face. She stumbled forward to chase after the hand. She was frail, her skin was a grey and lifeless color. She was not alive, but not quite dead.

  The students gawked. Pretending not to hear her cries, “Hey, did anyone hear something?”

  “Pfft, probably the wind,” another student finished as they simply watched the tank roll away with another person’s belongings.

  The heavy body barreled forward, expecting people to scatter, but crashed straight into something solid. Someone smaller yet sturdier. Connor.

  The thief’s momentum turned against him. His back twisted, nearly sending him into the snow. But Connor? He didn’t even budge, it was as if he were a statue watching whatever was in front of it.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, Connor’s hand snapped out, fingers locking onto the thief’s wrist like a vice. The guy snarled, then stiffened as realization set in—Connor wasn’t letting go

  “Hey, man, get your hands off me!” He yelled.

  Connor didn’t respond. He just stared, his dark eyes reflecting something deeper than irritation—something ancient, tired, indifferent. The thief struggled harder. A kick. Barely registered, then, a punch—right to Connor’s shoulder.

  Connor sighed. “You done?”

  The thief’s breath ragged, but Connor held firm until, with one last desperate gasp, the hand was dropped.

  Finally, the girl caught up huffing and puffing with tears in her eyes, taking a moment to catch her breath before lifting her own detached hand from the pavement, turning it over, and inspecting it. “Ugh,” she muttered. “Gotta restitch this again?” She whimpered. “Why is it always me?”

  Thin, dark stitches slithered and curled, pulling the hand back to her wrist as though they were alive. A few quick tugs, a twist of the fingers, and the hand was functional. She flexed it, then looked up at Connor. “Hey. Thanks.”

  Connor just shrugged, “Yeah.” Stepping past the thief, who was still rubbing his wrist and glaring daggers at him.

  Then came the telltale groan of an approaching engine, rumbling with a mechanical sigh, exhaling a low, guttural moan that sent vibrations through the pavement The bus rolled into view, its exterior streaked with a mix of polished steel and crimson organic bits that pulsated—veins of deep bronze threading through its structure, pulsing faintly like the remnants of a heart that had long since stopped beating but refused to admit it. The headlights flared, cutting through the early morning mist, and with a sharp exhale, the doors sighed open.

  The group of students surged forward, a fluid, unspoken motion of elbows and hurried footsteps. They cut in front of Connor without hesitation, moving as though he weren’t even there. But he didn’t flinch, didn’t step forward to claim a spot. He simply watched, detached. They’re all going to the same place anyway. Parkulir High School—the most foundational structure to ever be structured. That was the kind of thing people said about it, though whether they meant it as praise or something else entirely, Connor never bothered to figure it out.

  He stepped onto the bus last, scanning the rows of seats as the murmurs of quiet conversation filled the air. The lights overhead flickered as he passed, dimming for a half-second before stabilizing. If anyone noticed, they didn’t comment.

  Connor found an empty row near the back, sprawled across it without hesitation. He rested his head against the cold window, the droning of the bus vibrating through his horns, his tail draping over the edge.

  Another day. Another ride. Another march toward something inevitable.

  His eyes slid shut.

  This is a story about learning to fight, not just in a physical sense, something bigger, something vast in its magnitude and meaning. Fighting to take control of one’s life. Fighting to wake up one’s passion. But for now, Connor lets the world drift away and lets the bus roll forward, carrying him along for the ride.

  The bus slowed to a stop, its veins pulsing faintly as the doors opened. One by one, students spilled out, chattering, stretching, groaning, shaking off the morning stillness like shedding old skin.

  Connor stepped off last. His feet met the cracked pavement as he scanned the towering structure ahead. Parkulir High School. Its architecture was a contradiction—part monolithic, part organic, a mix of smooth steel and raw stone that pulsed faintly as though the building itself were breathing. The entrance loomed ahead, framed by massive iron doors, slightly ajar. The crest above them shimmered, shifting symbols in an unreadable script, constantly rearranging.

  The rotunda was already alive. Goblins in loose-fitting hoodies skulked in corners, whispering in their sharp, conspiratorial tones. A cyclops leaned against a column, idly tossing a soccer ball between massive hands, his singular eye following the arc. A pack of ogres huddled near the vending machines, their guttural laughs shaking the floor. Shadows slithered unnaturally in the corners, slipping between students unnoticed.

  A deep, rich white haze drifted from the bathrooms by the cafeteria, curling lazily in the air like something sentient. It clung to the ceiling, dispersing only when the ventilation system coughed to life in weak attempts to contain it. A few students staggered out of the bathroom, blinking slowly, their eyes glazed with a dreamlike sheen.

  Connor barely glanced at them.

  He moved through the rotunda, weaving through the crowds of students. The cafeteria doors swung open, held by a wobbling, purple ooze with a mop in one limb and a sloshing bucket in another. Comically large-sized headphones pulsed on its head as it dripped globs of itself onto the floor it had just cleaned.

  Inside, the morning rush was already in full force—students swarming the counters, exchanging half-hearted greetings with the kitchen staff. Connor took a tray, filled it mechanically, and found an empty table by the corner. He sat. He ate, then-

  BRRRRRIIIIING.

  The bell rang.

  He blinked. “Huh…”

  The cafeteria was empty. Trays abandoned. Chairs are slightly askew.

  Connor sighed through his nose, standing with a stretch that cracked his spine. He reached into his backpack, fishing for a crumpled, half-torn schedule. Unfolding it with a lazy flick, his black eyes scanned the smudged ink to find the only class on the page.

  “Whoa.”

  Connor stared at the schedule, the ink smudged in places where his fingers had gripped too tight, the name of the class glaring up at him like a cosmic joke, meaningless to him except for the way it simply existed at the edges of his awareness, like a radio frequency he couldn’t quite tune out. He’d heard about it—everyone had. Conversations slipped through the air like static, half-shouted names, wild recounts of impossible feats.

  But for him? Nothing. Just another thing people cared about that he didn’t.

  Connor folded the paper and shoved it deep into his pocket, as if that could bury the thought with it. He pushed open the cafeteria doors.

  The hallway stretched long and endless before him, the murmurs of students fading into a distant whisper. Connor walked on, hands in his pockets. Another day. Another class.

  He started walking across the hallway to his class. The classroom door creaked open. All at once, every head turned. Eyes. Dozens of them. Some round, some slitted, some glowing faintly in the dim light. A few mouths whispered behind clawed hands.

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  “This guy’s bad news.”

  “Cursed.”

  “I hope he doesn’t sit near me.”

  “Who is that guy?”

  Connor stood in the doorway, unmoving. He could hear them—the whispers, the scattered chuckles—but he didn’t react. Didn’t tense. Didn’t shift. Just let it wash over him like rain on stone.

  A sharp voice cut through the murmurs. “You’re late!”

  The teacher, a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a permanently unimpressed expression, tapped his knuckles against the desk; his name, “Mr. Vaelion,” was etched in bold on his chalkboard. “Connor, we start class at the bell, not when you feel like it.”

  Connor met his gaze. Then shrugged. “Okay.”

  A few students stifled laughs. Mr. Vaelion’s brow twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple like this was a battle he had already lost. “Take your seat.”

  “Okay,” Connor didn’t argue. Just walked—slow, sluggish—toward an empty desk and sank into it without ceremony.

  Mr. Vaelion straightened, glancing around the room as if recalibrating. “As I was saying,” Mr. Vaelion continued, “for those of you who are first years, things are going to be different from middle school. If you haven’t noticed already, your schedule only lists one subject: ‘Whoa’.” Mr. Vaelion let the word settle over them, his voice carrying the weight of something significant. “Understand this—Whoa is not just a fighting style. It means ‘The Way.’” Mr. Vaelion gestured to a framed portrait of an austere-looking man. The man in the portrait gazed out over the students, his features sharp with conviction, his stance radiating authority. “It is the foundation of everything. Here, you won’t just learn to fight. You will learn every facet of life—discipline, knowledge, philosophy, survival, balance.” He turned back to the class, picking up a stack of syllabi. “You may think you know what strength is. You don’t. Not yet.”

  The room was quiet now. Mr. Vaelion’s sunken eyes scanned each face as he passed out the papers. “Now, that being said, the syllabus does include a permission slip,” Mr. Vaelion said, his sunken eyes scanning the room as he passed out the papers. “A parent or guardian must sign it if you want to participate in any contact-related activities, or if you intend to compete in Whoa tournaments for the school.”

  Even the students who had been snickering earlier sat up a little straighter.

  Connor just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable,

  whispers still skittered around the room.

  “I think if you touch him, your grades drop.”

  “He’d probably get me suspended.”

  “No one talk to him and he won’t talk to you.”

  A voice—not from the room, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside—coiled in the back of his mind. A whisper, low and slow, curling around his thoughts like smoke. “You’re really gonna let them talk about you like that?”

  Connor didn’t react.

  “You should teach them all a lesson.” The voice persisted.

  He just blinked. Didn’t answer. Didn’t care. He let the whispers continue, letting the moment pass.

  The lesson continued. Numbers sprawled across the board, physics equations forming and breaking apart in a rhythm older than time. The teacher’s voice droned on, a metronome against the backdrop of shifting glances.

  Connor leaned back in his chair, tapping a clawed finger against the desk in slow, rhythmic beats. The world moved. The whispers faded. The lesson rolled forward.

  The classroom was thick with the low scrap of pencils scratching against paper, the quiet murmur of students exchanging answers under their breath. But as the minutes dwindled, so did the effort—some had given up, others leaned back in their chairs, waiting for the inevitable.

  Five minutes before the bell, the teacher rose from his desk. “Alrighty, I’m going to go by and look at everyone’s work. Yes, there will be judgments, no, you will not be graded today.”

  The teacher’s hooves clicked against the tiles in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the weight behind them heavier than a normal man’s stride as he wove between the desks, glancing down at each group’s work with an expression that never betrayed approval nor disappointment—just an unreadable, measured calculation.

  His gaze swept the room, landing on a single occupied desk near the front. A human girl sat alone with a determined posture. Her fingers tapped lightly against the side of her paper, not out of nervousness, but quiet self-assurance.

  “Mrs. Parkulir,” The teacher called.

  She lifted her head, eyes sharp, eager. “Yes, Mr. Vaelion?”

  He scanned her sheet, nodding approvingly before making his mark. “18 out of 20. Great job! I’d expect nothing less from you.” He tilted his head slightly. “Alicia, was it?”

  Her lips stretched into a wide, satisfied grin. “Yes.”

  It was a smile meant to be seen, a statement more than an expression. Alicia leaned back just slightly, basking in the glow of recognition, knowing full well that eighteen out of twenty placed her at the top.

  Or at least, that’s what she thought.

  The teacher turned to the next desk. A figure who sat with perfect posture, like a blade waiting to be drawn. Silver-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders with the side of her hair woven to resemble wings, braided with militant precision. The features on her attire were carved from something colder, sharper than human warmth.

  The teacher scanned her paper, the faintest arch of an eyebrow marking his reaction. A flick of his pen.

  “Twenty out of twenty,” he said simply. “Perfect work, Noelle.”

  The words landed like a thunderclap.

  Alicia’s smirk froze, then cracked at the edges. Her eyes flicked to Astrid, searching for some sign of struggle, some indication that perfection had cost her something. But Noelle did not gloat. She did not even react. She simply nodded, accepting the result as though it were inevitable.

  The rest of the room held its breath for just a moment.

  When he stopped beside Connor, who didn’t even bother to straighten up. His paper laid out in front of him, a battlefield of half-answered equations, scribbled-out mistakes, and numbers that didn’t quite add up. The few that remained were… well, confidently incorrect.

  The teacher took one look. Then, without so much as a sigh, he uncapped his pen and made a single, sharp mark on the page. “Hm.” No comment. No lecture. Just quiet judgment in its purest form.

  Connor barely reacted, flicking his pencil absently between his fingers.

  Then-

  BRRRRRIIIIING!

  The bell shattered the tension, sending chairs scraping, books shutting, and students stretching as they shook off the weight of the class. Conversations flared up, laughter, grumbling, the usual shuffle of bodies eager to escape.

  Connor walked through the halls of Parkulir High, hands stuffed in his pockets, tail dragging lazily behind him. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, flickering every so often like they couldn’t quite decide if they wanted to stay on or give up entirely. Students shuffled past in clumps, their voices blending into background chatter, laughter, and occasional grumbling.

  Then—

  “Bro. Bro! Connor!” A metallic hand clapped down on Connor’s shoulder with a weighty clang. His body barely reacted to the force, but he sighed through his nose as Jay, his self-proclaimed best friend, materialized at his side, grinning ear to ear. “Dude, you will not believe what happened last night,” Jay said, already animated and going a mile a minute. “Okay, so I’m playing Void Reckoning, right? Ranked match, intense as hell, I’m on the last objective, and I mean the last objective, Connor—when suddenly? Lag. Like, soul-crushing, dignity-destroying lag. And you know what happened?”

  Connor exhaled through his nose. “You lost.”

  “I disconnected.” Jay clutched his chest, like the memory physically wounded him. “At 99.9 percent completion. If that’s not a literal injustice against humanity, I don’t know what is.”

  “You’re alive,” Connor pointed out.

  “Am I?” Jay shook his head, a tragic sigh escaping him. “Existentially speaking? Yeah, sure. But spiritually? Emotionally? Dead. Deceased.” He gestured wildly before pointing ahead. “Oh, speaking of injustices, you got Mr. Vaelion this year, and I didn’t. Can you believe that? Me, stuck with boring old Crammerson. No offense to the guy, but I swear he runs on autopilot. Meanwhile, you get Vaelion, who actually, y’know, teaches.”

  Connor half-listened, his focus drifting. The cacophony of the hallway around them—the mixture of voices, shuffling feet, and lockers clicking shut—was just background noise.

  Connor shrugged. “He makes us write equations.”

  “Yeah, but he makes it sound cool.” Jay mimed an explosion with his hands. “Anyway, what’s for lunch today? Please tell me it’s not protein cubes again. My taste buds are begging for mercy. Like, how could you even eat that stuff?”

  “It's food.” Connor deadpanned, half paying attention when suddenly, in the corner of his eye..

  Across the hall, a scene was unfolding.

  A large, thick-skinned troll—built like a walking boulder with a perpetual scowl—stumbled slightly as a broom seemingly flung itself in front of him, nearly catching his foot. He barely stopped himself from falling, regaining balance with a furious glare. His red eyes darted around, looking for someone to blame, when he spotted the only plausible suspect.

  Not far from him, a smaller figure flinched.

  A timid-looking student, pale-skinned with small black horns and pointed ears—features uncomfortably similar to Connor’s—was trying, unsuccessfully, to shrink into himself. His entire posture screamed Don’t notice me. He turned quickly, as if hoping to disappear into the sea of students.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  Jumanar’s heavy hand shot out, grabbing the back of the kid’s shirt and yanking him to a stop.

  Connor slowed his pace, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who’s that?”

  Jay followed his gaze and instantly grimaced. “That,” he muttered, “is Jumanar Murkfist. We’d all be better off just by, y’know, staying away. Unless you wanna walk away with a fist imprint twice the size of—”

  “Uh,” Connor cut in. “I mean the other guy.”

  Jay blinked. “Oh. The gremlin?” He squinted. “Never seen him before. He’s probably some first-year.”

  Connor didn’t respond. He just changed direction.

  Jay’s eye flickered in alarm. “Woah, woah, what are you doing?”

  Connor kept walking.

  Jay groaned, muttering a sharp “why do I hang out with you?” under his breath before falling into step behind him, albeit with considerably less enthusiasm.

  The troll tightened his grip, lifting the smaller student slightly onto his toes. “You think you can just walk around this side of the school?” Jumanar growled. “Didn’t I tell you? Nobody wants to be around the likes of you. You reek of bad luck.”

  The smaller student squirmed, looking away, shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to”

  “Bullshit!” Jumanar snarled. “Cut the sorry act. All you freaks want is to spread around your stupid mischief,and everyone knows it. But as long as I’m around, I swear, it won’t be fun and games.”

  Connor stepped between them.

  Jumanar’s attention snapped toward him, and his scowl deepened. “Oh, just my luck,” he muttered. “Another gremlin.”

  The smaller student—still caught in Jumanar’s grip—stared at Connor with wide, nervous eyes.

  Connor tilted his head slightly. “You done?”

  Jumanar’s lip curled. “Oh, you wanna get involved?”

  Connor didn’t answer. He just stood there, his presence alone making it clear he wasn’t moving.

  Jumanar sneered. “You don’t scare me.”

  Then he swung.

  His fist shot forward, a mass of pure muscle and momentum, aimed squarely at Connor’s face.

  The impact landed, and Connor barely reacted.

  His head moved just slightly from the force, but that was it. No stagger, no flinch. Just a blink, like someone had lightly tapped his chin instead of trying to deck him.

  Jumanar’s scowl deepened, but there was hesitation now.

  Connor met his gaze, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled through his nose.

  Jumanar flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders like he was debating whether or not to swing again. Then he jabbed a finger at Connor’s chest. “When we go outside,” he growled, “you better watch your ass.”

  Then he dropped the smaller student, shoved past Connor, and stalked away.

  The hallway, which had gone eerily silent, slowly returned to its usual thrum of activity. Students who had been watching quickly looked away, pretending they hadn’t been paying attention.

  The smaller student rubbed his arm, his expression uncertain as he glanced up at Connor. “Uh…” He hesitated. “Thanks?”

  Connor didn’t respond. Just turned and started walking toward the cafeteria again, as if nothing had happened.

  Jay let out a long, long breath, jogging to catch up. “Man, you really like making my life stressful, huh?”

  Connor shrugged. “You’re still here.”

  Jay groaned, rubbing his temples. “Against my better judgment.”

  Connor shoved his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry, I do this all the time, these guys aren’t all that scary.”

  As the tension in the hallway slowly unraveled, students who had been lingering nearby began to disperse, muttering amongst themselves. Some cast wary glances at Connor, some at Jumanar’s retreating form, while others just shook their heads, already filing this away as another strange occurrence at Parkulir High.

  The smaller gremlin, still looking as though he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to stand there, shuffled awkwardly in place. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, eyes flicking up at Connor, then quickly down again, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  Connor, meanwhile, had already moved past it. His hands slid back into his pockets as he turned, resuming his slow march toward the cafeteria like he hadn’t just shrugged off a punch and invited trouble with one of the biggest guys in Parkulir High School.