The lecture by Professor Venn finally ended… leaving behind a hall full of teenagers who looked as though they had just listened to the terms and conditions of a contract to sell their souls to the devil. The only difference was that the devil here wore formal academic robes and spoke about "safety protocols."
The tablet device—which still looked like a piece of science fiction to me—accidentally slipped into my hands.
"Well then, freshmen," Professor Venn's voice echoed once more, cutting through the anxious whispers that had begun to fill the hall like the buzzing of hungry mosquitoes.
"Before we release you for lunch, there will be a brief orientation tour of several essential facilities that you will, unfortunately, become very familiar with."
She spoke in a dull, monotonous tone.
"You will now be divided into your permanent first-year classes. Your senior student guides are waiting at the designated exits for each class. Your detailed schedule and the location of your class should have appeared on your devices by now."
I glanced down at the phone in my hand.
Sure enough, a new notification had appeared.
I tapped it.
Student: Adam Lester
Assigned Class: First Year – Class Alpha (1-Alpha)
Tour Meeting Point: West exit of the hall, beside the "Fountain of Lost Hope"
Class Alpha?
I raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise this time.
Alpha?
Had I somehow sneaked onto the VIP list?
Did this mean that I, Adam Lester—the guy with an F- rank in strength and the mysterious skill "Story Analysis" that even I still didn't fully understand—had been placed in a class that supposedly contained the elite of the elite? Humanity's brightest hopes… or at the very least, the smallest collection of future idiots?
There had to be a catastrophic error in their system.
An error the size of an SSS-rank Gate.
At least, that's how it would be described in "Chronicles of the Vanguard Academy," the novel that had now become my unofficial travel guide to this particular hell.
This was the class that contained Ethan Riddle and the rest of the main characters… the future heroes and villains alike.
In the novel, it was always referred to as "the Special Class" or "the Elite Class."
It never had an official name there, but "Class Alpha" sounded disgustingly appropriate for that supposedly heroic role.
How in the name of every forgotten demon and buried tyrant did I end up here?
I wondered as I reluctantly stood up and followed the slow-moving stream of students heading toward the designated exits, like a flock of sheep being led to a very expensive slaughterhouse.
That paper acceptance letter I found…
Could it have been an extremely well-made forgery?
Did I somehow take the place of another "Adam Lester"—perhaps one with actual muscles and far less dark sarcasm?
Or were the standards for "elite" at this world-class academy so pathetically low that my mere ability to tie my own shoelaces without choking counted as a rare talent?
Maybe they just wanted a scapegoat… someone to sacrifice for the real talents when the inevitable catastrophe arrived.
I sighed deeply, feeling the faint headache return to remind me of its presence.
It didn't matter right now.
I was here—in the supposed class of "heroes."
At the west exit, beside a massive stone fountain depicting anonymous heroes battling monsters that looked far more impressive than they did—which I privately named the "Fountain of Orphans' Tears"—our small group, the illustrious Class Alpha, had begun to gather.
We were fewer than twenty students.
A suspiciously small number for an "elite" class.
Our guide was a tall, thin young man wearing the same dull gray uniform, though his looked like it had been worn for years.
His pale blond hair fell over his forehead like dead seaweed, and his thick metal-framed glasses made his eyes appear small and exhausted, as though he hadn't slept in ages.
He stood in front of us and looked at us with an empty expression, as if we were a collection of newly delivered furniture that he had been tasked with arranging.
Then he spoke in a flat voice, completely devoid of enthusiasm or life.
"My name is Timothy. I'm a third-year student."
"My job is to explain a few things and take you on a brief orientation tour of the academy facilities that you'll be using…"
"Follow me—and try not to fall behind or touch anything that looks shiny or interesting."
Perfect, I thought, resisting the urge to smile sarcastically.
Normally, first-year students are divided into six classes…
…from Alpha to Zeta," Timothy continued as he began walking, while we followed behind him like a line of ducklings.
"Based on the results of the initial admission assessments, which measure a wide range of abilities—including latent potential, discovered skills, and, in some rare cases… the wealth of your parents."
He delivered the last sentence without the slightest change in tone, as if it were simply another ordinary fact of life at Vanguard Academy.
At least he's honest about nepotism, I admitted to myself.
"Class Alpha," he continued while leading us through a towering glass corridor overlooking a gigantic training courtyard, "as expected, contains the students who demonstrated the highest levels of potential. Or those who possess unique and rare abilities… or, as I mentioned, those with good connections."
He paused for a moment, then turned to face us with the same expressionless, scrutinizing gaze.
"The purpose of this division is to provide an educational and training environment suited to the level of each group—and to ensure that we do not waste our precious resources on cases that are clearly hopeless."
"Of course," he added flatly, "the expectations for Class Alpha are always the highest."
He paused briefly, then concluded with a dead smile.
"Don't disappoint us… or at least try not to die in an extremely embarrassing way."
What an inspiring speech, I thought.
I could feel the motivation surging through my veins…
Or maybe that was just stomach acid.
Our "thrilling" orientation tour began.
The first stop was a massive structure resembling a cathedral from the future. A polished bronze plaque at the entrance read:
"Lorraine Library."
What a wonderfully creative name for a place like this…
I'm sure whoever named it didn't strain their brain cells too much,* I mocked inwardly.*
Inside, the shelves stretched endlessly—from the floor all the way up to the high vaulted ceiling.
They were filled with ancient leather-bound volumes that smelled of centuries-old dust and brittle paper, standing beside glowing data terminals that emitted a soft electronic hum.
"Here," Timothy said, gesturing theatrically with absolutely no passion whatsoever, "you will find the largest collection in the world of texts related to Narrative Phenomena, the history of Gates, entity analysis, and even several rare manuscripts that supposedly predict the emergence of new stories—or discuss the origins of the Gates themselves."
Then he nodded toward a section cordoned off with red velvet ropes that looked as though they had been stolen from the set of a cheap horror film.
"Those sections contain materials that our brilliant scholars are still scratching their heads over."
"That area, of course, is off-limits to first-year students."
He added calmly,
"We don't want you suffering existential madness too early… or summoning something that can only be dealt with by evacuating half the city."
"We already have enough problems as it is."
Too late for me on the existential madness part, I thought while scanning some of the visible titles on nearby massive book covers.
Beginner's Guide to the Seven Dimensions of Horror
Why Cosmic Entities Hate Us: A Study in Our Delightful Insignificance
Narratives: The Hell of Knowledge and Its Price
Truly light and entertaining reading for your free time.
Maybe I'd borrow one.
They sounded closer to a web novel anyway.
I noticed Ethan Riddle, our group's golden star, examining the books with eyes shining with childlike excitement, as if he had just discovered a treasure map.
Drake Mallory, our personal dark prince, leaned casually against one of the shelves, slowly scanning the place with a look that mixed boredom with arrogant superiority.
Serena Valerian, calm and impressively composed, was rapidly taking notes on her tablet. She asked Timothy precise and intelligent questions about the library's cataloging system and security protocols, which made our miserable guide look slightly confused as he muttered vague answers.
At least someone here is using their brain for something other than admiring the place or being disgusted by the people in it.
And me?
I was desperately trying not to look like someone searching for the nearest emergency exit—or researching how to successfully fake your death and escape to a remote island with no Gates or insane academies.
Pointless, I admitted bitterly to myself.
Even if I escaped, some F-rank horror story would probably appear out of nowhere in the bathroom of my modest apartment and devour my leg.
Practically speaking, this academy—with all its madness—was probably both the safest and the most dangerous place in this cursed world.
Our next stop was the Narrative Material Analysis Laboratories.
This section consisted of a series of sterile glass rooms filled with the smell of strange chemicals. Inside were complex machines flashing with lights and emitting odd electronic sounds.
Scientists wearing full white protective suits—from head to toe—were examining distorted artifacts or samples of viscous liquids with unnatural colors swirling inside glass containers.
"As you can see," Timothy explained without even blinking while pointing at something that looked disturbingly like a giant human heart, beating irregularly inside a glass tank filled with phosphorescent green liquid.
"Here we study the physical remnants recovered from closed Gates."
"Sometimes they are merely strange rocks or unknown plants never seen before."
"And sometimes they are… far less pleasant things. Much stickier ones."
He ignored the pulsating heart—which seemed almost as if it were staring back at us—and continued in a warning tone.
"A practical piece of advice from experience: do not touch anything if you are asked to assist in transporting samples… especially if it is still moving independently."
He closed one eye briefly as his already troubled expression darkened further.
"Or whispering in an incomprehensible language that sounds like it's cursing the ancestors of your ancestors."
"Trust me on that point. I learned it the hard way… and I still have nightmares about it."
No problem at all, I assured myself firmly, feeling a faint chill crawl down my spine.
The last thing I needed was to grow a third arm that started reciting existential poetry about the meaning of life.
Or to begin hearing whispers asking me to sacrifice my cat…
Which I fortunately do not own, making the sacrifice somewhat difficult.
I already had enough problems without adding curses or unwanted physical mutations to the list.
Then we moved on to the outdoor training grounds.
And when I say "grounds," I mean vast open areas of intimidating scale…
It was as if they had taken several Olympic football stadiums and multiplied them by ten.
Some of these arenas simulated different natural environments with astonishing accuracy.
Dense forests filled with the scent of damp soil and pine.
Barren deserts radiating such convincing heat that you started sweating just by looking at them.
Icy mountains so realistically cold that I almost found myself searching for a coat.
Others were simply enormous gray concrete battlefields—bleak and scarred with deep craters and burned explosion marks… as if a group of angry giants had once played football there with ballistic missiles.
"Whoosh!"
"Clack–clack–clack!"
"BOOM!"
Groups of older students—second- and third-years, apparently—were training intensely.
The sounds of clashing swords, bursts of energy lighting the sky for brief moments, and sharp battle cries echoed through the air like a cinematic soundtrack.
"These," Timothy said, gesturing toward one group of students, "are where you will practice basic combat skills. Supervised training duels, and simulations of certain low-risk scenarios."
They fought using training swords that glowed with faint blue energy, moving with deadly grace while emitting sounds that resembled the mournful songs of whales.
For a moment, I stared at the unreal scene before me in genuine amazement, forgetting my usual sarcasm.
Superhuman speeds. Crushing blows.
With every clash, a small gust of wind swept past and brushed against my skin, carrying the smell of sweat and burnt ozone.
This… this is actually amazing, I admitted to myself.
A sight even the most expensive Hollywood action films could never portray with this level of raw intensity and realism.
"Of course," Timothy interrupted my rare moment of awe with his monotonous voice, "low risk is a term we use rather loosely here."
"Our definition of low risk might include losing a limb or two… or gaining a few scars that will make you look more interesting at reunion parties… if you live long enough to attend them."
He paused and looked at a few students whose faces had suddenly turned pale.
"But nothing permanently dangerous… usually."
"There's a private academy clinic. At the very least, it's a five-star hospital."
I saw Ethan Riddle staring at the fighters with obvious excitement, his eyes shining like a child who had just found candy on the ground.
I was certain he wanted to jump in and join them immediately.
Drake Mallory watched the trainees with the smile of a hungry wolf.
Serena Valerian observed everything with intense concentration.
And me?
Once my initial amazement at the epic scene faded, I returned to my natural state of quiet internal terror.
I was desperately trying not to look like someone who might vomit just from imagining myself in any of those dangerous situations.
My skill wouldn't be very helpful if someone swung a flaming sword the length of my arm directly at my face.
Finally—after what felt like a sightseeing tour through the seven circles of hell, plus a generous dose of bureaucratic commentary—we arrived at the Central Cafeteria.
It was enormous. Deafeningly noisy.
And the smell of food…
Well, it was definitely a smell.
Not necessarily the smell of good food—or even food fit for human consumption by my modest standards—but it was certainly the smell of something you could put in your stomach and hope it didn't cause immediate food poisoning or unwanted genetic mutations.
At least… I sincerely hoped so.
"This is where you will eat your three daily meals," Timothy announced. His dead-fish expression showed no hint of sarcasm.
"If you are lucky enough to survive the morning training until the next meal."
Maybe he lost his sense of humor inside one of the Gates.
"The meals are carefully designed by nutrition experts from the UTA to provide the calories and essential nutrients required for explorers undergoing intense and continuous training."
He looked at the cafeteria coldly.
"The taste, unfortunately… is considered a secondary variable that receives little attention in the final equation."
I knew it, I sighed internally, feeling my stomach tighten in protest.
Hospital food with a military flavor… and possibly some extra protein supplements harvested from unknown alien creatures pulled out of a nearby Gate.
I was definitely not excited about this unique culinary experience.
Long lines of students waited patiently to receive their portions of something that looked like mysterious gray porridge with a suspicious texture… boiled vegetables that had lost every trace of life, color, or flavor… and a piece of meat grilled so thoroughly it looked like an old shoe sole that had survived a violent battle.
Maybe I can survive on water and fresh air.
The orientation tour finally ended, leaving me with a mixture of physical exhaustion and mental shock at the sheer scale—and danger—of everything.
I also felt a very strong urge to take a nap that lasted an entire century somewhere far away from monsters, superhuman professors, and food that resembled failed scientific experiments.
I had seen enough of this "hero factory" to realize that I was in far deeper—and far more ridiculous—trouble than even my worst nightmares had imagined.
Every corner screamed "potential danger waiting to happen."
Every face I saw carried either blind ambition bordering on madness… or the quiet despair of someone who had already witnessed too much horror to believe in survival anymore.
It's fine, I tried to reassure myself while searching for a quiet place to breathe and gather what remained of my scattered sanity.
I know the novel.
And I have a skill whose use is still unknown… but at least it's ranked EX.
I strongly suspected the rest of my time here wouldn't be nearly as "fun" or "educational" as they claimed.
More likely, it would just be a long series of situations where I tried my absolute best not to die in an extremely stupid way.