After that "enjoyable" tour, I felt like I desperately needed a long bath in hot water—and perhaps some antidepressants prescribed by a licensed professional.
Timothy, our guide with the dead soul and absolutely nonexistent enthusiasm in his eyes, led us to the final building. It was noticeably less grand than the cathedral-like library or the space-age laboratories, but it still carried the same cold, efficient design that the Vanguard Academy seemed obsessed with—as if it were some kind of sacred doctrine.
Above the polished metal entrance hung a simple, straightforward sign:
Student Support and Services Department – First Year
What a comforting and hopeful name, I thought sarcastically as I dragged my exhausted feet behind the rest of the shining "Class Alpha." They walked with a kind of newly acquired military discipline.
I wonder if the "support" they provide here includes group therapy sessions to deal with the inevitable trauma…
Well… it probably should.
Inside, the hall was wide and brightly lit. But it was completely devoid of any aesthetic touch or human warmth that might suggest the place actually cared about our mental well-being.
Long tables made of polished metal were arranged in neat rows. Behind each table sat a staff member wearing the academy's standard gray uniform. Some of them were older students performing what looked like mandatory volunteer work—or perhaps serving some kind of punishment—judging by the expressions on their faces that clearly suggested they would rather be anywhere else in this galaxy.
Each first-year class was directed to a specific line, marked by a small sign glowing with a faint blue light.
The line for Class Alpha, the supposed elite class I somehow found myself in, was no different from the others.
Well… except that the students in it either looked absurdly overconfident in a way that grated on the nerves, or visibly tense—as if they were about to start trembling until their teeth fell out.
A healthy mixture of arrogance and anxiety, I commented internally.
I suspected I belonged to the second category.
Exactly what you'd expect from humanity's supposedly bright and promising future.
When my turn finally arrived—after a wait that felt longer than the list of sins from my previous life, which I strongly suspected was the reason I ended up here—I stepped forward.
The girl sitting behind the desk wore the academy uniform. Her short brown hair was cut with meticulous precision, and she wore elegant thin-framed glasses that made her look like a strict office secretary who had suddenly been promoted to prison guard responsible for handing out equipment to new inmates.
She didn't even raise her eyes from the tablet seamlessly embedded into the desk in front of her.
"Name and identification number," she said in a mechanical voice devoid of expression or humanity, as if she were reading from a prewritten list.
I pulled the card from my pocket and repeated what was written on it.
"Adam Lester, 08272038-AL77."
I answered, feeling like nothing more than another number in their complicated bureaucratic system—an insignificant data cell in an endless spreadsheet.
Her fingers tapped rapidly across the screen with practiced efficiency.
"Adam Lester… Class 1-Alpha. Registered."
Then, without the slightest change in tone or expression, she gestured with her slender fingers toward a neatly arranged pile of items placed beside her.
"This is the standard welcome package for first-year students. Its contents are essential for Vanguard students."
She paused briefly, then added in the same monotone voice:
"Good luck on your journey through the gates of horror."
Such warmth and kindness overflowing from this place, I thought as I examined the treasures in front of me, feeling another wave of cold sarcasm wash over me.
There was a dark gray backpack made from a material that looked as tough as Kevlar—or perhaps treated dragon hide. The kind of bag that seemed sturdy enough to survive a small grenade explosion or a direct attack from a pack of angry goblins.
But it was also… tragically ugly. Designed so poorly that you might actually prefer fighting monsters while carrying a garbage bag instead.
At least no one would try to steal it, I thought as I cautiously opened it, half expecting something slimy to jump out and bite me.
Inside, I found a variety of "essential tools" that were supposedly meant to help me survive the hell they called the academy.
First, there was an official academy tablet. It was slightly larger and more advanced than the personal phone that had shown my schedule earlier, and it appeared to be loaded with specialized software and security features.
Great. Another device to collect dust—or accidentally break, I mocked internally.
Maybe I could use it as a temporary shield when something tried to kill me.
When I opened it, I discovered it contained a complete digital version of the "Vanguard Academy Student Handbook."
It was a massive document that seemed to include every imaginable tedious and unnecessary rule, along with some "helpful advice," such as:
"In the event of encountering a Rank-5 entity or higher, we recommend closing your eyes and praying for a peaceful death… rather than being enslaved."
There was also a detailed three-dimensional map application of the academy's enormous campus, presumably so I wouldn't get lost and die of starvation or boredom in one of its maze-like corridors.
The academy really was enormous.
It would be more accurate to call it a miniature city.
There was also a secure internal communication app for contacting "companions"—of which I currently had none—and a few basic training applications that resembled cheap video games I used to play as a child on a computer that ran like it was powered by steam.
Technology here is incredibly advanced in every field…
But their taste in designing educational games is still stuck in the digital Stone Age.
Next to the tablet, there was something that looked like a small personal communicator, designed to be worn on the wrist like a luxury watch. It looked simple and futuristic, made from matte black metal that didn't reflect light. A small touchscreen displayed the time, several icons, and a few mysterious symbols I didn't understand—and didn't even try to.
"This is your Cardinal device," the employee said without lifting her eyes from her screen.
"It is used for instant communication with members of your team… and with the Academy's Operations Room, which will contact you between training or official missions. It also contains a highly precise biometric tracker and an advanced GPS locator."
She paused for a moment, as if searching for the appropriate words.
"In case… well…" she hesitated briefly, "in case there is a need to recover what remains of you efficiently."
Very reassuring, I thought as I fastened the device around my left wrist. The cold metal touched my skin like a rigid bracelet.
A luxury watch that didn't just tell the time—it also told the world where to find my scattered remains.
What a technological innovation in service of humanity.
Then there was the "Advanced Field First Aid Kit – Student Consumption Edition."
It was a small metal box, but surprisingly heavy, painted in the academy's signature depressing gray. I opened it carefully, half expecting something to jump out.
Inside were various sterile bandages of different sizes, a small bottle of extremely strong antiseptic capable of killing any germ… or any small lifeform with a sensitive sense of smell.
There were also some powerful painkillers that looked like they were designed for elephants rather than teenagers with questionable stats.
And finally—a sterile surgical needle and thread.
Do they seriously expect us to perform surgery on ourselves or our teammates in the field while being chased by a ten-armed monster bleeding acid? I wondered in mild shock that was slowly transforming into a kind of sarcastic acceptance.
Finally, at the bottom of the ugly backpack, there was what looked like a thick paper journal with a luxurious dark leather cover.
Strangely, it had no title or engravings.
When I opened it, I discovered that every page inside was completely blank—made from thick, high-quality paper, the kind that makes you feel guilty if you write something trivial on it.
Except for a small note printed elegantly in shimmering golden letters on the first page:
"Record your journey, student.
Document your observations.
Learn from your catastrophic mistakes."
A diary for the walking dead… with a philosophical flavor? I mocked internally, suddenly feeling the urge to burst into hysterical laughter—or maybe cry.
"Do you have any further questions, Student Lester?" the employee finally asked.
For the first time, she raised her eyes and looked at me briefly.
It was an empty look.
As if she were looking straight through me at the wall behind.
I shook my head.
Yes, I had an endless list of questions.
Such as: Are all of you collectively insane here in this cursed academy?
And: Is there even the slightest chance of surviving this place with my body intact… or at least with all my essential limbs still attached?
And: Can I get real, strong coffee instead of that brown bitter liquid you call food in the cafeteria?
And: Does the health insurance I never signed cover unwanted existential transformations… or being cursed?
But of course, I didn't say any of that.
The words would have disappeared into the void of bureaucracy surrounding this woman—or worse, they might have been considered additional evidence of my unsuitability.
"Thank you very much. Everything is perfectly clear," I said instead, trying to make my voice sound calm and normal.
I picked up my "welcome package," which felt much heavier than it looked.
As I walked away—careful not to trip over my own feet—I caught a glimpse of Ethan, the protagonist of the story, receiving his package with ease, confidence… and actual happiness.
Why is he happy?
Everyone deals with this organized madness in their own way, I thought as I made my way toward the exit of this hall that smelled like despair packed neatly inside backpacks.
Some deal with it through blind confidence.
Some through calculated arrogance.
Some through quiet, disciplined intelligence.
And me?
I deal with it with a whole lot of internal sarcasm.
There were still more papers for us to sign—legal waivers in case of accidental death, intentional death, or even suicide.
Non-disclosure agreements forbidding us from revealing anything about the academy, the Gates… or even the terrible recipes served in the cafeteria, which I suspected might actually be the academy's darkest secret.
And then there was a long list of conduct rules that looked like they had been written by a lawyer who had lost all faith in humanity and common sense a very long time ago.
I signed everything without even bothering to read the fine print.
Because I knew very well that the small details wouldn't make this any less terrible or any more fair.
What difference would a few extra clauses make in my contract with the devil running this prestigious educational institution?
I just hope they at least have good coffee.
When we finally finished this delightful bureaucratic process—which had drained whatever remained of my soul and left me feeling hollow—we were directed from the signing room to the housing administration hall.
Wonderful, I thought with exhaustion beyond human description.
More opportunities to discover new ways this place could slowly and methodically break me apart, piece by piece.
I just wanted a room to sleep in.