Chapter 5:
Today's the day I officially start compulsory education.
Tragic.
For the past three years, I've been in kindergarten—honestly, not a bad deal. No homework, no pressure, just vibes. I already knew Japanese from my… previous life complications, so while everyone else was figuring out basic words, I was out here min-maxing finger painting and dominating group activities.
And yeah, I did dominate.
Especially in Tag.
I still feel a little bad about that one kid I absolutely destroyed. Not my fault he had the survival instincts of a stunned pigeon.
To be fair, preschool had its downsides. Communication was… primitive. With limited vocabulary, disputes were usually settled in one of two ways: shoving matches or immediate emotional collapse. Sometimes both. Efficient, in a way.
Still, life was easy.
Wake up around 7. Wash face, brush teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast. Then we'd march off to kindergarten in a neat little line—like ducklings following their mother.
In our case, "mother" was Nana-san, our long-suffering caretaker.
We'd get there around 9, and from that point on it was a carefully structured cycle of chaos: sing, play, draw, dance, eat, nap, repeat. No real studying—just learning disguised as fun so effective the kids didn't even realize they were being educated.
Honestly? Kind of genius.
After that, we'd head back home, where I'd spend my time either playing with the older kids or strategically testing the patience of the staff. For research purposes, obviously.
Somewhere along the way, this place stopped feeling temporary.
Yeah, the other kids can be… creatively irrational, and the caretakers rotate often enough that you learn not to get too attached too quickly. But still—it's stable. Familiar.
It works.
And really, it's not like I have much choice.
Legally speaking, I'm here until I'm 18.
This morning came with a bit more ceremony than usual.
Not because of us, obviously—we're still the same group that needs occasional reminders to bring all our belongings with us—but because the director decided to personally see us off.
Tanaka-sensei.
The man who runs this entire place, yet somehow still shows up at the front gate every year like this is part of his job description. Maybe it is. Or maybe he just added it himself at some point and never stopped.
Apparently, this is a tradition. New school year, new batch of kids being sent out into the world, and there he is without fail. He did the same when we first started kindergarten—same entrance, same timing, same composed stance like he's been running the same scene on repeat for decades.
Which, considering his age, he probably has.
Mid-50s, give or take. The kind of person who didn't slow down with time, just settled into his routines so completely they became part of him.
Today he's in a full navy business suit—properly pressed, perfectly fitted. The kind of outfit that makes you stand a little straighter just by being near it. A noticeable upgrade from his usual cardigan-and-slacks combination, which he wears when he's pretending he's not in charge of everything.
The suit makes this feel official.
Which is mildly concerning.
We line up—more or less—and start heading out one by one. As each kid passes, Tanaka-sensei offers a few words. Nothing long, nothing dramatic. Just short, steady encouragements in that same calm, even tone.
At first, it sounds like repetition.
But then you start catching the differences.
A slight shift in wording. A small change in tone. Nothing big. Just enough.
Most of the others probably don't notice.
I do.
When my turn comes, I step forward, already expecting the standard issue send-off so I can be on my way.
He pauses.
Barely.
Then, right on cue—
"Do your best."
Exactly as expected.
Same words. Same tone.
And still… not quite the same.
There's something there, under all that practiced composure. Not warm, not easy to spot—he's not the type—but deliberate. Like he actually means it, even if he refuses to make a whole thing out of it.
…Yeah.
That tracks.
The director of a children's home who shows up every single year without fail, dresses like it's a formal event, and gives every kid a send-off tailored just enough to matter—
while delivering it like he's reading from a script.
Caring, just… aggressively subtle about it.
Honestly, I respect the commitment.
From here on, we get handed off to the older students.
And I use "handed off" loosely, because it's not really a formal transition so much as a natural gravitational shift — the older kids from the home just sort of absorb us into the group, the way they always do outside of school. No ceremony. No announcements. Just Kenji from fourth grade appearing next to me like he'd always been there, falling into step without looking down.
Business as usual. For him, anyway.
Which makes sense. The older kids have been making this commute for years — they know the route, they know the school, they know which corner requires a preemptive "stay together" before someone inevitably tests the concept. For us, this is new territory. Different building, different faces, different everything.
Kindergarten was elsewhere. That chapter's done.
The caretakers come with us too — walking alongside. Nana-san is three kids to my left, already mid-conversation with one of the second graders about something I can't quite catch. Another caretaker has a first grader by the hand — not because she grabbed them, but because the kid reached up first and she just took it without breaking stride.
That's more or less how it works.
Still — even with all that familiarity around us — the first day of elementary school is apparently an event. I'd gleaned as much from the atmosphere of the past week. The paperwork, handled well in advance. The uniforms, checked twice this morning by Nana-san with the energy of someone running final inspections before a state visit. The general low hum of this matters that had settled over the home since yesterday.
So yes. Big day. Noted.
The reality of it becomes clearer once we turn onto the main path leading to the school gates.
Other kids are arriving too, and the contrast is immediate. Not dramatic — nothing so blunt as that — just there, in the small details. A mother crouching down to straighten a collar. A father with a camera already raised. A grandmother holding a paper bag of something, probably snacks, probably unnecessary, clearly non-negotiable.
Lots of photos. Lots of "Smile!" and "Look over here!"
Our group keeps moving.
No cameras. No collar-straightening. The caretakers are here, and that part's the same — but the weight of it sits differently. They're not standing at a distance watching us go. They're just with us, the way they always are, which is its own kind of thing even if it doesn't photograph as well.
I notice the difference anyway.
I file it away, because there's nothing productive to do with it right now.
What's more immediately interesting is watching the older kids navigate a school they already know while the rest of us are seeing it for the first time. The ninth graders up front haven't broken stride once. The middle ones are relaxed, easy — pointing things out occasionally, the kind of offhand commentary that comes from years of familiarity. That's the gym. Canteen's on the second floor. Don't bother with the third water fountain, it runs cold.
Useful information, delivered with the energy of people who have long since stopped thinking of it as useful information.
Then there's the second graders — last year's first graders, fresh off their own initiation — walking with the very specific confidence of people who have exactly one year of experience over us and intend to make it count.
One of them turns around to check we're still in line.
We are.
He nods, apparently satisfied, and faces forward again.
Deeply committed to the role. I respect the hustle.
We're in Hamamatsu, Shizuoka Prefecture, and the school is called Hamamatsu Municipal Aoba Compulsory Education School. Long enough that by the time you finish saying it, you've probably graduated. It's one of those combined elementary and junior high setups — same campus, different floors, nine years of progressively increasing expectations.
Nine years.
That's the contract.
Which is a little surreal, standing here at the gate for the first time. The older kids walk through it like it's nothing — because for them, it is. For us it's still new, still uncharted, the beginning of something long enough that thinking about the end of it isn't particularly useful.
At the gate, a teacher is already stationed and directing traffic with practiced calm. Propped against the wall nearby is a chalkboard sign:
Welcome, First Grade Students!
Very official.
I adjust the straps of my randoseru — regulation-issued, sensibly practical, devoid of any personality — and follow the line inside.
Somewhere behind me, one of the older kids says something quiet to a first grader who'd started to slow down near the entrance, taking it all in a beat too long. I don't catch the words. Whatever it was, it worked — they speed up, falling back into step.
Just the way it goes, with them.
…Which is a little surreal when you think about it. I already did one childhood. Now I'm signing up for the full program again.
Honestly, this could go one of two ways. Either this place becomes something familiar—
or I spend the next decade wondering how I managed to loop back into compulsory education twice.
Not ideal.
And let's not forget about Superpowers—or as they are called here 'quirks'.
A few of the kids ahead of us are already showing signs.
Nothing dramatic. One keeps sparking at the fingertips like a faulty outlet. Another's shadow is slightly off — moving when it shouldn't, half a second behind, in the wrong direction entirely.
No one reacts.
Which tracks. Quirks have been around long enough that this is just baseline reality. Schools didn't collapse or anything — they adapted. Slowly, probably painfully, but they got there.
Kindergarten mostly dodged the issue. Half the kids hadn't manifested their quirks yet, and the other half had no idea what they were doing even if they had a quirk. At that age, "unexplained phenomenon" and "tantrum" overlap pretty heavily. Everyone just agreed not to look too closely.
Elementary school is a different situation.
These kids are older. More of them will have something, and the ones who do will actually know how to use it — or at least know they have it, which is arguably worse. An unaware four-year-old accidentally levitating their lunch is a Tuesday. A seven-year-old who's figured out what they can do and has had exactly zero formal training?
That's a different problem entirely.
While I was busy cataloguing potential nine-year survival strategies, we arrived.
The indoor gym is bigger than I expected — or maybe it just feels that way with the noise. Footsteps, shuffled movement, low chatter bouncing off walls that have clearly seen far worse than this. Whatever number we are right now, the building is handling it with complete indifference.
Rows upon rows of chairs, arranged with the kind of precision that suggests someone spent an unreasonable amount of time on this yesterday afternoon.
I count, because of course I do.
Two hundred and forty seats.
Divided into neat columns, each one with a teacher standing at the front like a checkpoint and another moving along the side, guiding students toward their designated spots with practiced hand gestures and the calm authority of people who have done this enough times that the chaos no longer registers as chaos.
The caretakers peeled off a while back, somewhere between the school entrance and here. No dramatic goodbye — just a natural endpoint, the way a current deposits you somewhere and keeps moving. Nana-san caught my eye briefly before she turned back. Didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
The older kids from the home had already branched off earlier, absorbed into their respective grades, their respective classrooms, their respective routines. Kenji gave me a short nod before he disappeared around a corridor. The second grader who'd been checking on us the whole commute — deeply committed, never wavering — was gone too, off to perform his serious responsibilities somewhere else.
Just us now.
The actual first graders, standing at the threshold of the gym, getting funnelled toward our seats one by one.
I find mine, sit down, and look around.
Two hundred and forty chairs. Teachers at every row. A podium at the front, a banner overhead, the low ambient noise of a hundred and something six-year-olds being guided into sitting still simultaneously.
So.
This is it, then.
Hamamatsu Municipal Aoba Compulsory Education School's entrance ceremony. My entrance ceremony. First day of nine years of compulsory education, second childhood, second time sitting in a chair this small and pretending I belong here.
I straighten up slightly.
Might as well make it official.
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(This is the update, earlier it was above)
Author's note:
Just wanted your review, be honest and review this, I am going for a fun, casual and light-hearted tone, the mc has a bit of quippy and dry humor side.