[Vaelwyn High School No. 4 – Classroom 102]
Within the walls of Classroom 102, the atmosphere carried a particular kind of energy—loud enough to distract, focused enough to be called organized chaos.
At the center of the commotion stood a single figure, surrounded by a dense circle composed almost entirely of female students. His presence alone seemed to bend the social gravity of the room. Golden hair caught the light with effortless elegance, and his practiced smile never faltered as invitation after invitation fell upon him like seasonal rain.
"Evlin, could you help me with group homework?"
"Are you free after class? Maybe we could review together?"
"Would you like to study at the library later?"
He answered each one with the kind of grace that could only be called polished. Not overly familiar, not dismissive. Just enough charm to make every girl feel as though she were special—and not one of a dozen identical requests made in the last ten minutes.
He was, by every metric, the perfect student.
Top of the class. Admired by teachers. Respected by peers. Class Leader. A well-known name across all four divisions of Vaelwyn High. And, of course, a pro gamer—the very same Evlin who led the Valebourne team to a national VR championship victory.
His face was plastered on the digital billboard outside the train station. Local newspapers called him "The Golden Ace." To many, he already felt like the protagonist of a story whose ending was never in doubt.
And me?
Yeah, I'm not him.
I am the boy lying face-down across the back row, last seat, unmoving. Whether I was asleep, dead, or meditating was unclear—even to myself.
Why was I in such a tragic posture?
Well, it started with something routine: a typical night of livestreaming my VR grind. Nothing unusual. Just another long session of chasing boss drops and dodging low-tier mobs.
Until, of course, the universe decided to hit "Update."
I blacked out.
When I opened my eyes again, I was here.
Not just in this world, but in this body. In this classroom. And the name on the student register? The same as mine.
As for why? I have no answers. Only a headache that feels like someone tried merging two hard drives filled with corrupted save files.
My memories are fragmented—some parts sharp, others faint. Like staring through fogged glass at two lifetimes layered together. But one thing has become unmistakably clear:
This is not Earth.
This is a different world. A world called Celestara.
According to the fractured knowledge drifting in my mind, Earth no longer exists. It was consumed by something called The Darkness—a force so overwhelming it brought an end to the planet as we knew it.
Just as humanity stood at the brink of extinction, a Supreme Being appeared. Not a deity in the traditional sense, but something far greater—an entity beyond understanding. Its voice echoed across the void with a single declaration:
["New world. New rules. Let's see how you handle this one."]
And with that, the survivors of Earth were cast into a foreign world—one floating amidst stars and void, with rules neither scientific nor sane.
Magic exists here. So do monsters. Cultures and kingdoms birthed from timelines that never crossed. People from alternate Earths, parallel histories, scattered across a realm composed of multiple continents. Each one isolated. Each one alien.
In simpler terms, we're all just refugees stranded inside a cosmic sandbox server, maintained by a god with no support desk and no patch notes.
The body I woke up in after transmigrating?
...It's fine. Unremarkable, really—average in nearly every respect. The grades are acceptable. The stamina is manageable. Coordination? Passable at best. A generic template, if you will.
Except for two things: my face and my size.
(I'm talking about my height and frame, you degenerates. Don't misunderstand. My heart is pure.)
Still, it's not a terrible deal. Especially considering what today is.
This isn't just another school day.
Today, every high school senior in the country receives their VR gear—officially sanctioned headsets provided by the government, completely free of charge. A rite of passage in this world. The fact that public education includes distribution of fully immersive virtual technology is enough to make me question whether I ever want to return to my original world.
It would've been my favorite day of the year, no doubt—if I hadn't been reborn into someone else's life overnight, burdened with scrambled memories and a headache that feels like a corrupted save file trying to sync across two hard drives.
The game we're receiving isn't just for leisure. It's called Vaelwyn, a virtual world closely tied to the strange system that governs this society.
More than a simulation, Vaelwyn acts as an extension of reality. Skills, abilities, items—everything earned inside the game is reflected in the real world. Progress in the virtual space becomes progress in life.
I don't know the mechanism. Frankly, I'm in no condition to care. The migraine alone is enough to make me nostalgic for the time I accidentally drank five energy bottles after a VR championship final.
Slouched at my desk in the farthest back corner of the classroom, I tried to keep my head from falling off my shoulders. The surrounding noise—the hum of idle conversation, the sound of chairs scraping against tile—washed over me like static.
Then the classroom door opened.
And everything fell quiet.
Three adults stepped inside.
The first was a middle-aged woman wearing a crisp white blouse tucked neatly into black silk trousers. Behind her, a man in a zipped athletic jacket entered—our P.E. teacher, always relaxed, always smiling, the type of instructor who never needed to raise his voice to control the room.
But the third figure was different.
The last to enter was a woman in a tailored dark business suit. Composed, efficient, and undeniably authoritative—the sort of presence that made people straighten their backs without being told. The other teachers shifted ever so slightly as she passed, instinctively respectful.
She wasn't here for small talk.
Whispers died immediately. Even the loudest students found their chairs and lowered their voices. The room adjusted to her presence in a way that no bell or warning ever could.
The female teacher at the front cleared her throat, voice gentle but steady.
"Ahem. Everyone, today marks your official Awakening Day. I know many of you are nervous—or excited. That's completely natural. However, I want to remind you of one thing: regardless of what job or talent you awaken into, there is no such thing as a useless path. Every profession has its place, and—"
"Teacher," a girl in the second row interrupted, raising her hand only halfway, as if trying to distance herself from her own objection. "Can we please not have a full lecture today?"
Laughter stirred across the class. Soft, but unanimous. The teacher let out a tired sigh but didn't push the point.
Mercifully, our P.E. teacher stepped forward, wearing his usual affable grin.
"Haha, no lectures today. Promise. This is your day, after all." He gestured toward the woman in the business suit. "Let me introduce the person overseeing today's distribution. She'll explain how the system works and guide you through your initial synchronization. Please show her proper respect."
His tone was light, but the shift in the room was immediate. He never spoke harshly—but everyone listened when he did speak.
"She is Stacy Jones," he continued. "Representative of the Vaelwyn Awakening Association—the regional authority responsible for monitoring and supporting all licensed players. She's also a Tier-4 Elemental Archer."
That last part earned silence.
Tier-4 wasn't casual. It was a rank that signified control, precision, and more than a little raw power. No one in the room was laughing now.
Stacy stepped forward without a word. She raised her right hand and swiped it once through the air, like someone navigating a digital interface only she could see. Her motions were clean. Practiced. Minimalist.
A few more invisible gestures followed. Then she tapped forward with a single finger.
A faint glow shimmered near the front desk, and with a low harmonic tone, a stack of white rectangular boxes materialized in the open space—neatly stacked, sleek, and almost clinical in design.
No smoke. No theatrical sound effects. Just a quiet, professional reveal.
It was enough to make even the most disinterested students sit up a little straighter.
"When I call your name," Stacy said, her tone calm and measured, "step forward and collect one box. You will receive only one—each is keyed to your identity."
She paused only briefly before continuing. "After distribution is complete, I'll walk you through the system interface and safety protocol. Do not open your device until instructed."
Her presence was commanding, but not cold. Every word landed clearly. No excess. No fluff.
This was it—the moment everything began.
For the rest of the class, this was a natural step in a school year they had prepared for since childhood.
But for me?
I wasn't even supposed to be here.
I carried the memories of a national VR champion, yes. But now I also bore the identity of someone else, in a world shaped by systems I barely understood, with a student ID that matched my name—but not my past.
And unlike them, I couldn't afford to treat this like just another beginning.