The next morning, I arrived at the Budding Hunter Preparatory Academy & Culinary School with a spring in my step that was 80% caffeine and 20% desperate optimism. The place was… bigger than I'd expected. It wasn't the gleaming citadel of the top-tier academies, but it wasn't the crumbling ruin I'd feared either. It was solidly, resolutely… okay. The main building looked like a large community college, but with more reinforced concrete and fewer windows. Probably to contain the occasional stray fireball or rogue culinary experiment.
A figure was waiting by the main gate. It was Secretary Millbrae, her bun even tighter today, if that were physically possible. She spotted me immediately, that same painful smile plastered on her face.
"Citizen Sanchez! Right on time!" she chirped, clapping her hands together softly. "Welcome to your new academic home! I'll be your guide this morning."
"Wow, a personal tour from the head secretary? I feel so… important." And slightly terrified. Was this what it was like to be a celebrity? Were they this nice to the B-Rank students too, or was I getting the full "Please Don't Transfer" package?
"We ensure all our *Unique* students feel welcomed," she said, confirming my theory. She led me through the grounds, her heels clicking a rapid rhythm on the pavement.
"To your left, the main academic building. Theory of Monster Ecology, Dimensional Physics, and Basic First-Aid Against Venomous Fangs are taught there." It looked like every school ever.
"To your right, the Culinary Wing. You can often smell their… experiments." The air near that building did have a strange, smoky aroma with a hint of something that smelled like burnt scales. "And straight ahead," she said with a flourish, "our pride and joy: the Practical Combat Pavilion!"
It was an impressive dome-shaped structure. Inside, it was a hive of activity. I saw a state-of-the-art gym where a kid with rock-like skin was bench-pressing what looked like a small car. There were holographic targeting ranges, obstacle courses, and several large, enclosed arenas where students were sparring, their powers flashing—a girl summoning shards of ice, a boy moving with blurring speed.
"We have six different battlefield simulation chambers," Millbrae said proudly. "Everything from urban environments to dense jungle to arctic tundra. All top quality!"
I was genuinely impressed. "This is… actually really cool."
"We strive for excellence where we can," she said, a hint of real pride in her voice. Then she shifted back to administrative mode. "Now, academically, your performance will be graded on written exams, practical tests, and most importantly, the quarterly Battle Festivals."
"Battle Festivals? That sounds fun. Like a school fair with more punching?"
"Essentially. It's a tournament. One-on-one combat between students. It starts with class-wide matches, then quarter-finals, semi-finals, and a final championship. It's a major event! Sponsors from smaller guilds often come to scout talent." She leaned in. "It's how many of our graduates get their first contracts."
So it was like MMA meets a job fair. With magic. Got it.
"Also, students are free to issue challenges to one another for practice in the arenas at any time, provided both parties accept. However," her voice turned stern, "using your power to bully or coerce other students is a **Cardinal Sin**. The Union mandates a minimum one-year imprisonment in a power-suppressing facility for offenders. We are very, very strict about this."
A year in super-jail for being a bully. This world did not mess around. I made a mental note: *No evil cackling on school grounds.*
The paperwork was a breeze. I signed my name on about a dozen holographic forms. With each signature, I felt a weird mix of excitement and selling my soul. But for a private dorm and a stipend, I'd sell it gladly.
"And that's it!" Millbrae beamed. "You are officially enrolled, Citizen Sanchez. Your class schedule will be uploaded to your holophone tonight. Feel free to use the training facilities ahead of the other new students. Consider it a… head start."
The special treatment was both awesome and deeply unsettling.
After the tour, my stomach growled louder than a spatial crack demon. I headed back to my apartment, my mind buzzing. I needed sustenance. I needed something cheap, spicy, and capable of fueling both my body and my existential crisis. I settled on a cup of instant noodles from the corner store—"Dragon's Breath Spicy" flavor. It seemed appropriate.
Back in my beige prison, I slurped the nuclear-orange noodles, feeling the burn. It was then I decided to get serious about my training. I'd only been awakened for a week, but I had to catch up.
I focused, and a single, glowing white string emerged from my finger. I made it dance, loop, and tie itself into a perfect bow. "Cute," I muttered. "But not exactly 'city-destroying'."
Then I remembered my experiment from yesterday. The sharp, invisible wire. I concentrated again, pushing my will into the string, demanding it become thinner, sharper, more precise. The glowing light vanished, leaving behind what looked like empty air. But I could feel it, a taut line of intent connecting my finger to the leg of my chair.
I gave a tiny flick.
*SCHIIINK.*
The chair leg was neatly severed, toppling the chair over with a clatter.
"Okay, still sharp," I said, a grin spreading on my face. "But what about… control?"
A truly devious, anime-inspired thought crossed my mind. Doflamingo didn't just cut things. He *controlled* people. He used his strings like a puppeteer.
"No, no, Ron, that's dark. That's super-villain stuff. Secretary Millbrae said no bullying. Super-jail. Super-jail is bad."
But… what if the subject was willing? Or… not a person?
I looked at the fallen chair. I focused on the "semi-sentient" part of the description. I didn't just want to lift it with a string; I wanted to *move* it. I imagined dozens of tiny, nearly invisible strings erupting from my fingertips and latching onto the chair, connecting to its limbs, giving it… life.
To my absolute astonishment, it was… easy. Unnervingly easy. The chair twitched. Then, with a creak of protest, it pushed itself upright on its three remaining legs. I wiggled my fingers. The chair took a jerky, lopsided step forward. Then another.
I was puppeteering a chair. In my apartment. By myself.
A hysterical laugh burst out of me. "I'm… I'm the Chairmancer! The chosen one of furniture!"
I spent the next hour making the chair march around my apartment, bow to me, and even have a clumsy sword fight with a broom I also puppeted. The control was intuitive, like moving a muscle I never knew I had. The strings weren't just physical; they were an extension of my will. I could feel the feedback through them, the weight of the objects, their resistance.
After a week. A single week.
"This is insane," I whispered, finally letting the chair and broom clatter to the floor. I looked at my hands. "Either I'm a natural-born prodigy of the string arts… or this power is a lot more broken than its C-Rank suggests."
The thought was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. What else could I do? And more importantly… what was I *willing* to do to find out? I made a second mental note, right under the one about not cackling: *Do not, under any circumstances, try to puppet a person. No matter how funny it might seem.*
The temptation, however, was already there, wiggling at the back of my mind like a very persuasive, very sinister piece of string.