Chapter Three — Walking to School
The sun was still climbing when I stepped outside. The air smelled like wet concrete and corner-store grease. Malik and Haneef were leaning against the rust-stained bus stop sign, clowning on each other the way they always did.
Malik spotted me first. "Ayo, Nasir finally up before noon?" he called, laughing.
Haneef elbowed him. "Don't front. He look different, though. Fresh shirt, shoes tied right. What happened, bro? You join the honor roll overnight?"
I grinned, adjusting my bag. "Something like that. Let's just say I woke up."
They stared at me a second, confused. But Malik just shook his head and laughed. "Man, you talk in riddles. Come on, we gonna be late."
We started walking, sneakers slapping the cracked sidewalk. Broken glass glittered in the gutters, and faded graffiti tagged every wall like the block itself was tired of being ignored. Same old scenery. Only difference was me.
For a while, we just talked about nothing — music, girls we'd never have a chance with, how broke we all were. But soon enough, the real topic came up. The only thing anybody cared about that week.
The Symposium: Arc of Legends.
"You know I'm going assassin first day," Malik said, puffing out his chest like he was already famous. "Daggers, speed, all crits. I'm slicing bosses before they even blink."
Haneef snorted. "And then dying 'cause your health bar thinner than your excuses. Nah, I'm rolling priest. Somebody gotta keep you clowns alive."
I listened, half smiling, but inside my chest my heart was pounding. I remembered these conversations. Word for word. I remembered how in my past life we were just three broke kids talking big dreams while the in-crowd flexed with their paid subscriptions, custom rigs, and early access.
And I remembered how, no matter what class we picked, we still got crushed.
This time… different.
"What about you, Nasir?" Malik asked, nudging me. "You still saying swordsman? Man, everybody gonna clown you. That's the most basic class in the game."
Haneef nodded. "Yeah, bro. Pick mage or something. At least you'll look flashy when you lose."
I chuckled low, my voice steady. "Nah. Swordsman's perfect. Simple, steady. You'll see."
They groaned in unison. Malik waved his arms like I was crazy. "You wild. Ain't no future in that class. That's the default. The broke man's pick!"
"Maybe," I said, smirking. "But trust me — in ten years they'll remember the name Swordsman."
They didn't understand, of course. How could they? Only I knew the truth. Only I remembered the hidden path, the Abyss, the legacy class that turned one nobody into a king.
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By the time we hit the corner near the school, the crowd had started gathering. Students in the latest sneakers, gold chains, Gucci belts that probably cost more than our rent. Music blasting from portable speakers. Laughter, shouting, the cliques already forming invisible walls around who mattered and who didn't.
And at the center of it all — the royalty of Germantown High.
John Smalls stood tall, wearing a brand-new bomber jacket, a diamond chain catching the sun. His sister Rebecca was right beside him, rocking braids and a designer purse. Their father was the mayor, and they walked like the whole block belonged to them.
Next to them was Pretty Rich — slim, light-skinned, smiling like he was born for the cameras. Marly Jackson and Smooda Da Shooter brought up the back, sneakers spotless, hoodies fresh. And the girls — Shanea Johnson, Kelly Greenbird, Amira Standfeild — were all dressed like they were stepping onto a runway instead of into homeroom.
They were the in-crowd. The chosen ones. Families well off, futures lined with gold. Teachers treated them like stars. Everybody else either wanted to be them, date them, or stay out of their way.
And then there was us.
Three kids in faded jeans and sneakers that had seen too many seasons. Backpacks sagging, jokes hiding the hunger in our guts.
"Man, here we go again," Malik muttered under his breath. "Fashion show every morning."
Haneef shoved his hands in his pockets. "Ain't no runway out here. Somebody tell them that."
I said nothing, just watched as John Smalls glanced our way, his lip curling into a smirk. He leaned toward Pretty Rich, whispered something, and they both laughed loud enough for everyone to hear. Rebecca rolled her eyes, but her smile never faded.
The laughter stung, same way it always had. In my last life, this was where it started — the bullying, the humiliation, the years of being treated like dirt under their expensive shoes.
But this time, I didn't flinch.
I kept walking, head high, even as Malik muttered curses under his breath and Haneef shook his head. My heart pounded, but not from fear. From the fire inside me, the voice that whispered louder with every step:
Laugh while you can. The game changes next week.
Because I wasn't just some husky kid from the ghetto anymore. I was a player with knowledge of the future, a swordsman who already knew where the Abyss waited.
And soon enough, John Smalls and his perfect little circle would learn something money couldn't buy.
Fear.