After Dean Hargrove's "encouraging" speech—after which I felt like I desperately needed a large dose of antidepressants or at least a very strong cup of coffee (which, unfortunately, was not available)—we, the mass of first-year students, were directed to different lecture halls.
The assignments appeared suddenly on the transparent tablets that had been handed to us at the entrance.
Amazing technology just to organize our misery, I thought as I examined the schedule that had appeared on my device.
First class: Introduction to Narrative Phenomena and Primary Safety Protocols.
Apparently, it was a core lecture for first-year students at the beginning of every academic year.
The lecture hall was less grand than the main auditorium, but it still carried the unmistakable signature of Vanguard Academy in every corner. Suspiciously comfortable seats, and a massive holographic projection screen occupying the entire front wall.
I took my usual position in the back rows, trying my best to look like part of the wall décor.
After a few moments of nervous whispers and the awkward shuffling of bags and tablets, the instructor entered.
She was a woman in her late thirties, with fiery red hair tightly tied back and thin-framed glasses resting on the bridge of her straight nose.
She wore the same gray uniform as the rest of the staff, but her aura was different.
There was something hard and seasoned in her sharp green eyes—as if she had witnessed enough horrors to write an encyclopedia about them.
"Good morning, novices," she said in a clear, powerful voice that cut through the murmurs.
"I am Professor Elara Venn, and I will be your instructor for Introduction to Narrative Phenomena."
"The objective of this course is simple: to provide you with the basic knowledge that might keep you alive when you step into horror."
"Do not expect special treatment. Do not expect to be pampered. This place is not for the hesitant."
Professor Venn paused for a moment, her sharp green eyes scanning our tense faces.
Drring—!
With a press of the small controller in her hand, the enormous holographic screen behind her lit up, displaying a complex temporal diagram.
"Let us begin with the basics," she said, her voice completely devoid of humor.
"Two hundred years ago—specifically in the year 1854, according to our standard calendar—our world began experiencing an unprecedented phenomenon."
"The appearance of Narrative Fractures… or what we commonly call Gates."
"These Gates, as you likely know from the news or from your grandparents' stories, are entrances to pocket dimensions—or embodied stories—each with its own laws, entities, and threats."
The image on the screen shifted to a world map dotted with glowing red points marking the locations of major Gate appearances throughout history.
Fragmented and horrifying, as usual, I thought as I noticed how some regions had become nearly uninhabitable.
"At the time, humanity was not prepared," Professor Venn continued.
"The chaos that followed nearly wiped out our civilization."
"But from that chaos, Skills emerged—innate abilities that granted humanity a chance to fight back."
"Since then, the United Terra Alliance (UTA) and academies like this one have worked to understand and confront these phenomena."
She tapped the controller again, and a complex classification system appeared on the screen.
"Gates—and therefore the stories contained within them—are classified according to threat level and complexity."
"The lowest rank is F. These usually contain minor disturbances or weak entities that can be dealt with through caution and basic common sense."
She paused briefly and gave the hall a dry glance.
"That is… assuming any of you possess such a thing."
"Next come ranks E, D, and C. Most of your practical training during your years at the academy will take place within these ranks."
"Of course, there may be exceptions depending on individual capabilities."
"Do not expect to encounter anything above Rank C during official missions. Attempting to do so would essentially be suicide."
How reassuring, I muttered internally.
Just Rank C Gates… like a casual walk in the park.
A park filled with things that want to eat you.
"Above that are Ranks B and A, which require teams of highly experienced and skilled explorers."
"Then we have Rank SS," she said, pausing to gauge the students' attention.
"These Gates are capable of threatening entire cities and require intervention at the highest levels of the UTA."
She straightened slightly.
"And finally, Rank SSS."
"Global-scale disasters that demand the full mobilization of Alliance resources."
"Fortunately for you, history has recorded only a very small number of SSS Gates from which humanity actually survived."
She didn't mention EX Rank.
Of course she didn't.
After all, officially…
It doesn't exist.
At least, that's what I used to believe.
The screen changed again, displaying diagrams and images of various entities and narrative anomalies.
"As for the types of stories you may encounter in lower-rank Gates," Professor Venn continued, her voice still sharp and focused, "they are frustratingly diverse."
"You may face traditional ghosts with unresolved grievances, primitive monsters driven by instinct… or even ridiculous logical traps designed to test your intelligence."
"Sometimes, the story itself may simply be a hostile environment—or a puzzle that must be solved."
Ridiculous logical traps, I repeated in my mind.
Now that sounded more like my field.
Maybe I could actually shine dismantling paradoxes.
Grandfather worm paradoxes or something like that.
"And now—standard safety protocols."
"These are not suggestions."
"They are orders."
"Ignoring them means you are requesting death in a stupid and unnecessary manner—and we do not have time for the funerals of idiots."
Her stare made several students shift uncomfortably in their seats.
She raised her hand and lifted her first finger.
"First: Do not run around screaming like a child who lost his candy."
"Panic is your greatest enemy. Stay calm. Assess the situation."
She raised the second finger.
"Second: Do not touch shiny objects. Or strange objects. Or anything that looks like it wants you to touch it."
"Most shiny things in stories are traps, curses, or objects that will make you wish you had never been born."
Her third finger rose.
"Third: Teamwork."
"You are not lone heroes here. Rely on your team. Communicate. Coordinate."
"The lone wolf is usually the first one to be eaten."
Finally, she raised her little finger.
"Fourth—and most importantly—if the situation spirals out of control…"
"…or if you feel that the threat far exceeds your capabilities, follow the Immediate and Organized Withdrawal Protocol until the gate is reopened."
"There is no shame in retreating to survive and fight another day. The real shame is dying because of pointless stubbornness or stupidity."
She paused for a moment, as if allowing those words to sink into our confused teenage minds.
Good advice, generally speaking—even if it's painfully obvious, I admitted to myself.
Still, it ignored one simple fact: in most of the novels I'd read, the characters broke every one of these rules on a regular basis…
…and somehow survived.
Or didn't.
It usually depended on how important they were to the plot.
"Now," Professor Venn continued, projecting a three-dimensional image of a glowing vortex gate onto the holographic screen, "one of the most important things you must understand is that Gates are not always stable."
"Most of them are—especially the lower-rank ones you'll encounter at the beginning. But in rare… very rare cases, something we call Narrative Instability can occur. Sometimes it manifests as a Gate Mutation."
A faint spark of interest pricked my mind.
Gate mutation…
I think I remember something like that.
"This means that the properties of a Gate—including its rank and the type of 'story' it contains—can change suddenly and unpredictably."
Professor Venn continued speaking while her eyes moved across the hall, as if searching for signs of panic… or excessive boredom.
"The causes are not fully understood from a scientific standpoint. Some theories suggest interference from nearby Gates. Others speak of something called Narrative Fatigue—the idea that a story grows tired of repeating itself and decides to reinvent its structure."
She paused, carefully weighing her words.
"Of course," she added quickly, a faint, barely visible smile touching her lips, "these are merely fringe theories with no official confirmation."
"There is no conclusive evidence in the UTA archives proving the existence of such… programmed narratives."
"What matters for you as first-year students is this: always be prepared for surprises."
"And if you notice any drastic or unjustified changes in a Gate's environment—follow the Immediate Withdrawal Protocol."
She looked at the students with unsettling seriousness.
"Your safety is the priority."
"At least until you become professional explorers. After that, the mission and data retrieval become the priority… and your lives become a variable that may be sacrificed."
What a wonderfully warm and reassuring statement, I thought irritably.
So if an F-Rank Gate suddenly turns into an SSS-Rank catastrophe because I happened to be the sixty-ninth person to enter it…
all I have to do is… run away screaming?
Fantastic.
Brilliant strategy.
I wonder how many people successfully applied it before becoming part of the Gate's interior decoration.
The lecture continued for a while after that, covering more technical—and incredibly boring—details about types of mana (which I didn't possess in any active form anyway), basic monster classifications (which I would most likely appear at the bottom of their food chain), and the importance of teamwork.
That last part made me laugh internally.
Considering my natural tendency to function like a lone wolf…
—or more accurately, like a very frightened rabbit trying to hide behind the nearest rock.
I didn't ask any questions.
I didn't participate in any discussions.
I stayed in the back, observing quietly.
Watching Professor Venn.
Watching the other students who asked questions that were either impressively intelligent… or astonishingly stupid.
I even found myself studying the suspiciously comfortable design of the chairs, which seemed engineered specifically to keep us calm.
When the lecture finally ended—after what felt like three geological ages—my brain felt stuffed with an enormous amount of information.
Most of it I already knew from my readings.
Just… presented in a more formal and far more boring way.
Two hours of my new life that I will never get back, I sighed as I gathered my modest belongings.
I wonder what the next part of this delightful training program will be.
A crash course on how to write your will quickly and efficiently?
I left the lecture hall with the rest of the herd of nervous teenagers, mentally prepared for whatever nonsense this cursed day might throw at me next.
Vanguard Academy still looked like a place pulled straight out of a beautifully designed nightmare.
And I couldn't help but wonder…
what role I was supposed to play in it.