Checking into Choir Dormitory

Morning came to the Choir Dormitory. Surprisingly, I wasn't as tired as I'd expected from yesterday. The kids conked out fast—kids discharge their batteries quick, y'know? A few words from me and they were yawning, heads ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hitting the pillow. On the flip side, once they recharged, they were several times more hyper than yesterday... Let's just say Carlo-senpai was busy from dawn, waking them up, washing them, dressing them.

While waiting at the Station Hotel, I pulled out my pad.

Seemed like my intent to flag something off had gotten through. But wait—is this the same person who drew a character portrait on their business card for me? Oh right, they might've just been swamped. Recalling yesterday at the capital train station, it looked like they were collaborating with the Guardian Knights. Not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just me; they probably had their own fieldwork, so peak busy hours, yeah?

Rationalizing it like that, I followed Carlo-senpai—who was herding me and the five kids—and headed to the first floor of the Station Hotel. It was already buzzing with adults and children. As soon as we came down, my eyes instinctively drifted to yesterday's suspicious spot, but thankfully—or not—it was gone. So I stood at the hotel entrance as Carlo directed. There were the reception folks from yesterday and the announcers from the train station. Kids beside us were saying tearful goodbyes to their parents, crossing that mix of sorrow and excitement, before stepping out.

Now it was time to cross the gorge and properly enter Pristine Comprehensive University. But even from the hotel to the main gate, it looked far—would that be okay? That doubt vanished quick, though. Transparent, wide-open tourist-bus-like vehicles pulled up in front—several of them. One side read "Pristine Comprehensive University Shuttle Bus."

Honestly, in a world advanced in both magic and tech, I'd hoped for something cooler, but seeing those same old wheels from my past life? Kinda disappointing. Maybe they converge on wheels for energy efficiency, but if it's all about efficiency, what's the point of "romance"? Can't a little inconvenience be magicked away? Feeling that pang of regret, I boarded.

The bus, filled with the kids' boisterous chatter, glided smoothly away. As it started moving, corporate buildings whisked by outside. Sleek hexahedrons without frills, skeletal steel-and-synthetic tents with just a company name slapped on—they slid past. Not the fancy or beautiful skyscrapers you'd expect downtown, but efficiency-first structures. They'd feel empty alone, but with exhausted folks? No, students and fresh grads made it lively instead.

The shuttle passed that, climbing a gentle hill opposite the clean canal flow beside us. Then the university's main gate appeared—flexible curves far from the rigid gray stone and concrete we'd glimpsed yesterday. Crossing the gate, a chill mana swept over me like water through a sieve. Three times it happened, and soon that entrance with the central canal came into view, tracing soft hill curves. Beyond the gorge, between mountain shadows, a sliver of the scenery from the hotel ad peeked like a door ajar.

The shuttle cruised leisurely, boat-like—not too fast, not too slow—guiding us inside. The uphill layout meant the high sky peeked between buildings right after the gorge. As we advanced, the view widened until mountains suddenly rose all around. Not sky-piercing peaks without white caps, but decently tall ones crowning the basin like a necklace. Yesterday's school ad mentioned this was a basin, right? And that promo from the entrance exam—about building the school where a star fell from the sky ages ago—popped back into my head unbidden.

Beneath, the mountains sloped down gradually, then—drawn like a line—nature tidied into manicured gardens. Like a pizza slice, from the outermost ring inward and downward, sleek white streamlined buildings emerged. Most rings were gardens, of course, but buildings irregularly filled the straight-lined arcs between concentric circles. Zones were machine-precise, but inside felt whimsically filled. More "freedom" than "framework" suited these structures.

Farther out, lines crossed the basin at intervals. No—traversing the mountainsides horizontally, so extending them made circles. Concentric from the basin center. Factoring that in, heights dropped inward, rose outward. Our gorge entry was even lower. Handy exiting without a shuttle, but incoming? A hike.

Musing that, like the kids ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠plastered to the panoramic windows, I took in the sights—and realized something. Center: vast plaza with big buildings. Up top: rooms with uniformly regular windows—probably dorms. Downhill easy, but back up? Dragging a leaden body like mountain-climbing? Diabolical genius, whoever designed this. But the shuttle passed the expected central drop-off, climbing the hill instead.

Shouldn't it stop here? Affiliated school, so not central? Nah, center's the university proper. We're not main campus, so elementary's farther out. Inferring history—core built first on prime land, expansions hugging basin walls upward—made the climb make sense.

Vrrr. A slight lurch, and the shuttle passed buildings like neatly shelved books in a basin-bookcase, halting at a big box atop it. As a presumed returning student said, we exited—and I realized my guess was wrong. "Choir Dormitory" loomed boldly at the entrance.

Don't schools start with an auditorium and principal's welcome? Feeling that, I still followed orders inside. The lobby unfurled cozier than yesterday's hotel—carpeted floors, seamless white interiors dotted with playful kid traces, hinting at the vibe.

"Okay! One by one, come here, state your name and origin, then put both hands in this machine!"

The voice was chipper, zero coercion—like at the train station. Turning, I saw a few in crisp gray-white school uniforms from the train here. Some future classmates bolted over like it was a race. Watching from afar: name and origin spoken, hands in the bulky machine—light flickered through seams. Light gone, a number popped on the screen.

"That's your room number for the year. See that hallway? Grab the handle, it'll open. Fingerprint auto-lock, so safety's no worry!"

First kids grabbed keys and dashed. Others followed. I went with the flow.

"Name and origin?"

Senpai smiled, no fatigue after repeats.

"Abelian Anion. From Rubella."

She found me on her pad, displayed my info.

"If correct, hands in the machine."

Feels like shoving hands in a toaster, I thought, complying. Lid shut; something slim scanned my hands. Lid up: screen showed "Abelian Anion. Room 2114."

"See your room? Second floor—stairs right there. Up and right. Rooms 61 to 120, easy find."

No keys—nice. I climbed the central stairs fanning left-right upward. Second floor mirrored below: sofas, tables; beyond, central campus view. Right turn: long hall. Soft lighting—not stark or dim, but windowless. Early entry meant empty, eerie quiet. Would get used to the treks.

...111, 112, 113, 114. Last six rooms—really? Grumbling inwardly at the hike, I gripped the door. Unlike registration, just a click—no sensation.

Lights on as I entered; room voice chimed.

"What the?"

Not full AI—just a basic chatbot. Advanced or not? Debatable. I stepped inside.

Unlike the windowless hall, one wall was all glass. Privacy tint: bottom opaque, top clear. My kid height barely cleared the line—only hazy white-green blur visible. Eyes drawn there first, I scanned the room: bed, desk, bookshelf—two shelves packed with books. Previous owner's? Flipping one: pristine. Thought it'd all be digital, but paper books? Desk held a thick booklet atop a slim one. Top booklet: room/dorm info summary. Chatbot volume/frequency, cleaning precautions... later. Meal times—key. Breakfast, lunch, dinner: anytime in two-hour windows. That big space? "Binding"—most group activities there.

Skimming: fun or annoying—dorm prohibitions. Expected. System check: demerits accumulate for minor penalties; exceed threshold, community service or isolation. Last one's creepy. Obvious stuff like no lights out windows post-10 PM; weirder, like no multipurpose room at 2 AM—ghost story vibes. Notably absent: noise rules post-evening. Probably soundproofed solid.

Done skimming the thick one, I lifted the slim book. Not heavy—open cover: digital "Student Handbook". Ah, student pad. Powered it up, navigated in. Few taps later: raw school bulletin board, traces only before. Finally!