A Taste of Academic Hell
The day after some Sunday. As always, I woke up at dawn. Having never been one to sleep in since birth, my body still woke me up on its own. Though I figured that wouldn't last forever either. Eventually, I'd adapt and wake up only after getting my full quota of sleep. I'm pretty good at slacking off, after all!
And this time, I hadn't dreamed. At least, I hadn't gone to that weird place. Not going there was a relief, but losing a way to contact without tripping the surveillance net was a bit of a bummer. Even if no one was watching me right now, they could always dig up the machine logs later—that was the most annoying part. Communication had gotten trickier, but since I wasn't getting exhausted in that strange space anymore, I could call it a net gain. Lambda Lilion would probably reach out some other way, like she said. Nothing I could do about it now, so I'd just tuck it in the back of my mind. Honestly, it was a little scary too.
Alright, time to enjoy the day like a proper student. How could I spend this day off in a way that'd make rumors fly about my epic Sunday? First, I opened my student handbook and checked the bulletin board. Overnight, it'd been pushed back several pages—pretty lively place. Most of it looked like useless junk, but value depended on how you used it. Like clicking an ID to scroll through their post history and get a feel for their mindset. Straight-up stalking, basically. But they didn't seem to teach against that here. Or maybe it was because the network user base was growing, and real dangers wouldn't sink in until the rot bubbled up to the surface.
Tapping around, I saw some wholesome stuff mixed in with a live post titled something like "Oppa Breakup Eyewitness Report." Wait, what the hell happens on a Sunday morning? Curious, I clicked it—turns out it was happening outside, near the Station Hotel and train station, not around here. Half the comments were from people fresh out of bed, buzzing with excitement over whatever drama had exploded. The other half? Bitter rants from jealous singles who couldn't handle it. Humans are hilarious.
I flicked through screens, speed-reading before moving on. And what's with the stock traders? Well, with all those corporate research labs lined up by the train station, it made sense there'd be companies to invest in. Even in the civilization-building games from my past life, stock markets were late-game tech. No surprise in this advanced world.
One key thing stood out: some posts were written off-campus. The Pristine Comprehensive University train station was technically outside school grounds, yet they could still connect via the student handbook. Even though it was basically the city district where the school sat. But that's all I confirmed. Scanning more, I didn't see any from folks who'd ridden trains far away. Was it because classes were in session, or did the connection cut off completely outside the Pristine zone? Unclear.
I closed the handbook and fired up my pad instead. This time, not the school intranet—full web access. Sleek modern sites mixed with clunky relics that looked ancient. Unlike the student handbook's relatively intellectual crowd, the open web was flooded with unfiltered crap. Discrimination posts, for one. Folks with animal ears—and sometimes tails—complaining they couldn't get factory jobs. Fur flying in food plants, tails getting caught in machines elsewhere—hiring was tough. Left them stuck with grunt work like deliveries. Dobell, who'd transported me, was delivery too, if you thought about it. With his big trailer truck, was he on the lucky side?
Skimming more, people like him seemed less "lucky" and more "risking life for big bucks by picking dangerous routes." Plus, this world didn't have the insane education fever of my old country, which probably made it worse.
That reminded me of yesterday's incident, so I searched "family clans." Opposite of discrimination, but similar vibes. The handbook had dry, sanitized info—how would the raw web spin it? Hmm... Flipping through, I expected jealousy, admiration, or "not worth respecting anymore." Instead, pure fear dominated. Especially from randos who'd crossed paths by chance. "Impressive, but too scary to get close." Not personality— their very existence felt on another level. And the top refrain? Overwhelming magical prowess. In a world where everyone's basically a mage, calling someone a "real mage" meant they were leagues ahead. Or so I decoded from the unfiltered rants. People don't post raw truth online, even anonymously. Nah, it's all raw emotion. Emotions that twist facts, sure. Like yesterday's crowd reactions, or that senior asking if I wasn't scared when they dragged me along. Feelings first, maybe. Tricky stuff.
I mulled over why I'd been extra sensitive, then shut off the pad. Stretching, I rolled out of bed. I'd checked my alarm settings before sleep last night— it wouldn't blare harshly if I ate two-plus meals a day. Probably because so many skipped breakfast for two-meal days. Made eating out tough too—seemed intentional. The plan: stuff yourself at breakfast and lunch if you want late-night snacks. And those types always skipped mornings. Sneaky way to fix bad habits, huh? Smirking at the school's scheme, I headed out.
Door open, left to the lounge. While I'd been haunting the internet, time had flown—underclassmen and upperclassmen in casuals were already milling around in groups. Big screen in one corner, crowd huddled watching videos. Turn your eyes, and there's tables and chairs for chats or board games.
Pondering where to go, I drifted to the crowded screen area and plopped down. Onscreen, some guy was sprinting through an obstacle course. Text was stiff, but variety show vibes—cool, they had those here? Rubella Village had media, sure, but packed on packs (USB sticks) for plugging in. Mostly movies.
I zoned out brainlessly, feeling oddly buddy-buddy with these name-unknown folks. Ate lunch together, then back. So I asked one, "Isn't there anything to do around here normally?"
Senior gave me a distant look. Others too—wait, I've seen that face before.
"Savor this time, underclassman."
"I will never help with homework!"
"Do your own work. Remember that!"
Right— the face of someone bracing for the workload avalanche, desperately doing nothing.
Eyeing the senior swearing off homework help, I asked, "Doesn't work on an empty stomach?" Meaning, bribe required?
"Nah, physically no time. We get swamped too. Especially exams—you'll see the suffering."
Serious head-shake. "That bad?"
Made sense to cram for exams, but this level?
"Yup. Teachers think we only attend one class."
"Assignments rain down like storms."
"First years get a breather, but they compound like interest..."
They reeked of society’s bitter edge. But these were the elite, filtered students—this tough? Affiliated school wasn't enough! Needed uni grad to scrape by in the city!
"How about the red-lined seniors?" Ignoring the griping orange third-year, I asked a second-year with the red stripe, who watched ambiguously.
"Fully agree."
"Eh, that bad?" But one tilted his head skeptically. Cue instant glares.
"Ignore that freak. Fills a page with equations, solves 'em with three nods."
His upperclassmen shot fond side-eyes, but he shrugged it off nonchalantly. Skill gaps even among seniors, yet no rigid hierarchy—oddly egalitarian. Or maybe my old hood was just clique-prone. Never cared much about outsiders anyway.
Tucking that away, I summed up the chit-chat intel.
And boiled down: "Study till you drop, got it?"
Then a hand on my shoulder. Senior grinned, thumbs-up.
"Welcome to Pristine, underclassman!"
Sounded like "Congrats on hell"—couldn't help but burst out laughing.
And so passed a perfectly ordinary day.