35 - Opening Ceremony
“All set?”
“Yes, Professor. But that camera...?”
“Haha, you mean this? It’s the day Nami officially enters the academy, so I figured we should commemorate it!”
“The opening ceremony’s for the first-years anyway.”
“But today, I want Nami to be the star of the most wonderful story. Come on, stand over there by the main gate?”
“Sure.”
It had been ages since anyone took a photo of me. I’d never been fond of the idea of someone documenting my existence in the first place. But in this life, it didn’t bother me much. Even the old habit of clamming up around strangers was a thing of the past. Was this body naturally outgoing? Despite memories of exhaustion from every human interaction, being left alone now stirred a pang of loneliness first and foremost. Personality was such a baffling thing—you thought you knew it, but you never really did.
Cherry blossoms bloomed in riotous profusion that March day. Clusters of girls giggled as they brushed petals from their hair, while groups of boys were utterly captivated by the stunning scene.
“Can’t tell if it’s the flowers or the people stealing the show. Here, take a look?”
“Say stuff like that these days, and people’ll think you’re showing your age, Professor.”
Professor Cheon handed me the photo. Just me in my neat uniform, the Seferon Academy main gate, and the cherry trees. Nothing special. Just a photo. But Professor Cheon kept snapping away, laughing heartily the whole time.
Fine, I’ll play along for a bit.
The faint cherry blossom scent wafting in wasn’t half bad either.
Personally, I’d found my acceptance into Seferon Academy utterly surprising. Professor Cheon hadn’t batted an eye at the news, but I was certain at least half the admissions officers had been biased against me. I was the only transfer student this year—apparently not worth a public notice—so Professor Cheon had called the administrative office himself to jot down all the pre-enrollment details.
We’d gone suit shopping for the uniform and picked up a new bag. He’d begged me not to wear sneakers because they’d make me look too plain, so we compromised on plain black dress shoes.
Had I streamed for those two weeks? Well, I hadn’t not streamed. But Legacy of Legend and I had parted ways for now. I’d never found much goal or motivation there anyway, and after seven grueling years, I just needed some distance. Without games, streams turned into casual chats. But I still felt awkward connecting with viewers, so I ignored the chat and rambled on solo—mostly about transmutation circles.
I’d preview content I planned to teach Lora, testing where people typically got stuck. Most reactions were confusion, but surely some viewers grasped it.
Lora was fascinated by magic, though her knowledge gaps made it tricky to know where to start. Still, when I wove it into stories bit by bit, she showed incredible focus. I’d planned to teach properly in World of Arceria, but with her still shaky on basic arithmetic and runes, I postponed.
Those hectic two weeks flew by, and soon March 6th—the opening ceremony—was upon us.
Taking photos had felt childlike and innocent, but the elderly principal’s speech yanked me back to reality.
I have to spend time with these babies?
I scanned the auditorium. Yeah, they were young. Way younger than expected. There’s that saying, right? Elementary kids see middle and high schoolers as so mature, but as you climb the ladder, anyone younger looks like a toddler... Even in my past life, it hadn’t felt this extreme. Kaizen Empire academies averaged enrollment around eighteen, and I’d been in my early twenties when I died, so the mental gap was smaller. But facing actual seven- and eight-year-olds made me feel pathetically small. And I literally had to look up at them!
“Hi! You a first-year too?”
“Nah, second-year.”
“Second-year?!”
Such mix-ups would happen occasionally... or rather, they were happening now. I’d been quietly proud of topping 110cm lately, but fast growers were already past 120, eyeing 130. Third-graders? No way—second? I’d never been called short before; now it stung unfairly. Maybe I’d overlooked society. With so many capsule-forged adult relationships, I’d grown used to being treated like one. Reality? Even snot-nosed kids looked down on me.
“New students, once again, congratulations on your placement here. Seferon Academy will support your school life with utmost care and love. Thank you for your attention; this concludes my opening remarks.”
Now the first-years headed to their classes, truly leaving their parents behind—brief as it was, some were on the verge of tears. Returning students had no reason for parents to show, so most chattered noisily with friends.
“You can find your way home okay, Nami?”
“Don’t embarrass me—go already.”
“Haha. Make lots of good friends, then! I’m rooting for you!”
Second-years were already staring, and it wasn’t my imagination. Some whispered, glancing at my face. Mortified, I shooed Professor Cheon home and waited for second-year class assignments.
Your student IDs have been updated. Please check your class assignments and head to your respective classrooms without confusion.
Students pulled out IDs from pockets, wallets, bags. Kids staying with last year’s class whooped; isolates sulked. Only four classes per grade—surely they’d stick together—but assignments mattered deeply to them. One by one, they filed out to the main building. But as everyone left, I stayed rooted.
I don’t have a student ID...?
2051’s bureaucracy still had kinks.
* * *
“Class A, huh?”
A voice stopped the boy. Still lingering?
Si-hu turned reluctantly. His parents waited out front since he’d exited.
“Yes.”
“Of course. From now on, work harder than last year. The other kids won’t play around forever.”
“Yes, I understand... Mom.”
“You take after me—smartest kid around. You’ll ace second year too, right?”
“Yes... Dad.”
Watching their retreating backs, Si-hu still found facing his parents tough. He knew it was all for his sake, but the bitterness lingered.
Unlike first-year random assignments, second-year onward grouped top 10 performers and standouts into Class A. Si-hu, the top scorer, was guaranteed a spot—but craving parental praise was inevitable.
9:45 a.m. Class by 10:00, so he wandered the auditorium grounds for a ten-minute breather.
Hm? Who’s that?
Rare sight: hair past her waist to knee-length, hopping down the stairs. Fresh from the auditorium, it seemed. Without the uniform, you’d never peg her as elementary age—such a frail girl, lost in serious thought.
“Not in class yet? It’s almost ten.”
No teacher would dock points day one, but he couldn’t help worrying.
“I’m Yoon Si-hu, second-year at Seferon Academy.”
“Oh, right. I’m NoName.”
Wait—hadn’t first-year teachers already herded them off pre-announcement? Why was she still here?
“Want me to show you to your class?”
Just lost, then. Time was tight, but he could escort her.
“Seferon’s layout is a maze—you gotta memorize it. Low-grade classrooms are the worst at first.”
“This is the arena. Fourth-years have classes here; we’ve only used it for sports day.”
“Three canteens total—first-years, stick to the north building, closest.”
“Cafeteria’s central building, second floor. Straight ahead.”
“That’s middle-school dorms. Right next to elementary, so noisy during exams? You’ll get in trouble.”
Chatting facilities to kill time, but no reaction from the girl left Si-hu awkward. He switched to opening ceremony talk.
“How was the ceremony? Principal drag on?”
Not middle/high-school scale, but elementary’s was big—Seferon Foundation guests included. Principal’s speech was the killer, though.
“It was good. Seemed strong.”
“Huh?”
Strong how? Si-hu vaguely guessed she meant the academy’s vibe, expressed roundabout.
Yeah, not the principal.