When he woke up the next day, the sun hit his skin, the first thing he saw was his ceiling... as in the literal, bland, "I-should-really-put-some-posters-up" ceiling of his room.
He groaned, lazily dragging his body out of bed. He was wearing his PJs—they were Dragon Ball-themed. Don't question him.
He even had a bonnet on because his luscious hair deserved care and luxury treatment at all times.
"Fuck..." he groaned again, standing up fully. His muscles felt stiff as a motherfucker.
"I feel like shit," he muttered, dragging himself deeper into the room toward the connected bathroom—because yes, his room had that level of privilege.
He opened the door to said bathroom. The light flicked on, revealing a clean-but-lived-in space: soft grey tiles, fogged-over mirrors from last night, a glass sliding shower door that's definitely seen better days.
He walked straight to where he needed to be—where his toothbrush was.
He grabbed it, slapped toothpaste on the bristles, and started brushing while staring at his reflection.
He looked like shit. Like he had been folded, unfolded, run over by a bus, and then put back into human shape as a joke.
His hair was messy as hell, bonnet fighting for its life.
He yawned, scratching his head.
"Today, I have History class... maybe after I can go game with Michael," he pondered.
"I need to study though," he pondered deeper, as if this would somehow manifest the knowledge into his skull.
He spit out the paste, rinsed, spit again.
Then came the mouth juice—he didn't know the actual name.
That shit you gargle for a few seconds before spitting out.
The one you're absolutely NOT supposed to swallow unless you want to see God.
He stared at himself again.
He looked... decent. Barely.
Turning around, he slid open the shower door and turned on the hot water. He liked a steamy bath from time to time.
Though he did have history today, so—
He switched it to cold water with the dead stare of a soldier preparing for battle.
He removed his clothes and stepped in.
"Challa, hetchalla~" he began singing the Dragon Ball Z opening as he showered, because of course he did.
His mind drifted to the weird dream he had—it felt real, like he'd been attacked by a bunch of wolves.
But when he woke up? No wolves. No scratches. No nothing.
From the look of it... he just hallucinated it.
When he finished scrubbing and washing his hair, he reached to turn the water off—
And ripped the knob straight out.
He paused.
He had just ripped it out. The knob. He had ripped that shit out.
He stared at his hand... then the knob.
HOW?
'Maybe I used too much strength?' he reasoned.
That excuse felt flimsy as hell but he clung to it like a lifeline.
He gently tried to put the knob back... only to accidentally shove it in so hard cracks formed in the tile.
Though, hey—water stopped. Job done?
He slid the shower door open—
Shatter.
James froze. Slowly, he turned around.
The whole glass door was crushed like he'd flicked it.
"This is going to cost a lot to repair," was his only thought. Not his inhuman strength. Not his clear stat jump. No—repair costs.
Believe it or not, he'd always been physically gifted. Him running through the forest yesterday like a human bullet was normal for him.
Peak human stats? He had those built in.
He looked in the mirror.
Something was off.
Yeah, he knew he was ripped before, but now? His body fat looked like 5–10%. His definition was crazy, like he became a professional athlete overnight. Before he was closer to 15%.
'Huh...did my dick grow longer?' he wondered, staring critically.
'And when the fuck did I grow a bush?' He shaved religiously. It made his meat look longer—don't judge him. He was still human.
His attention shifted again.
He heard wings.
He turned and saw a fly drifting lazily through the air.
"Why is it moving so slowly?"
Maybe he should stop hanging with people who smoked, because this felt like a high in HD.
{I made the best cake of this world}
His brows furrowed. That was his neighbor's voice. Which he shouldn't be able to hear. The walls were thick—blessedly thick, unlike that time he lived next to a playboy.
He did not need to relive that trauma.
He grabbed a towel, dried off, and walked back into his room.
On his desk were his clothes.
A clean white tee.
Charcoal quarter-zip with that soft, heavy drape.
Matching wide-leg trousers.
Crisp white sneakers under the desk.
"They look decent," he said.
He pulled the tee over his head. Cool fabric sliding smoothly down his torso.
Next came the quarter-zip—oversized sleeves swallowing his wrists before settling perfectly on his shoulders.
The white tee peeked out in a clean layer.
Then the wide-leg pants—loose, comfortable, and falling straight over his shoes like they had a personal vendetta against wrinkles.
He looked like the final boss of "Comfy Drip."
Finishing with the sneakers, he tied the laces, stood, and checked himself.
Black on black with clean white contrast. Minimalist, effortless, unintentionally stylish. The kind of fit people pretend they "just threw on," even though he laid it out like a ritual offering.
He applied deodorant, then—like any man whose taste had not yet evolved—he blasted Axe body spray like it owed him money.
He looked decent. If he ignored the sensory overload. And the sweating. And the glass he broke. None of his business.
He checked his phone—a message from Michael.
Michael: You got home safe (sent last night, 8:30 PM)
He replied:
You: Yuh, got sidetracked with a puppy but I got there safe and sound. (7:30 AM)
Instant response:
Michael: And here I thought you got snagged by vampires 😅 (7:30 AM)
James rolled his eyes.
You: Jeez, what is it with you and thinking vampires would get me, I am not that tasty 🙄
Michael: Says the dude with the Rh-null blood type, wouldn't mind giving you a nimble 😏
James stared at the screen.
You: ...That was hella gay... saying you going to drink another dude. If I didn't know you get chicks, I'd think you were a booty disciple.
Michael: Who says I was joking 😈
You: You scare me sometimes.
Michael spammed laughing emojis.
James sighed.
They continued:
You: Anyway, enough of the gay shit. You study for the history test?
Michael: Don't need to, I got good knowledge 🤓
You: Sometimes I forget your family has a shit ton of books on history.
Michael: Guilty as charged 😌
James sighed. Talking to this man was not helping him study.
You: I'm heading out. Meet you at the usual spot.
Michael: Got ya 🙂
James packed his things, went downstairs, and prepared a scrumptious breakfast—Egg and toast. Because he was a broke student.
Tomorrow he'd have ramen. Beautiful cuisine.
He left the house, locking the door behind him.
Their usual spot was a street corner shaded by a tall oak tree next to a quiet suburban road—cracks in the pavement, morning dew on the grass, faint humming of cars in the distance.
He waited five minutes before he saw it.
A limousine.
A completely unnecessary, flaming-red, probably-five-figures-per-seat limousine. It glided down the street like it owned the neighborhood. His friend's family logo—because of course they had one—was printed on the side in elegant black ink.
From what James could recal, Michael family was in charge of the blood supply of this town.
A pale man in a pristine suit stepped out, opened the door.
"Young master, we have arrived."
Michael stepped out, hands in his pockets, wearing drip worth more than James' entire semester fees.
"Thank you, Sebastien. You may drop me here. I'll walk the rest of the way."
The butler bowed, reentered the limo, and drove off silently.
Now Michael's fit:
He wore a crisp white turtleneck, hugging his neck perfectly. Over it, a black oversized blazer draped in that relaxed-yet-expensive way. Button undone, turtleneck framed beautifully.
A thin silver necklace with a dark pendant caught the light. Of course Michael accessorized. And of course it looked good. The bastard.
His trousers were high-waisted and tapered, held by a slim black belt with a simple metal buckle. They fell straight with clean precision—like he could switch from "student" to "CEO" instantly.
Black on black, white in the center, silver accents—modern, chic, low-key lethal.
"Sup," Michael said, standing beside him.
"...If you have a limo, why do you insist on walking to school?"
"To get the broke boy experience. Can't have you being a peasant by yourself, wolf boy," Michael teased.
"Shut the hell up." James frowned, but when Michael got closer, he sniffed the air suddenly. His gaze sharpened. His eyes turned red.
"James... you didn't happen to bump into some wolf on your way here?"
"Oh yeah! Ran into a white wolf. She was so cute," James said, practically gushing, while Michael clearly despised every word.
"Fucking pest," he muttered.
"Jeez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," James sighed.
Michael smiled—though it carried something sharp, possessive.
"Well, as long as they didn't harm you, I'm fine."
As they walked toward the school—large brick buildings ahead, students milling about, morning chatter rising—James said,
"Had the weirdest dream ever. Saw like two 8-foot tall wolf monsters. Shit was crazy."
"Must have been hella of a dream then," Michael muttered, side-eyeing his friend while internally making some kind of silent decision.
"God of High School deserved a remake." This was James's opinion, delivered like a divine decree.
"I know right, shit was just so peak." Michael perked up instantly.
The guy loved every form of manga or manhwa imaginable; said they were fun, interesting, and way better than the boring-ass books he'd been reading since the dawn of time.
Anyway, as they arrived at the school—
a massive red-brick building with solar panels along the roof, ivy crawling up the science wing, and three floors of hallways that all smelled vaguely like disinfectant and teenage regret—
"Oh my god, he is here!"
"So cute..."
"Oh, he looked our way, my heart melted!"
James immediately ignored the wave of girls dissolving into mush the moment they spotted Michael.
For fuck's sake, Michael even gave them a flirty smile and James smelled something... something damp...
Yow. Did this guy seriously cause SOMEONE to ovulate with a glance? That was some bullshit. Some plot-induced bullshit.
But James wasn't jealous. Not even a little. Michael had always been this popular; his charms worked on everyone and their mother up to this point.
Everyone except James—mostly because he didn't give a single shit about that stuff.
Probably why they became friends in the first place.
He was like the only person in school unaffected by this bozo's aura.
Passing the Library—a tall glass-walled room with floating holo-catalog displays and students pretending to study—they walked toward the stairwell nearby, climbing to the second floor.
The student center was to the left, buzzing with noise, vending machines, and at least three people arguing over charger outlets, but they had to go straight for class.
They walked for a good distance down the long, sunlit hallway, their footsteps echoing off the polished tile. Eventually they reached the business wing of the school, with posters about economics, entrepreneurship clubs, and motivational quotes that nobody took seriously.
They kept going straight until the walls narrowed and the lighting dimmed slightly—
the Humanities Department, where every hallway felt like a museum.
Going down the stairwell at the end, they reached the History classroom—basically where their old college history class had been:
gray walls, big windows overlooking the quad, holographic boards lining the front, and chairs that were comfortable for exactly three minutes before causing spinal regret.
Checking his watch.
{8:50}
"We here on time," James announced as they walked in.
"Well of course we are," Michael replied lazily.
They greeted the teacher, then sat at their seats in the front row—right under where the projector liked to randomly flicker like a dying deity.
Roll call began.
"Abby Croft."
"Present."
A few more names.
"Michael Aurelius Vespermont."
"Present," the boy answered with maximum laziness.
"James Elijah Smith."
"I am here."
Then the teacher paused.
"This may be sudden, but we have a new student joining us for this semester."
The door slid open.
And a woman walked in.
She was tall for a girl, like 5'11. Her hair was white—no, closer to silver—the strands catching the classroom lights in a way that made her bangs curve like the shape of a crescent moon.
Her eyes were piercing silver; her skin smooth and pale like porcelain. She looked gentle... but something about her radiated the presence of a ferocious beast.
She wore a necklace too—some kind of wolf tooth. James took one look and decided he was not questioning whatever eldritch-ass backstory came with that.
"Introduce yourself," the teacher said.
She turned to the class, bowed slightly, and spoke calmly:
"I am Luna Silvers. Please take care of me."
The teacher nodded.
"Go sit over there."
And the "over there" happened to be right next to James and Michael.
Luna took her seat with this graceful, almost inhuman fluidity.
Michael, on the other hand, suddenly looked annoyed. James couldn't believe it.
"I am surprised. You usually try to woo everything with legs. Why not her?" James asked.
"Not my type," Michael muttered, his eyes flickering red for a split second—too fast for James to notice. But the tension in this bitch was high.
The teacher began the lecture.
"By the 14th century," he began, voice steady, "European city-states had long abandoned feudal stagnation. Scholars, artisans, and inventors collaborated freely across borders. Heliocentric models were standard in education by the year 1307, and mechanical automatons were being used in both agriculture and basic manufacturing."
He clicked a button, and a holo-projection flickered to life—a sprawling early-industrial city, steam engines hissing along the streets, transport pods zipping along magnetic rails.
"Notice how urban planning emphasizes both function and accessibility," he continued.
"Without centralized religious authority dictating morality or civic priorities, governments incentivized trade, technological innovation, and education. Entire regions became hubs of invention rather than battlegrounds for theological supremacy."
A student raised her hand. "Professor, what about medicine? Didn't cultural taboos ever slow it down?"
He shook his head. "No. Dissection and empirical research were never forbidden. Vaccination and antiseptics were widespread by the 1600s—decades before comparable developments in other worlds. Life expectancy soared, epidemics were treated with precision and speed, and cities became laboratories for progress."
The projection shifted to airships gliding over a coastal metropolis, their solar-thermal engines glowing.
"By the 1800s, aviation was common, and communication networks rivaled modern fiber-optic systems. Human curiosity wasn't restricted by political or religious dogma—only strengthened by competition, cooperation, and innovation."
A quiet murmur filled the classroom as students scribbled or tapped their implants.
Then the professor leaned forward slightly.
"And all of this—our infrastructure, our medicine, our machines—hinges on something fundamental: funding."
He paced slowly.
"Our society implemented a progressive taxation system centuries ago. The wealthiest citizens—those controlling trade, manufacturing, research—contribute significant portions of their resources directly into infrastructure and science. Not charity. Investment. And the returns have been enormous."(not willingly)
A holographic flying car appeared above his podium, hovering quietly.
"Public trials for flying cars have already begun in New Geneva and New Paris."
Students gasped and turned on their implants to record.
"And now, our greatest leap: the neural implant. A personal, fully integrated communication and computation system. Your mind replaces every device—phone, tablet, even computers. Banking, transport, education, medical monitoring—all instantaneous. You can send messages telepathically, access data in real time, or replay memories with perfect clarity."
He gave a knowing smile. "Security and ethics debates are ongoing, of course—but that's for philosophy class."
The projection changed again—this time to a lab filled with shimmering tanks and bioluminescent fluids.
"And finally: medicine. We are on the verge of curing cancer. By studying crocodile regenerative and immune properties, we've mapped how they resist tumors and repair damage rapidly. Using gene editing and synthetic viral vectors, we adapt these mechanisms for humans. A complete cure isn't decades away—it's months, possibly weeks, depending on trial outcomes."
He nodded toward the implant icons above students' heads.
"And the implants accelerate the process: real-time biomarker monitoring, immune regulation, and therapy optimization. Imagine a body that automatically adjusts, repairs, and protects itself... while your mind remains completely free to think, create, and innovate."