Morning...
Shoichi walked out of his apartment and sighed, grinning a bit, trying to cope with the loneliness. The weather seemed real nice today. Sunny but perfectly cool, a bit windy too. He yawned, then jogged toward the road, feeling somewhat less lonely because of yesterday night's game of football—
He got hit by a truck.
Town Lasland, Planet Rashkoshi...
Shoichi's eyes snapped open.
He was lying on a bed. In a different room.
What the fucking fuck?!
He bolted upright, head whipping around. Wooden walls. Wooden ceiling. A window with curtains that looked hand-stitched. The bed beneath him was firm but comfortable, covered in sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and something earthy he couldn't place.
This wasn't his apartment. This wasn't Tokyo.
He'd felt something. pain, maybe? A impact? But it was hazy now, like trying to remember a dream five seconds after waking up. He was supposed to go to school today. Maybe make some friends this time. Try again.
But this... this wasn't right.
His chest tightened. Okay. Okay, think. Did I hit my head? Am I in a hospital? Is this some weird concussion dream?
The door slammed open.
"YOU'RE GONNA BE LATE!"
A guy around his age stood in the doorway, wild brown hair sticking up in every direction, green eyes sharp with annoyance. He wore a loose gray tunic and dark pants that looked straight out of a fantasy game.
Who the fuck is he?
The guy, this stranger, grabbed a bundle of clothes from a chair Shoichi hadn't even noticed and hurled them at his face.
"Get dressed, Shoichi! We don't have time for your morning zombie routine today!" The stranger spun on his heel and marched out, leaving the door half-open. "Five minutes or I'm leaving without you!"
Shoichi sat there, clothes draped over his lap, staring at the empty doorway.
He knows my name
Shoichi moved on autopilot, his brain struggling to catch up with whatever the hell was happening.
He stumbled to a small washbasin in the corner, actual washbasin, and splashed cold water on his face. The reflection in the scratched metal mirror was his own. Same messy black hair. Same brown eyes. Same face.
But the room wasn't his. The clothes weren't his.
He pulled on the outfit. White hoodie, red tee underneath, white sweatpants, black shoes. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly. Like it had always been his.
This is insane. I'm losing it. I have to be losing it.
But the texture of the hoodie felt real under his fingers. The slight chill in the air felt real. The distant sound of people talking outside, carts rolling, birds chirping, it all felt real.
Shoichi took a breath and walked out of the room.
The living room made him stop in his tracks.
He'd braced himself for medieval squalor. Dirt floors, smoky torches, maybe a rat in the corner. That's what "medieval" meant, right? Life was about to be shit. He'd been isekai'd or something equally ridiculous, and now he'd have to deal with disease, terrible food, and—
But the living room was... nice.
Clean wooden floors, polished to a warm honey color. Simple furniture, but well-made and sturdy. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating woven rugs with intricate patterns. A small fireplace sat cold and clean in one corner. Everything smelled like fresh bread. Tasty.
On a low table sat breakfast. Steaming bowls of soup, thick slices of bread with butter, some kind of grilled meat, and fruit he didn't recognize but looked incredible.
The stranger from before was already sitting cross-legged on a cushion, tearing into his food.
"Took you long enough," Kayuro muttered around a mouthful of bread. "Sit. Eat. We've got like fifteen minutes."
Shoichi sat slowly, still taking everything in. He picked up a spoon, dipped it into the soup, and tasted it.
Holy shit.
It was good. Really good. Savory and rich with herbs he couldn't name, chunks of vegetables and tender meat. Nothing like the instant ramen he'd been living on.
He ate a few more bites in silence, mind racing. Then, carefully, casually, he asked, "Hey... uh... remind me your name again?"
Kayuro's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "...Are you serious right now?"
"Just... making sure."
"It's Kayuro." He said it slowly, like Shoichi was an idiot. "Kayuro Venash. Your best friend since we were, what, eight? Did you hit your head or something?"
Best friend. Since we were eight...?
Shoichi had no memory of that. No memory of this person at all.
He swallowed another spoonful of soup to buy time. "Right. Yeah. Sorry, just... weird morning. Uh... where are Mom and Dad?"
Kayuro gave him a flat, deadpan stare, then went back to his food. "Your mom's at the merchant district setting up her stall. Your dad left for the quarry two hours ago. Same as literally every morning for the past ten years." He said it with the kind of sarcasm that came from repeating obvious information. "You really okay, man? You're acting weird."
Shoichi had no parents. Not anymore. They'd died when he was twelve.
But apparently, here, he did.
"Yeah," Shoichi said quietly, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm good. Just tired."
Kayuro grunted, unconvinced, but didn't push it.
They finished eating in silence, and Shoichi's mind spinned with questions he couldn't ask without sounding completely insane.
They stepped outside, and Shoichi's breath caught.
The streets of Lasland stretched out before him, and they were nothing like Tokyo.
The roads were cobblestone, yes, but clean. No trash, no duste. People walked past in tunics, cloaks, leather boots, but everyone looked healthy, well-fed, purposeful. Market stalls lined the streets, vendors calling out prices for fresh produce, fabrics, tools, glowing crystals that pulsed with faint light.
Glowing. Crystals.
Shoichi's gaze drifted upward, and he froze.
Floating islands.
Actual floating islands, massive chunks of land suspended high in the sky, connected by what looked like bridges made of shimmering light. Waterfalls cascaded off the edges, mist sparkling in the morning sun. Buildings sat atop them, homes, towers, maybe even more shops.
"Stop gawking," Kayuro said, smirking now. "You look like a tourist."
Shoichi tore his eyes away, heart pounding. This is real. This is actually real.
They walked through the town, past a blacksmith hammering glowing metal that sparked with magic, past a bakery where bread floated out of the oven on its own, past children laughing as they chased a small creature that looked like a cross between a cat and a lizard.
Magic. This world had *
magic.
And then, ahead of them, rising above the town like a monument, Shoichi saw it.
High School of Lasland.
The academy was enormous. Towering spires of white stone reached toward the sky, flags bearing intricate crests fluttering in the wind. The main building alone could've fit five of Shoichi's old schools inside it. Courtyards sprawled between wings, filled with students in uniforms, some sparring with weapons, others conjuring flames and ice in their palms.
"Come on," Kayuro said, nudging him forward. "We're already cutting it close."
Shoichi stared up at the academy, his new reality settling over him like a weight.
He'd been hit by a truck. Maybe.
He'd woken up in another world.
And somehow, he was supposed to go to magic high school.
What the hell is my life now?