Was there a sign that he chose the wrong school?
For one, he didn’t know anything about farming. Surely, that was wrong.
Maybe if he dropped a seed here.
“Ah,” he murmured, letting a seed fall from his fingers. Plop.
It dropped into the dirt and burst into a flower. Purple-ish. Violet-ish. Unfurling petals.
Wait…. maybe he was good at this farming thing. Could he secretly be a cultivating genius?
“No you aren’t.” The flower said.
Rude.
“To plant the seeds of betrayal,” The flower continued, “You have to first sow desperation. Don’t forget that.”
A talking flower? He slowly backed away.
“Let me tell you a story,” The flower said, its voice taking on a solemn tone, “Long ago, the heavens foresaw the birth of a celestial being that would bring great prosperity down the earthly realm…”
As it spoke, the ground beneath the boy trembled. For a second, he could have sworn that he saw red envelopes and golden dumplings in the corner of his eye.
“But alas, seduced by the allure of worldly riches, he strayed from his true path,” The flower finished. “Now, it falls upon you to lead him back to the correct path.”
Did he have a choice? Could he decline?
“Let me bring you to him now…”
Abruptly, he found himself whisked away on a dandelion, before falling gently into a room.
He glanced around, observing the high, sweeping roofs and wooden latticework. The room was reminiscent of something like an old sect building - clean and tidy, with oak pillars, calligraphy scrolls, and folding screens.
It would have been a nice place to sit and drink tea. The problem was… he was supposed to be in school.
“No, no, let’s add more.” A voice spoke.
At the center of a room, he noticed a figure hunched over a wooden desk. They were studying scrolls, each adorned with flowing, intricate characters written in black ink.
“—Oh, hey!” The figure greeted him.
“You’re not supposed to be here. I wasn’t expecting visitors,” The figure muttered, their face obscured by wisps of tendrils. “Hey, since you're here, would you mind clicking a button for me?”
The figure picked up a piece of paper and folded it into a paper plane. With a gentle flick of the wrist, it glided through the air, slowly re-folding into a crane mid-flight. The origami crane gently descended to the boy, who picked it up.
For a moment, the tiny crane looked at him curiously, before morphing into a paper-button.
“Since I can’t read, I don’t know what it says, but it must be something good.” The figure mentioned cheerily.
The boy looked down at the button and spotted some fine text, which was barely noticeable at first glance.
It read: [Click here to pay $99.99. This will allow you to skip all content up to the ‘First Maintenance’.]
“…Did you click it?” The figure hopped about.
No.
Disappointed, the figure continued, “No? Well, worth a try.”
“Look, let me let you in on a little secret.” The figure beckoned for the boy to step closer. “Because of a little ‘mistake’, we lost the star of the show. The main character, if you will.”
The figure waved his hands, playfully.
“I know, I know, that sounds bad. But don’t worry, we already found a replacement. And this one,” The figure paused, “this one will definitely be better.”
“Or at least, we hope so…” The figure added quickly.
“And, guess what?” The figure’s cloudy face seemed to glow in anticipation, “You… are that replacement!”
The boy stared. This wasn’t at all why he was here. He tried to explain that a flower had brought him here to advise the figure to fulfill its sacred duty, but-
The figure, seemingly turning a deaf ear, continued talking, “Here, let me pass you over to our script-writer. They’re in charge of writing stuff, or so I heard. (I can’t read). But they’re a bit unwell… in the head, so whatever happens, just play along.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
No sooner had the figure finished speaking than the floor beneath him began to give way. With a sense of weightlessness, the boy tumbled down to the floor below, landing softly on a bed of yellow carnations.
As he lay there, a voice, fuzzy and distant, drifted down to him. It was as if the very air had transcribed words into his mind:
| A world contained within a handful of popcorn. Each kernel, a universe of untold stories, each holding a life. Simple mortal souls. Oh, they look so delicious… but no, I shouldn’t be eating them. I’m on a no carb, no corn diet. |
“Maybe one piece won’t hurt?” The figure said, standing on a stage. They were holding a piece of popcorn, which they studied. The theater seemed quite bare, except for them, and for some reason, it was difficult to make out the figure’s face.
The voice spoke again: “Oh, no-no-no, don’t throw away my kernels, but… please,”
“Please, have a seat.” The voice suddenly boomed out, sending shivers down the boy’s neck.
“It’s been a while since I last narrated the show. I’m glad to see more faces in the audience this time - it’s truly heartening. It really is–”
They paused.
“Even though it seems that we have an uninvited guest amongst us… But I suppose it doesn’t matter. For the show must go on.”
A sign, attached by a rope, dropped down from the ceiling. It read: “PRELUDE:”, which meant the beginning.
But the beginning of what? A play?
PRELUDE:
“Wait, the stage is not set yet!”
PRELUDE AGAIN:
[The curtains are drawn. A lone figure stands in the center of the stage, the clothes wet and in disarray. The sound of rain and thunder rumbles in the background.]
Okay, so it was a play. Then, maybe that person talking into the mic was the…
NARRATOR:
“The scene is set on a dark and dreary, rainy night. The streets shimmer with a glossy sheen, reflecting the lights like a mirror. Faraway, the trees sway and dance, casting shadows in their wake.”
[The figure begins to walk slowly across the stage, the sound of the rain growing louder.]
NARRATOR:
“Remember?”
[A boy appears on the stage…]
In an instant, the boy found himself standing on the stage. Rain poured from above, drenching his hair and soaking through his clothes down to the nape of his neck. He tried to move, but his body refused to obey. It was like he had turned into an actor on a stage.
He squirmed again, trying to move his legs. No use.
THE BOY:
“Even when I close my eyes, the image still appears.” The words slipped from his lips, words he didn’t mean to speak. Unbidden, foreign words.
‘Walking to class was blurry now, as if it had happened a lifetime ago.’ Were those thoughts… his? He couldn’t tell.
The rain pounded against the nearby windows, creating a steady rhythm that followed the thumping in his chest. He looked down at his hands, shivering.
[Behind him, rippling puddles clutched shoes in its embrace, as socks with holes strayed and the river of rain carried them away…]
The taste of pennies in his mouth. Metal gutted through a hole. It wouldn’t stop bleeding into dirt.
[Please… a voice cried.]
How could he turn around? How could he…?
NARRATOR:
[TO THE AUDIENCE]
“How could you?”
| ACT 1: RAIN
[You were never meant to.]
They were waiting for you. You had parents who loved you.
Rain.
She taps the couch, waiting for you…
Today.
8:07 A.M.
…
12:31 P.M.
The heart tries to beat on the coffee table.
Ba-bump.
9:26 A.M.
When she flips your blanket open, her eyebrow raises.
8:17 A.M.
It was like that every morning. Without fail.
8:07 A.M.
A croissant.
9:35 A.M.
Your sister runs outside, but the rain is too heavy.
She falls, scraping her knee on the concrete.
Rain.
9:36 A.M.
It drowns out her calls for your name. Your name doesn’t stand out in the rain.
It never did.
11:00 A.M
Four months, five days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes when you finally showed up again.
6:13 P.M.
You were never meant to… |
—His eyes snapped open.
Blurry vision. Hazed view of a classroom. Through his fingers and in his seat.
A dream?
He softly yawned, trying to free himself from his grogginess. And gradually, his senses returned to him. Just the spots in his eyes stayed, but only for a second, before fading away.
One by one, the boy stretched his stiff limbs…
Around him, the classroom’s image clashed into his mind like a museum exhibit - one that a school bus had driven into.
The large, gothic windows that adorned the room gave way to glass mantelpieces on the side. Basked by the dawn light, the windows covered the desks and washed his clothes in fractals of hues.
You would think he would love it here.
After all, he had wanted to get into this school. It had had something to do with cultivators-or-whatever, which meant he could source fresher vegetables for cooking. Its posters talked about ‘gods’ and ‘mythical beasts’, which meant… exotic ingredients, right?
It even had a low acceptance-rate, too, which meant that only ‘people-who-studied’ and ‘people-whose-parents-could-pay-their-way-in’ were supposed to attend.
He was neither. He should have been glad to be here.
But, even though he did want to be here, let's face it – most students aren't exactly excited to be back in a classroom, especially right after summer break. And plus, you would think a school like this could afford softer desks.
Nope. He rubbed his face.
School days usually felt like battles. Not the fun kind, like fighting pigeons, monsters, and rats, or trying to figure out why his rice cooker didn’t love him. Nope. For some reason, it was filled with homework, students, and teachers that fell head-first from the heavens, conking their noggins. BONk!
The real kicker? He couldn’t even tell anyone about his life as a part-time child laborer (aka. part-timer). So how was he supposed to explain to the teachers why he kept falling asleep in class?
“Pst… LoOk HerE!” A scraggly voice said, interrupting his thoughts.
The boy tilted his head up.
Look where? He looked up at the ceiling. There were murals there: intricate ones. Ones that looked like they could fall down in a gentle shower.
“NO HERE!” the voice whined.
He looked around again.
On the right side of the classroom, there were shelves of pottery and other trinkets, made by the renowned arcaners. He didn’t know what ‘arcaners’ were, but it said on the wall: “Crafted by Arcaners…”
“Woo-hoo, here!” The voice continued.
He looked closer at the pots in the cabinets. Hmm… What were those pots used for? Maybe the ancient Americans used them as credit cards? (before the invention of ATMs.)
“OH CoME oN! LoOk HeRE!” one of the pots said, this time, quite impatiently.
His eyes darted around until they settled on the source of the noise - a pot with "CAUTION: please do not break!" written on its side. He approached and peered inside.
“Free me!” it said cutely. Inside was a…
He walked back to his desk.
Gods! This place seemed to be a chunk of history! The shelves were stacked with trinkets from world expeditions, placed next to eastern scrolls that took in elegant calligraphy, and converged with antique compasses from keepers long ago.
Even on the teacher's desk, a massive globe spun by itself.
But unlike the globes he had seen before, this one had its own clouds and weather patterns that, if he had been nearby, he was sure he could hear.
He listened to the birds' chirp. The clacks and thumps as new students sat in their seats and the rhythmic shuffling of footsteps outside the halls. Slowly, his mind lulled away to the path he had taken to get here: Solitary trees. A red drink spilled on the stairs. And though the season had come to a close…
A lone spring flower.
[WHAT IS THE IMPORTANCE OF A LONE SPRING FLOWER?]
“Alright class, settle down.”