I gripped the worn steering wheel of Uncle George's ancient APS delivery van, sweat trickling down my back in rivulets. The heater has been mocking me for three days straight, nothing but outside chilly or far too hot air blasting through the rusted vents. Five thousand and ninety eight kilometers stretched between North Acadia and my final destination in Omnithornia.
The van smelled like all of Uncle George's failed dreams - stale cigarettes, spilled energy drinks, and the lingering scent of whatever mystery packages he'd hauled before his "accident” that forced him into permanent retirement.
The van was his parting gift to me, along with a knowing look of cold eyes that made my skin crawl.
Weary thoughts kept me company on those endless highways. They whispered from the shadows of truck stops at 5 AM, echoed in the rattle of the loose side mirror. Sometimes I caught myself wondering if I'd inherited more than just Uncle George's van - if that same darkness that drove him to constantly skirt the laws… was also riding shotgun with me too.
My phone counted down the miles to Omnithornia, each one a reminder of what I was leaving behind in North Acadia. Mom's tears as I held her hand for the last time. The beep of the heart monitors. The empty spot where my dad should have been, but wasn’t.
Maybe that's why Uncle George gave me the van so quickly. He recognized something in me, something that needed to put as much distance as possible between itself and home.
I kept driving South, watching the landscape change from the snow-capped mountains to tundra to dense forests to endless plains to yellow hills. The van protested every mile, but it kept moving, just like me.
. . .
Halfway point. Southern Acadia.
The last bastion of pure humanity.
Beyond this boundary there would only be Omnids with ever-decreasing pockets of humans living on the fringes of Omnithean Superstate.
I held my breath as the van sputtered up to the border checkpoint, praying it wouldn't choose this moment to finally die. The engine had been making a new rattling sound since breakfast, and the temperature gauge was creeping higher by the hour.
A massive Igopogo in a dark blue uniform lumbered out of the booth, his Executioner-Cross Authority badge glinting in the afternoon sun. My hands were trembling as I handed over my passport, but I forced my face into the innocent, eager expression that had gotten me out of trouble so many times back home.
"What is your purpose for visit, Mr... Martin Kilborne?" he rumbled, beady eyes scrutinizing my documents.
"Tourism, sir!" I switched to my NPC good-boy mode, channeling every Eagle Scout meeting I'd ever attended, deepening my voice in just the right tone of pure confidence. "I've always wanted to see the Dreadspine! My scout troop did a presentation on it last year, and it just looks incredible in all the photos."
"Your vehicle looks like it's on its last leg," the Border Guard commented, showing far too many teeth. Omnitheans were damn scary mofos, compared to us humans.
"Yeah," I rubbed the back of my neck. "Uncle George gave me the van for my 18th birthday. Thought it'd be perfect for a road trip before the new semester starts after winter break," I gestured at the pile of tourist brochures I'd deliberately scattered across the dashboard. "I’m planning to hit all the major spots along the Dreadspine National Park fault line. My real goal is to reach Leviathan's Cradle and take some pictures of the ocean. Going off-season to avoid the big crowds!”
"Hrm. And how long will your trip be?" He asked.
"Just two weeks," I lied, pulling out a blue document folder with a fake itinerary. "Here's my planned route."
"What if your van gives out?" The Guard asked as he examined the itinerary with all of the high tourism spots labelled in colorful markers.
"I've got Suber on my phone!" I gushed. "Plus OAA registration. If the van dies, I'll have it towed to the nearest junkyard, get a couple of hundred bucks for the scrap metal and then hitchhike or call up a Suber cab and take it to the nearest city. From there I can travel by bus to Leviathan's Cradle, rent a car and then take the train back to Acadia!"
"Please pull into parking spot A4," the man ordered.
"Sure thing officer," I nodded.
I pulled the van into the inspection area, my heart hammering against my ribs. The homo-cryptid moved with surprising grace for his size, methodically checking the vehicle's exterior before reaching for the back doors.
My oversized camping backpack sat alone in the empty cargo space. I watched through the side mirror as he unzipped it. A drug-detection Kitlix emerged from his massive side pocket. The liquid-crystal critter grew a nose and sniffed the air. Then, unfolding out like a snake, it grew six legs and rapidly ran over my carefully packed clothes, camping gear, and random assortment of outfits.
My trusty safety vest was tucked in a corner, waiting for stage two. The Kitlix sniffed it briefly and ran back into the Border Guard’s pocket.
The Border Guard let out a huff, having discovered nothing illegal. Finally, he zipped everything back up and closed the back doors. I could hear his heavy footsteps approaching my window.
"Everything appears to be in order," he said, handing back my documents. "Be aware that the next service station is 60 miles south. With your vehicle's… condition, I strongly suggest you stop for some engine maintenance. You wouldn't want to get stuck in the boonies.”
I nodded eagerly, relief flooding through me. "Yes sir, absolutely. Thank you, sir."
As I pulled away from the checkpoint, I watched the border crossing station shrink in my rearview mirror until it disappeared completely.
The 'Welcome to Omnithornia' sign loomed ahead, its faded paint showing a happy smiling average Mothman family of three gray-winged parents and two and a half kids waving to visitors.
. . .
Stage two.
Finance acquisition.
The van, having somehow miraculously made it all the way to Leviathan’s Cradle, wheezed to a stop in front of 8008 Fallin Street, Scab Row.
The building was exactly as awful as I'd expected from a "budget-friendly" residency choice - peeling paint, broken windows patched with cardboard, and that distinct smell of desperation that seemed to hang over all of the Scab Row human ghetto.
A quick scrub down and I was feeling slightly freshened. Then I took about thirty minutes to put on some gray face paint. Orange contract lenses, cotton stuffed into my cheeks and a stick-on-moustache completed the look.
The landlord's office was a dim room on the ground floor, with yellowed newspaper clippings covering the windows.
Mr. Peterson sat behind a metal desk, his weathered face a map of hard years spent in Omnithean territory.
"Yes? What do you want?" He asked, barely looking up at me.
"I'd like a refund on unit 901," I said in my NPC-authority voice.
The landlord waved me off without raising his eyes. "Read the sign. No refunds. Policy's clear."
"Uh-huh," I wrote something in my clipboard, idly tagging my safety vest. "Riiiiight."
“What?” The man asked.
I cleared my throat and adjusted my fake ID badge, my mustache bristling. "Well, that's unfortunate. Do, allow me to introduce myself - my name is Kovach Moontash. I'm with the Leviathan's Crade Housing Review Commission. Our office received multiple complaints about this property being used to house... illegal human migrants."
Mr. Peterson's eyes finally snapped up to my face. I could see the fear creeping into his expression as he took in my clipboard, yellow hard hat and spotless orange safety vest.
"Now, I'm sure you wouldn't want your latest infraction getting back to the Housing Commission," I continued, flipping through my clipboard with a loud ‘tsk’. "Especially given your... multitude of previous violations reported to us.”
“What infraction?” Mr. Peterson's face had gone pale. I could practically see the gears turning in his head, calculating the cost of bribes versus the risk of an official investigation.
“Unit 901.” I said.
"Look," he said, lowering his voice. "There must be some misunderstanding. Unit 901 was never rented to any... unauthorized residents. It's empty.”
I made another note on my clipboard. "Uh-huh. Suuuuure it wasn’t. Because I have documentation riiiiiiight here showing a deposit payment of one thousand dollars from..." I pretended to squint at the paper, "a North Acadian…. Mr. Kilborne, who doesn't appear to be an Omnithornian resident."
"That's not... I mean..." He was sweating now, blinking pale eyes at me. "Perhaps we could resolve this unofficially?"
"Perhaps," I said, making another note. "Though falsifying rental documents is a serious offense. The Commission takes a very dim view of landlords enabling unauthorized human residency."
Mr. Peterson's hands were shaking as he pulled open his desk drawer. "How about we forget about unit 901? Here's the deposit back, plus... a little extra for your trouble." He counted out fifteen hundred in crumpled Omnibux bills.
I took my time examining each note, holding them up to the light. "Well... I suppose I could mark this property for a follow-up review in six months instead of initiating immediate proceedings." I tucked the money into my clipboard. "But I'll be watching this address very carefully, Mr. Peterson."
"Of course, of course," he stammered out. "Thank you for your... understanding."
The man nodded vigorously as I wrote up a fake receipt and slipped it onto his desk.
"Here’s your receipt for the refund. Thank you for your cooperation," I said, pausing at the door. "Word of advice though - you really shouldn't accept payments from North Acadian residents anymore. Makes things… awfully complicated." I tapped my clipboard meaningfully. "Have a good day."
I started the engine, wincing at the new grinding sound it made. Come on, van don't die on me now!
I needed to get out of Scab Row before Mr. Peterson had time to think too hard about our interaction. He had clearly already deposited the check I OUPSd him from North Acadia.
It was Sunday and tomorrow morning the check would bounce as the Omnithorian Bank clerk would figure out that my old checking account had no money in it and then the scummy landlord would be out 1500 violets.
The van protested, shaking and sputtering as I guided it back onto the main road.
In another hour, having pulled off the mustache and washed off the face paint, I sat in the corner of Omnibucks, nursing my free water cup.
The barista - a teenage Chupacabra with purple-dyed hair - had stopped giving me suspicious looks after I bought a sandwich around hour three. The wifi password and the comfy leather couch was my lifeline to planning my next moves.
The city of Leviathan’s Cradle sprawled across my screen in satellite view courtesy of Oodlemap.
I'd already memorized the main bus routes, found the cheapest laundromats, and mapped out which neighborhoods to avoid and which to stay in. Uncle George's voice echoed in my head: "Knowledge is power, kid. The more you know about a place, the harder it will be for that place to hurt you."
The Cradle Foot Fitness Center's website practically glowed with the promise of: "7-Day Trial Membership for new members! Experience Our Premium Facilities!" Translation: hot showers, clean bathrooms. I downloaded the coupon to my phone, already imagining how good it would feel to wash off three days of road grime.
. . .
I pulled up the Skyfall Academy website again, smirking at the sleek design. The acceptance letter sat in my personal inbox, a testament to months of careful planning.
The scholarship page mocked me with its generosity. Even with maximum financial aid, the tuition remained astronomical. No human from Scab Row could ever hope to pay off the debts after graduation as nobody hired humans in Omnithornia for above minimum wage work.
I smirked, recalling how much effort it took to construct my new identity.
‘My’ deceased ‘father’ - Marcus Glock, a minor Thunderbird bureaucrat who'd died in a skiing accident six months ago - had been perfect. No living relatives, minimal digital footprint, and most importantly, no children listed in his obituary.
The real work had been backdating Acadian records.
The classification as Hominull Omnithis - aka half-blood or "Nullie" as they were commonly known here - was crucial. Nullies were treated better than humans but still faced heavy discrimination in Omnithornia.
My way in was through exploiting the Academy's own prejudices. Their online application system had different security levels based on species classification. Pure Omnithean applications went through rigorous parental verification. Human applications were rejected right away (as one had to be an Omnid to get Omnithornian citizenship).
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
But the rare mixed blood Nullie applications? They fell into a bureaucratic blind spot. The system assumed no one would want to fake being a Nullie - after all, who would choose to be part of the most pitied and patronized class in Omnithornia?
I'd discovered this weakness months ago while probing the Academy's submission portal. The Nullie application track had basic validation but skipped the biometric scans required for other categories. Instead, it relied heavily on the father's Omnithean credentials - probably because the system designers couldn't imagine a human teenager clever enough to impersonate a dead Thunderbird's offspring.
I clicked the “Book interview time” url in the acceptance email.
In a few days time, Alexander Glock would walk through Skyfall Academy's gates. And Martin Kilborne would disappear completely like a ripple from a jagged stone dropped into a muddy puddle.
The purple-haired barista was giving me looks again.
Time to move on. I packed up my reinforced phone-tablet and shouldered my backpack, and headed for the door. The van was waiting, faithful despite its protests.
Uncle George's words followed me into the gathering darkness as I pulled into the Omnimart parking lot and rolled out the camping bag across the metal floor: "The trick isn't just surviving, kid. It's making them all think that you belong."
----------------------------------------
The Omnimart security was incredibly lax. I had picked this particular gigastore due to its posh location, the average area income stated on remax.om making my eye twitch.
It took me a few days of scouting in disguise to understand the inner warehouse workings. Finding a few old order receipts in a recycle bin was exactly what I needed.
I rolled the heavy box across the dock, my heart surprisingly steady.
The "inventory checklist" clipboard and my deliberately rushed movements sold the image of just another overworked stock boy doing overtime.
I could have carried out an entire chair with ease past the bored-looking Omnithean cashiers smoking in the back of the building.
Their eyes slid right past me as I calmly walked out of the truck-loading backdoor with my green-skin makeup, clipboard, mustache, safety vest with the yellow hardhat featuring the Omnimart logo printout taped to the front.
Everything I needed for Academic life was now in my possession: school bags, board games, generic and professional-grade pyrotechnics (technically only legal for licensed Omnithean entertainment companies), three high-end cameras with telephoto and fisheye lenses, wireless microphones, tripods, and an assortment of misc outfits ranging from maintenance uniforms to security guard outfits.
My clipboard was my shield against any scrutiny. Clipped to it sat purchase orders from a fake entertainment company, delivery confirmation numbers from various suppliers, and even a forged event permit. If anyone stopped me, my paperwork would be in perfect order.
Nobody bothered me about my box of warehouse-stolen items.
The van wobbled lightly under the weight of the new equipment as I carefully stowed everything away.
I patted the van's rusty dashboard, feeling oddly sentimental.
"Just one last trip, girl. Then you can rest."
The engine made a sound like a dying bird as I turned the key. After three tries, it finally caught, black smoke puffing from the exhaust.
----------------------------------------
I adjusted the collar of my pure white Omnimart button-up shirt, still stiff with its factory creases. New, spotless leather shoes, dark pants and a black backpack completed my eager-student-to-be outfit.
The morning sun caught my new DSLR camera's lens as it bounced against my chest. The week of using the gym's trial membership had done wonders for my appearance - and my nose. No more van smell clinging to my skin.
Movement in the distance caught my eye - three shapes on the third floor of the half-finished office building across from Skyfall Academy. Even from this distance, I could make out the distinctive profiles of brown, gray and red forms perched casually on exposed I-beams like they owned the place.
I sat down on a concrete bench and raised the camera lens, observing them for a few minutes through the viewfinder, studying the patterns of my potential prey.
They were exactly the kind of crowd I needed to befriend - rebellious, young, local. The kind of kids who might know which teachers asked too many questions and which ones would sign anything you put in front of them.
The dragon-bird-girl caught my eye first - all black everything, from her tall combat boots to her raggedy fishnet-patched pants under a short chain-covered skirt. A black leather jacket with a few colorful pins, a tight black top featuring the rainbow prism Eye of the Violet Floyd logo hugged her chest, and a dark leather silver skull choker glinted at her throat.
The dark and broody outfit was a stark contrast against her silver-white-blue scales. Silver feathers shifted in the breeze, folded wings and feathered tail lashing behind her. Something about her reminded me of the punk kids back home, the ones who knew all the best places to hide when you needed to disappear for a while.
Yulia, my personal, jailbroken LLM with vision connected to the newly stolen camera and tied into the school’s yearbook database, identified the teenage punk humanoid female as a Quetzalcoatl by the name of Cassiopeia Nova, enrolled in grade 12.
The Quetzi elongated snout and fluttering silver wings called out to my aesthetic sensibilities as if she was a siren of the deep blue sea. She was tall, about as tall as me, taller if you considered the feathery explosion on the back of her head.
Next to the punk angel was a red and gold figure of a Rubicund Lindworm - Emerald Stratos according to Yulia's quiet whisper in my earpiece. Crystalline ruby mane caught the sunlight like fresh blood, slightly more orange scales of her body gleaming as she walked across the steel beam. She moved with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted her place in the world as the number one. Even from this distance, I could see her gold-orange eyes scanning the area like a Pride Queen marking her territory.
Emerald was wearing a designer leather jacket in deep burgundy, covered in gemstone spikes and damage-nullifying gold runes probably worth more than all of the equipment I harvested from Omnimart this morning. Multiple gold chains dotted with ruby hexagram-gemstones glinted at her neck and several gold magic rings sat on her fingers. Her tall boots with gold buckles looked custom-made, rune-reinforced and probably cost as much as a house in North Acadia. Her belt buckle was studded with large diamonds, completing the 'I'm a firstborn Prima donna of an excessively wealthy dragon clan' look.
According to Yulia’s analysis–the third figure, perched slightly away from the two predator ladies was a Deathskull Mothman named Iogann Wanderer.
Iogann’s outfit was a patchy hippie-style gray-teal tunic with orange triangle-pattern edges. He had a very chill attitude about him. A wide brimmed gray-teal hat sat on his head that made him look like a darker version of Snufkin from the Moomin Troll series. He had fluffy gray antennae, gray wings and very large dark gray eyes.
Through my camera lens, I watched as Emerald barked something at Iogann. The Mothman nodded lazily, reached out into his leather side bag, and... his hand simply sunk into it up to the elbow and then even deeper than what would be physically possible, almost all the way to the shoulder.
When he pulled it back, a crumpled pack of cigarettes sat in his grip.
Yulia failed to recognize the Nonpareil-O-s brand of the pack with a smiling paperclip on the front.
Dimensional gateway ability, I noted mentally. A rare and valuable power - the skill to reach through space itself into other, doomed worlds. Usually activated by looming apocalyptic-level disasters according to my research on the Deathskull Mothmen.
The pack was scorched around the edges, and through my zoom lens I could make out what looked like bits of gray ash raining down from the box. Maybe a nuclear war in some parallel Earth, or the death of a sun, or perhaps the moon exploding. Whatever had forced those cigarettes to seek refuge in our dimension via Iogann’s hand… it probably wasn't very nice at all.
I quietly watched their morning ritual unfold, studying the relationship of the trio.
Iogann passed around the interdimensional cigarettes with practiced ease.
The Lindworm lit hers with a casual snap of dark red claws, the spark dancing between her fingers before catching. From what I recalled, summoning dragonfire was a rare Lindworm skill. Her family definitely had a massive stash of gold and artifacts in their Omnibank safe for her to be able to produce magic fire with such ease.
The Mothman ignited his own deathstick with an elaborate brass lighter that looked like it belonged in a steampunk novel, all gears and tiny pistons that whirred to life when he flicked it open.
The Quetzalcoatl fumbled in her black jacket's pocket and produced a cheap plastic lighter in neon pink, the kind you'd find at any gas station checkout counter. The shoddy 99 cent lighter seemed oddly out of place among her “I’m totally ragged, but I actually cost an arm and a leg” punk attire.
I snapped a few more photos, making sure to capture their casual interactions.
Emerald seemed to be the leader of the group, dominating the conversation, her gestures sharp and commanding. Iogann maintained his relaxed posture despite her intensity. Cassiopeia kept slightly apart from them, her body language and scowling face suggesting that perhaps she wasn't entirely comfortable with the group dynamic or maybe had a headache.
The smoke rings she blew out made my eye twitch ever so slightly.
Observe. Wait for the right moment.
Nicotine, for all the horrible things it did, also relaxed people.
I took a deep breath after another minute, adjusting my generic-looking student backpack filled to the brim with stolen game boards.
Time to put on the show.
I walked forward and lifted my camera, pretending to frame a shot of the construction site's skeletal framework against the morning sky. Just a friendly photography student, nothing suspicious here.
I moved closer, making sure to stay in their peripheral vision.
"Hey guys!" I called out, lowering my camera. "Any of you know if this is the right way to Skyfall Academy? I'm starting there today and these maps are useless." I pulled out my armored phone, displaying the deliberately confusing route I'd looked up earlier.
The Quetzalcoatl girl's unnaturally ocean-blue eyes fixed on me, pupils narrowing slightly. Even from three stories down, I could feel the ‘why the fuck are you bothering me, nullie?’ weight of her stare.
Cassiopeia suddenly stood up, took a step forward and launched herself from the I-beam with casual grace.
Her wings opened wide, far wider than I expected the full wingspan to be, and my heartbeat intensified tenfold.
Her wings caught the morning light and then each feather ignited with a rainbow of colors. My breath caught in my throat as she descended in a lazy flutter, dark jacket rippling in the wind. She looked like something out of a dream - half angel, half prehistoric deity-predator, all dangerous.
She landed a few feet away from me with a jingle of skirt-chains and soft thud of combat boots on concrete. Up close, she was even more striking - sharp features softened by wisps of colorful feathers slowly fading back to silver-blue. Her intense silver-blue eyes studied me with predatory focus.
A thin trail of cigarette smoke curled up from between her fingers.
"You're way off," she said, her clear voice carrying a hint of mild amusement. "School's that way."
She gestured with her free hand, the movement causing her wings to shift slightly. I tried not to stare at how the sunlight played across her feathers with a million rainbow refractions, featuring extra, alien colors that my eyes simply refused to process.
Holy shit so many iridescent feathers. Magic feathered dragon central.
Inexplicably, for the first time in a decade of swindling people and cryptid monsters, my carefully prepared response died somewhere between my brain and my mouth. All those hours of planning, all of Uncle George's lessons about staying focused, and here I was, struck dumb by a pretty girl with wings.
Real smooth, idiot. Real smooth.
Above us, her friends were making their way down via the construction site's stairs, but I barely noticed. I was too busy trying to remember how to form coherent sentences while pretending I wasn't completely mesmerized by the way her wings folded against her back.
All my carefully crafted NPC scripts crashed like a blue screened Windows. The practiced lies, the smooth introductions, the calculated persona I'd spent hours perfecting - all of it vanished like morning mist in the face of those piercing eyes.
My brain kept trying to reboot:
[Alexander Glock.exe has stopped working
Would you like to restore Functional Human Being? Y/N
Error 404: Original Personality Not Found]
I was dimly aware that I probably looked like an idiot, standing there with my camera hanging uselessly around my neck, staring at her like I'd never seen a Quetzalcoatl before. Which, okay, I hadn't - not up THIS close, not one that had just descended from the sky like some kind of punk rock valkyrie.
The cigarette smoke curled around her in lazy spirals, and all I could think was how unfair it was that even the deathstick looked cool on her. The morning sun caught her sparkly, now pure silver feathery head just right, creating a rainbow halo effect around her that made my thoughts scatter into all directions, as my brain continued its spectacular system failure.
I forced my jelly-legs to move, Uncle George's voice cutting through the fog: "Never let them see you freeze, kid. When in doubt, exit stage left."
"Thanks!" I finally managed to squeak out after far too long of a pause, my voice embarrassingly high. "Should... get going. Waauldnt wanna to… be… late!"
I could hear her friends' footsteps getting closer and I had no jokes, no introductions, nothing but empty endlessness in my head. Nothing except for the desire to bow down and worship her.
I backed away from the mind-melting dragon-angel, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to escape. The Quetzalcoatl raised an eyebrow, taking another drag of her cigarette as she watched me retreat.
"See you around, new kid," She called after me, a hint of something - amusement? curiosity? - in her voice.
Her voice sent shivers down my spine as if she rolled a perfect twenty charisma check against me.
Argh! Now I knew exactly how the Aztec priests felt. At this rate, I would totally locate an obsidian blade, slice open some poor fool’s chest and offer their still-beating heart to her. Not that she would accept it. The 21st century Omnitheans were a civilized people mired in laws and rules just as much as mundane humans.
I gave an awkward wave and speed-walked around the corner, not quite running but definitely moving faster than any self-respecting NPC should. As soon as I was out of sight, I leaned against a wall, heart pounding.
What the actual fuck was that?
Three days of careful planning, countless hours practicing different personas, and I'd completely short-circuited at the first sign of pretty feathers. Uncle George would be laughing his ass off if he could see me now.
I took a deep breath, straightening my stolen jacket. Okay. Reset. This was fine. I could still salvage this. I just needed to...
Never interact with Cassiopeia Nova ever again.
No, that’s… exceptionally stupid. Obviously she had some kind of a ‘worship-me’ innate Charisma aura-skill that targeted pure humans like me.
Yeah, that had to be it.
Solution? Interact with her forever, as much as possible, in slow increments. Like eating bits of poison to get used to it. What was it called?
I tapped my stolen smartwatch, asking for the answer.
Yulia took a second to process and whisper the answer into the microscopic, wax-covered speaker buried deep in my ear.
“Mithridatism - building immunity through controlled exposure to toxins.”
Yeah, that's what I needed. Small doses of interaction until I could build up resistance to whatever the hell just happened to my brain.
I straightened up, adjusting my camera strap.
Alexander Glock.exe relaunched successfully.
I checked the smartwatch again - still plenty of time until my appointment. I could circle around the block, compose myself, and maybe approach the school from a different direction. Maybe by then my stomach would stop doing that weird fluttery thing every time I thought about those sky-blue eyes.
Focus. Mission parameters hadn't changed. I still needed to:
1. Get enrolled.
2. Secure one of those infinite free food meal cards and an immortality bracelet.
3. Find a better sleeping location than the rust-covered van now permanently parked in one of the school’s student parking lots.
4. Build a network of useful cryptid patsies.
5. Learn everything there is to know. Figure out if mundane humans can even level up like Omnitheans through dimensional gate dungeon delving.
5.1. Do NOT get derailed by Quetzalcoatl girls who probably smoked because they had a death wish.
Wish I had pretty, mind-control angel-wings like that. The things I could...
No. Focus. I mentally slapped myself.
I took another deep breath, slowly my heartbeat and feeling Alex settle back into place like a comfortable mask. This was fine. I could do this. I'd already conned my way across half the continent - one pretty Omnithean girl wasn't going to derail everything!
Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Relax.
Today… I would have the key to eternity.
The thought of months of functional immortality made my hands shake slightly as I took the first step up the front gate stairwell. Not that I was looking forward to dying - the prospect of pain still terrified me, but the school’s Phoenix program was key to everything.
I was no superhero - I had none of the strength of a Sasquatch, none of the psychic or dimensional powers of a Mothman, none of the regenerative abilities of a Wendigo.
I was just a human kid in a nation of monsters with a desperate, mad plan to rise far above my station and a burning desire to make them all pay for what they did to my mom.
After all, the best way to destroy a system wasn’t to attack it from the outside - it was to set it on fire from within.