Inside the prism-lit tunnel, Baiyat lost his grip on time and space like sand slipping through fingers. He just kept to Qubi-250’s tail, until a three-way fork opened ahead like a split river.

Two paths waited. One as narrow as the one they’d come down, tight as a reed bed. The other was vast, a bright boulevard rolling out like a banner.

Another figure stepped from the other narrow tunnel—a girl about Baiyat’s age, small as a sparrow but sharp-eyed. A Qubi led her, its steps light as a cat.

Her dress flashed with gold trimming, like sunlight on water. Twin red ponytails swayed as she walked, little flags bobbing. Her skin was porcelain-fair, the kind nobles were born wearing.

Qubi-250 lifted a paw and waved at the other Qubi, casual as neighbors at a shared well.

“Yo, Qubi-1314, you bringing your pick to sign up too?”

“What a coincidence, Qubi-250. I’m taking mine to register as well.”

The two identical cute beasts slipped into small talk, soft as streamwater.

Baiyat and the girl could only trail behind them, two shadows following two fluffballs, and they stepped into the open junction like ants into a plaza.

Boredom pressed first, then habit—Baiyat tried to talk to the girl. She glanced over, frowning like she smelled smoke, disgust sharp as vinegar. He could only shake his head, a leaf in the wind. Nobles hating to mix with commoners—that sickness ran in their blood.

So he let her be and looked outward, eyes casting nets at the horizon.

The wide rainbow avenue kept swallowing narrow paths that bled into it like capillaries to a vein. From those tight corridors, kids popped out with a Qubi each, like seeds with their guardians. After a long look, Baiyat realized it—students bound for the Demon King Academy.

People drifted to their own circles, like oil and water. Baiyat found a few kids like him; from their rough clothes, they weren’t nobles. Talking came easier, like a door already half-open.

At first, he blurted in his hometown tongue, hope beating ahead of sense. Blank looks hit him like cold rain, and he caught his mistake. He switched to the common tongue Qubi-250 had used, and suddenly the kids clustered and laughed, a little fire catching.

Different worlds, different myths and histories—each story another sky. As they traded pieces, doubt bubbled up in Baiyat like a spring. He wasn’t alone. A boy named Bruselin seemed to notice it too. He guessed, voice low as a secret, “What if we’re all from different worlds?”

The words landed like flint. Imagination took flight like a flock of birds, wild and fearless.

In the end, Baiyat clicked best with Bruselin. Their pasts fit like two scarred hands clasping.

Time slipped by under the kids’ laughter like sunlight sliding across a wall. A huge gate loomed ahead, a mountain of wood and iron. That had to be the exit.

Seeing it, Qubi-250 cut off chatter with Qubi-1314 and drifted back to Baiyat like a feather on a current.

“Well then… kid, welcome to Miracle City.”

They stepped through. A white glare stabbed his eyes like spears. When his vision adjusted, wonder rose in him like a tide—he’d walked into somewhere extraordinary.

Crowds packed around him, a tide of people shoulder to shoulder. Over the surf of voices, he caught shouts like thrown stones.

“Ahh, adorable—look at that cute kid!”

“That junior over there—hey! If you’re lost, an upperclassman can give you the grand tour!”

Screams, whistles, honeyed calls—noise whipped the air. The onlookers, men and women both, watched like hungry wolves measuring lambs. Fear struck first, cold and clean; he jerked back on instinct, limbs shaking like leaves. He admitted it—he was scared.

Demon King Academy was the best academy in the Panworld Alliance, a peak above peaks. Demigod-tier mentors anchored its halls, and Pseudogod-level homeroom teachers kept the classes steady like iron keels. Divine-level professors descended to lecture now and then, like mountains moving.

You didn’t graduate unless you reached Sky Level. Below that, the door stayed shut like a temple gate. Staff were at least Demigods; without that weight, you had no right to work here at all.

Each class had a homeroom teacher who was a Pseudogod, hands steady as stone. And those Divine-level professors would open courses from time to time, thunder rolling through the halls.

Only the top three worlds in the Panworld Alliance could muster faculty like this, palaces upon palaces.

Admissions came three ways. First, the normal assessment. In the years they recruited, you came to the Demon King Academy and took the test. Pass, and you were in. Out of a hundred thousand, not even one might pass. The sieve was that fine. Locals had looser competition than outsiders, a home-field wind at their backs.

Second, recommendation. Worlds scraping the bottom of the Alliance rankings got fixed slots, a few candles in the dark. How to distribute them—each world fought that battle inside its own walls.

Third, fate’s choice. The Academy sent out beings called Qubi. They roamed world to world like dandelion seeds in a cosmic breeze. They watched. If a Qubi judged someone worthy, it chose them. Baiyat was one of those.

After delivering their picks, the Qubi vanished like smoke, leaving Baiyat with empty hands and a head full of questions. What next? Where to go? He had no idea, and the maze pressed in.

The upperclassmen crowded outside only had eyes for cute juniors, like magpies hunting bright things. Baiyat, in rustic clothes with a simple face, drew zero interest from men or women. They were busy chasing the prettiest boys and girls, and he was a stone by the road.

No one came. Anxiety rose before motion—he didn’t dare wander and get lost.

Where was Bruselin?

He searched a long while, found nothing but strange faces. He stared around, hollow as a drum. Without Qubi-250, his heart felt oddly empty, like a nest without its bird.

“Hey, little bro… heh. Is that local specialty in your backpack? If… gulp… if you share some, maybe I can show you the way.”

He followed the voice and saw a senior with a single ponytail watching him like a cat eyeing fish. She wiped the drool at her lip, nose twitching like a hound’s. He had hometown specialties in his pack—roasted meat his parents had prepared. In small places, meat was wealth, a feast you carried.

Even so, his parents had stuffed his bag with it, turning love into rations.

Her motives weren’t pure, but relief came first. Someone finally spoke to him. He brightened, shrugged off his backpack, and handed over the food like an offering.

“Mmm… delicious. This is so good!”

Baiyat watched, stunned, as she polished off more than half in a few bites, swift as wind.

“Little bro, you’re a good kid. From now on, in this school, I’ve got your back.” The golden single-ponytail senior patted his shoulder, face full of “with me here, nobody dares touch you,” like a banner flapping.

The nearby upperclassmen’s faces tightened. They looked afraid of her, flinching like grass before a scythe. Baiyat felt it faintly—he’d found a strong backer.

He didn’t know it yet, but meeting her meant his campus life was about to be a long string of “gotcha.”

The golden-ponytailed girl was named Chloe, a high-year student at the Demon King Academy, due to graduate in a year. Those who could graduate were top-tier, blades among blades. No wonder the others feared her shadow.

“Since you’re a freshman, you should be heading to the lower-grade district. I’ll take you there!” Chloe thumped her chest, promises ringing like drums.

Yet no matter how he looked, unreliability clung to her like mist.

She strode ahead full of confidence, a sun in boots. Baiyat trailed behind, small and cautious, a moth following a lantern.

Then dusk bled into night. Chloe’s patience frayed; she looked around, irritable as a cat in rain. Students nearby scurried back, keeping their distance like minnows from a pike. Lost—that certainty settled into Baiyat like a stone. A senior about to graduate—how could she be this lost? The Academy was huge, yes, but not endless.

“Senior… are we lost?”

“No… ahaha. Little bro, wait here. I just saw someone I know. I’ll go… discuss something with them.”

She would never admit to being directionally cursed.

In Baiyat’s eyes, the golden-ponytail senior grabbed a student and started questioning him, sharp as a knife. The student gestured for a long while, pointing like a compass hand. After a bit, Chloe let him go and returned brimming with confidence, sunshine back on her face.

“Alright, little bro. We’ll find the freshman registration spot soon!”

Excuses aside, the truth was clear as a trail in mud—she’d squeezed the directions out of him. That badass-looking senior… could she be a total road idiot?

Later, deep into the night, they still hadn’t reached the so-called lower-grade registration.

“Senior, you’re sure we’re not lost?”

“Ahaha… no, absolutely not…”