New Year's Day, 2225.
6:46 AM – Glory Academy
The twin suns of KOI-5715.01 rose slowly and golden, like silk unravelling across the sky. Their early light spilt across the city-like campus of Glory Academy, catching on crystalline domes, arclight lanterns, and the distant outlines of floating lecture halls drifting lazily through the morning air.
The academy was unusually quiet—most students were still asleep or off-campus, swept into festivities scattered across KOI-5715.01.
But Tandav was awake.
He stood alone on a secluded terrace built into one of the higher platforms of the East Dormitory Wing. It wasn't much—just an open expanse of white-tiled floor, some meditation rings, and a half-functioning lumina-lantern flickering in the corner. But it caught the morning wind just right. And that was enough.
Tandav laid his mat down and unrolled it carefully. He touched his forehead to it once, briefly, and then rose.
The base of his outfit was a jet-black silk weave robe, it clung to his frame without clinging, fluid and elegant. The robe was bound at the waist by a belt of coiled serpent-cloth, fire-coloured, its hue flowing from deep crimson to golden-amber like a flickering flame.
Draped around his shoulders was a semi-transparent, floor-length cape. It refracted the sun's rays into living flame, trailing behind him like the wake of a comet. Each movement caught a new angle of light.
He remained barefoot.
His feet, calloused from years of dance and discipline, touched the cold stone with familiarity. Above his brow rested a minimalistic circlet—gold and darkened electrum, shaped like a burning crescent moon. At its centre rose an upright cobra, fangs bared.
On his ears, solar-disc earrings swayed—twin golden pieces etched with ancient markings, each one symbolising a mythic epoch of his homeland, Suryet. One for the Era of Flame, one for the Era of Silence.
His wrists bore twin cuffs—one forged from Ganges steel, blackened and engraved with flowing river script, the other of pale Nilestone.
And beneath the robe—hidden from the world but etched into his flesh—lay tattoos like a divine mural. A fusion of the Trishula and the Eye of Horus, inked in threads of power and memory. They remained dormant until the moment he danced.
'Ananda Tandava…'
"Aashvi, start the music."
It began softly, joyfully and ancient.
The tattoos across his chest and back ignited in silent brilliance. The Trishula flared across his spine. The Eye of Horus opened at his sternum. Etched lines of divinity shimmered like burning script, alive with motion. They pulsed in perfect harmony with the dance.
His body flowed like fire, the brilliance of life. The Ananda Tandava, the dance of bliss. The sacred performance passed through generations. Ceremonial. Fierce. Joyful. His name came from this dance.
When the music ended, he stood beneath the full warmth of the twin suns, chest rising slowly. The world around him felt beautiful.
He smiled.
"Happy New Year."
***
A young boy walked with purpose, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk like they meant something. He looked no older than six or seven. A mop of black hair, a hoodie two sizes too big, and sneakers that lit up with every step. His arms swung wide for balance as he skipped, weaving between the fractures in the concrete.
Giuseppe wasn't sure why he was following.
He couldn't tell if he was walking, drifting, or simply being pulled—but the boy always remained just a few paces ahead, close enough to see, never close enough to reach.
The sky was overcast. Chinatown lights blinked dully through the grey fog. Giuseppe didn't recognise the place. It felt older than anything he knew—like Earth, maybe.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by the crack of a puck against glass.
He blinked.
Now he sat in the stands of an ice hockey rink, the cold seeping through the metal bench. On the ice, the boy had grown—now twelve, meaner. He shoved a teammate hard to the ground, frustration twisting his face as the final buzzer sounded. They had lost.
Another blink.
He sat cramped in the backseat of a car. Rain streaked the windows. In the front, the boy leaned against the glass, silent, while a woman—his mother, maybe—shouted at him. The words were muffled, like voices heard underwater, but the weight behind them was unmistakable.
Blink.
A small, dim bedroom. Posters peeling from the walls. The boy, now sixteen, sat hunched at a battered desk, eyes glazed over, devouring games, anime, webnovels—anything that could drag him somewhere else. On the computer screen, a novel stayed open, its title burning into Giuseppe's mind:
Warcraft Online
Another blink.
And the streets of Chinatown had returned. The street was now filled with emergency service cars. The sirens rang in his ears, but he ignored them, turning his head to look at the sight next to him. The boy, now nineteen, lay lifeless on the ground.
Paramedics worked frantically over him, but even Giuseppe could tell it was hopeless.
He glanced back at the truck that had rammed into a supermarket wall. Multiple other pedestrians lay dead on the ground. The police yanked the driver out of the vehicle, a bottle of whiskey in the man's hands. He looked around deliriously as if he couldn't understand what was happening around him.
Giuseppe blinked again.
He was in a dorm room—smaller, humbler than his own at Glory Academy. In the half-light, a young man stirred groggily from the floor: blonde hair, plain face, solid frame.
Ryan Reidus.
…
Giuseppe's eyes opened slowly to the soft hum of the dormitory's morning systems kicking in—air circulation, light calibration, background noise dampeners. Golden sunlight crept through the gaps in the window blinds.
For a moment, he lay still, staring upward.
There was a faint sense that something had just happened—like the lingering aftertaste of a dream he couldn't quite catch.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the slight dampness of sweat, though he didn't remember any nightmare. No fear clung to him. Only a strange, hollow confusion.
"…What the fuck was that about?" he muttered.
He sat up, glancing around his room as if half-expecting to find something out of place. Everything was normal. His boots were by the door. His coat was draped over the back of the chair. His glorious bucket hat is on its shelf. His Connector is at his bedside table. His data pad was blinking with a few forgotten notifications.
Giuseppe ran a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
It didn't feel like one of his dreams. Those were much more nonsensical and didn't follow such a stable timeline.
And yet...it didn't feel like someone else's either.
He shook his head, brushing off the thought.
'Whatever.'
***
Daniel stepped out of his room, adjusting the strap of his satchel slung casually across his chest. He wore a dark, earth-toned plaid shirt left unbuttoned over a black turtleneck.
A simple necklace with a small crescent moon charm hung around his neck, catching the early light. He briefly checked the time on his Connector.
[7:05 AM]
Daniel glanced up from his Connector, just in time to see Giuseppe striding down the hall.
He was dressed in his usual style—white running trousers, a black long-sleeve shirt patterned with swirling golden clouds, and black sneakers. And, of course. His signature white bucket hat sat atop his head.
He was also carrying a bucket full of water, for some odd reason.
Daniel blinked.
Giuseppe, face set with wild determination, marched straight to Marcus's door and—
BOOM!
Kicked it open without a hint of hesitation.
From inside, Marcus's groggy voice rang out in panic.
"Wait—wait! I'm awake—!"
Splash!
The freezing water hit Marcus dead-on, cutting off whatever excuse he was about to make. A high-pitched shriek echoed down the hall—more squeal than scream—before it turned into a growl of pure rage.
"YOU'RE DEAD!"
Giuseppe was already fleeing, arms flailing like a man escaping a burning building, and with a loud bang, he slammed Marcus's door shut behind him.
As he sprinted down the hall, he shot Daniel a thumbs-up as he passed him, grinning like he'd just won a gold medal.
Daniel sighed, running a hand through his hair.
'This guy, man…'
***
Marcus stepped into Tandav's room—the group's unofficial meeting spot—and was immediately greeted by the usual absurd scene.
Giuseppe was busy taping Daniel to a wall a ridiculous amount of Val Tape, grinning like a madman. Arthur was rolling on the floor, wheezing and clutching his stomach, and Tandav sat calmly at the table, sipping tea as if nothing unusual was happening.
Marcus blinked.
Giuseppe flashed him a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
With a heavy sigh, Marcus made his presence known, his footsteps drawing everyone's attention. Daniel threw him a desperate, pleading look—a silent cry for rescue.
Marcus ignored it completely.
Despite his reputation as a saint among the students at Glory Academy, Marcus knew the truth: he only looked saintly because of who he stood next to.
When you were constantly compared to a demon like Giuseppe, anyone would look like the pope by contrast.
Giuseppe saw the twitch in Marcus's lips as he looked at Daniel; he clearly was trying to hold back his laugh.
"Ahem. C'mon, guys, we need to get to the Main Hall. They're handing out the Mythlinks," Marcus announced, clapping his hands to get everyone's attention.
The room immediately shifted. Even Giuseppe stopped smirking for a second.
A Mythlink—technically called an Aetherlink Core on official documents—was one of the most valuable things a student could ever receive.
Because The Mythlink was the only gateway into Warcraft Online.
Marcus watched the familiar gleam ignite in everyone's eyes. He couldn't help but smile a little. Even for someone like him, who tried to keep calm, it was impossible not to feel it.
Then, an electronic chime cut through the air.
[Notice: All first-years, please report to the Main Hall immediately.]
The message flashed across their Connectors, confirming what they already knew.
It was time.
________________________________
Author Note: ;)