The apartment door clicked shut, sealing out the harsh, bustling world, and for a moment, the only sound was Aaron’s heavy breathing.
His backpack slid off his shoulder, hitting the hallway wall with a dull, heavy thump that echoed slightly in the small apartment.
He trudged into the kitchen, his sneakers dragging against the linoleum.
The hum of the aging refrigerator greeted him, a low-frequency vibration that filled the quiet space.
Aaron pulled open the fridge, the cold air smelling faintly of old leftovers and milk, and grabbed a package of bologna.
After tearing through a plastic bag to get two slices of white bread, he slathered on bright yellow mustard with a cheap plastic knife, the tangy scent filling his nose.
He didn’t bother with a plate; instead, he sat heavily at the small wooden kitchen table, his muscles aching.
He took a huge, salty bite of the soft sandwich, the mustard stinging his tongue, before looking up at the clock flashing on the oven display.
As his gaze wandered around the silent kitchen, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon sun, he savored the smell of bread and mustard.
Despite the hard chair beneath him, a sense of peace settled in—he was tired, but the events of the last twenty-four hours kept his tiredness at bay.
After eating his sandwich, he went to his room for his bathrobe, only to find a small, taped-up tarp over the damaged ceiling.
Lying on the bed were a broom, a dustpan, and a note from Simon instructing him to clean up the debris from the “incident” last night.
Sighing, he began by clearing the floor, throwing his piles of clothes onto the bed to make room.
He then swept the broken boards, drywall, and insulation into a single pile near the door before packing it all into a large garbage bag.
Finally, he swept up the remaining small debris, completing the cleanup.
Once completed, he grabbed his bathrobe and headed for the shower.
He took extra time to wash the dirt and grime from his body.
His face and body hurt due to the “incident”, the shove from Tank, and gym class.
The hot water felt good on his skin.
Not only did it wash away the dirt and grime, it washed away some of the emotional aches and pains too.
Equipped with his bathrobe, he sauntered into his room to grab his favorite hoodie, underwear and a pair of pajama bottoms.
Once fully dressed, he tossed his uniform into the laundry basket and headed to the kitchen to wash dishes and cook dinner.
***
After experiencing the heavy, physical world for the first time, Rykker was a whirlwind of curiosity amidst the artificial, humming environment.
The fast-paced human life was overwhelming, leaving him no time to process the sheer volume of new sights and sounds. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
His mind reeled with awe, creating a hundred questions he couldn’t quite formulate.
What shocked him most, however, was how much the two worlds overlapped.
From shared languages and social issues to universal laws and a drive for knowledge, the parallels were striking.
Truly, the only major differences were the absolute nonexistence of magic and the drastic differences in landscapes, one being saturated with artificial gadgets and gizmos; the other, whimsical and all natural.
“General… Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Sir Aaron.
Please share your thoughts with me.”
Aaron winced, scraping a stubborn crusty piece of dried food from a plate.
“Um, for starters, could you please just call me Aaron?
The ‘sir’ part…
it makes me feel like some old fogey.
I’m only seventeen, okay?
Not ninety.”
Rykker was taken aback, a flicker of genuine offense crossing his mind.
It was an honor to be dubbed “Sir,” a title that signified hard-earned accomplishment and status.
The fact that Aaron didn’t want it felt like a dismissal of the very foundation of Rykker’s world.
Rykker remembered the weight of his own titles, starting with his entrance to the academy.
While most students were initiated with the base title of “initiate,” a rare, favorable evaluation at the entrance ceremony could immediately elevate a student to “Apprentice.” Rykker had been one of those exceptional few, and he held that distinction dearly.
This distinction was earned at the threshold of the academy, beneath the shimmering gaze of the Orb of Choosing.
This crystalline sphere held the power to define a student’s future.
During the entrance ceremony, the air would crackle with tension as initiates placed their hands upon its cold surface, waiting for the silent verdict.
The sphere would erupt with colored light, revealing their magical affinity and mana capacity—marking some for greatness, while leaving others with none at all.
Three distinct colors swirled beneath his palms: a deep, roaring red representing fire and strength, a calm, ocean blue for intellect and water manipulation, and a piercing dark blue that crackled with the ability to conjure ice and lightning.
He was not just gifted; he was a rarity.
While most initiates spent decades mastering the basics, Rykker accomplished this in just seven years, already wielding multiple magical affinities.
Though tutelage under an archmage solidified his expertise, it was his ruthless mission efficiency that earned him a spot in the Arcanian Brotherhood Guild.
Bypassing the traditional ladder, he jumped straight into a core position, becoming both a Ward and a Sergeant within eight months.
Over the next two decades, his meteoric rise continued, making him the youngest General Grand Master and leader in the guild’s history.
Only the title of Grand General and Transcendent remained above him—a level no one in his lifetime had achieved, or perhaps, only those who had left Bartuii to join the gods in the celestial planes.
***
When Aaron asked Rykker to drop the “sir,” a sharp, knee-jerk reaction flared in him—a habit born of centuries of strict hierarchy on his home planet, where titles were synonymous with respect and order.
His jaw tightened, and he nearly reprimanded Aaron for the casual disregard of authority.
However, Rykker remembered he wasn’t on his planet anymore.
He was on Earth, a strange world where, as far as he could tell, titles held a negative stigma, often associated with cold formality or arrogance.
He took a breath, letting the tension leave his shoulders.
Maybe this was a sign of mutual trust and friendship rather than disrespect.
Right then, he decided to embrace the informal nature of this world.
“I shall try to remember to call you Aaron,” Rykker agreed.
“And you may call me Rykker,” he said slowly, testing the sound of his own name without the suffix.
“Just Rykker.
You may call me that.” It felt strange to abandon the title, “General,” but to survive here, he knew he had to let go of the rigid protocols of his planet.
After all, he had no idea how long he would be here; maybe even forever.
He shuddered at the thought.