“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

  Am an attendant lord, one that will do

  To swell a progress, start a scene or two…”

  —T.S. ELIOT (“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”)

  // Codex Tag

  function inscribeAnnotation007(content=

  /* Prufrock’s confession mirrors the thoughts all heroes have before they start. Who am I to take up this mantle? The tension between an individual’s self-awareness and their fears of inadequacy is the crucible itself: it’s the fire that forges identity or shatters it. */

  /* Even those who were never meant to lead still find themselves with lines to deliver. Let’s see if they’re proof against my rocks. */

  codex.updateEntry(“The Attendant Lord | Prufrock knew his role was never Hamlet’s, but story cares little for self-doubt, as identity is forged or shattered in the doing.”);

  }

  Occasionally, when drifting to sleep, there was the sensation of falling, only for his body to convulse. A jolt of awareness as his body twitched and scrambled back from the end of slumber to lucidity. It was like that, and yet it wasn’t.

  It was also like when, early in the morning, Remi stretched, but sometimes his right leg would reach a bit too far. In that moment, there was a beat of awareness when his slumber would be interrupted by the thought of “Oh, no.” Only to have his calf muscle snap to attention. All Remi could do was ride the charley horse out, immobile in his bed with his leg pulsing, pain radiating up it in waves as the muscles yearned for release. It was also like that, but it wasn’t.

  When that muscle finally let go of its death grip and Remi rolled out of bed to stumble down the stairs, hobbling peg-legged for a few minutes. Slow, brain foggy, eyes blurry, lumbering towards the coffee pot because he knew it would be impossible to return to the pleasantries of sleep. It was also like that too.

  Suddenly, Remi was awake. His muscles pulled towards his core, feeling as if they were just snapping into existence. He lifted his head from the desk. Pushing up with his elbows. It was not a surprise, then, that his first thought was that he must have fallen asleep at his desk. He was at his desk, wasn’t he? Yes, he could hear the annoying THRIZZZZ! of the air conditioner. He recognized the feel of his desk chair. So long sat in that he knew it by lumbar feel alone. He was in class. His back hurt. He must have been hunched over for quite a while.

  The clock in his room was flashing, so there was no help there. Looking around, he noticed his two marking folders, one poetic and the other poorly prosaic. Yes, he must have fallen asleep. The essays must have been terrible. He couldn’t help but think about how he had just levelled up his typical angry bedtime procrastination. Remi basked for a minute in the inversion and his witticism. Chuckling to himself. With a deep inhalation of breath, he prepared to get back to it. It’s not as if these essays were going to spring to life and mark him.

  That assumption held for approximately three seconds before, somewhere beneath him, there was a CLICK! The world had already begun shifting at the thought, and all at once it moved.

  [SYSTEM MESSAGE]

  Initializing Classroom Encounter: Paperwork Beast!

  Remi didn’t see the words. Not yet. But something beneath him shifted, like when an Uber driver sped up a bit too quickly down the offramp, causing him to bump against the window, not having time to grab the emergency handle. What Remi saw was that one folder in front of him fluttered. Strange, the room had no real HVAC to speak of. He was sure if there was a fan; it was likely powered by a nine-volt battery, or an indentured gerbil that ran it through wheel power.

  The folder slid off the stack. Just tipped itself right off the lip of the tall pile, and slid towards him, like it had been nudged. He stared at it. Maybe a breeze from the window. But that was impossible. The windows didn’t open. The bank of them looked like they should provide a ready source of airflow, but open windows meant simple escape, which is not something that aligned with high school design. So probably static. Maybe he brushed it accidentally, but in his daze he didn’t notice. Or stress.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Long day, long week, long life. Teacher fatigue did weird things. There was that time in January when he thought the eyes on a poster were actually watching him. It turned out to be a combination of a late night, shadows, and too much coffee. This was probably more of that. He leaned down to grab it, mind already having filed the folder in the strange but understandable drawer. That was until the folder snapped open, like a three-ring binder, then grasped, and finally snapped shut. The folder latched onto Remi’s arm as if it were looseleaf. This was not static. Nor was it stress. Something was definitely wrong.

  The folder again opened fully and then bit down on his arm. Luckily for him, it didn’t really hurt. An image of his grandmother, all gummy, dentures sunk in her glass at Christmas appeared. She had fallen asleep from the wine. When woken, she fished them out, shaking them vigorously in the air (and spraying Remi in the face), popping them back in with a slurp. If his toothless grandma had munched on his arm, he imagined this is what it would feel like. Pressure but no actual pain.

  Remi’s mind reeled. No pain, no big deal, but it was a folder chewing his arm, which was the definition of a big fucking deal. On the next gnash, as in response to his memory, it revealed a set of jagged and pointy paper incisors. Nope! Another essay folder chomped on his other arm, and this time the pain was not figuratively insignificant. It was sharp; it was surprisingly wet, and it was most definitely real. The page edge raked across his arm. Slicing deep, the way paper does. The pain bloomed, bright and real. He jerked back. Blood welled up, a clean red line across his forearm. He had to be dreaming!

  PLINK! The world shifted to grey, and for a moment, nothing happened.

  [SYSTEM MESSAGE]

  [HUD INITIALIZED]

  [HP BAR UNLOCKED]

  HP: 30/30

  [MANA BAR UNLOCKED]

  MANA: 15/15

  [XP UNLOCKED]

  XP: 0/100

  [NEW SPELL ACQUIRED]

  Mana Pulse: Level 1

  A set of translucent bars flared into view. On the bottom left, a thin slash of blue, and on the right, a similar splash of red, kissing each other in the centre. A faint gold thread curled underneath them, like punctuation. A glowing icon pulsed just underneath, on Remi’s far bottom-right: an open hand, fingers splayed, with force erupting from an open palm. Radiating from the hand were shockwaves, with each ring pulsing in a neon blue glow. He couldn’t understand. The bars stayed. The blood stayed. But the folder groaned as if it had lungs.

  He clutched his arm, the sting still pulsing. He didn’t imagine that. That was paper and blood and nerve endings. But his brain kept trying to file it under nonsense. Maybe he’d fallen asleep, or hit his head. Maybe this was a stress dream, or he was getting a fever. He’d read that your body could simulate pain in dreams. Could simulate anything, really. However, no dream lasted this long. His thoughts stuttered as words blazed in front of his vision.

  [NEW SPELL: MANA PULSE]

  TYPE: Kinetic Disruption/Control (BASIC)

  ACQUISITION TRIGGER: First Combat

  COST: 1 MP

  DESCRIPTION:

  A booming voice reverberated inside his head.

  A foundational spell granted to all who shape the world through thought.

  This reflexive burst of force, a concussive wave of kinetic energy from the caster’s hand, draws its power from the ambient narrative current. It erupts in a short-range cone, pushing back enemies, staggering their momentum, and inflicting blunt force trauma. Mana Pulse gives casters an immediate offensive footing in early combat, serving both defensive and destructive purposes.

  Caster Class Tutorial Note: Repeat casting is advised to increase Mastery XP and unlock synergy effects. Infrequent use will delay unlocks.

  There was a longer pause, as if Remi were waiting for someone to arrive, and then.

  [ARCHIVAL INTERFACE ONLINE]

  [AI]: I see you are finally awake. It’s bleed o’clock, time to stop hitting snooze.

  The sound of paper shuffling echoed as the smell of dust and ink and parchment breathed into the room.

  [AI]: Sorry it took me so long to get here, but I have been quite busy. So many of you to get started. I can’t stay, but I popped by just to make sure you got going. We’ll catch up for a chat after this first fight…if you survive.

  POP!