I had lived twenty‑five years in my previous life. Of those, twelve or thirteen were spent trying to start over—trying again and again not to repeat the same mistakes. Different plans. Different resolutions. The same endings.
And now, without warning or ceremony, I had been transmigrated into an entirely new world.
For a brief moment, my thoughts stalled.
The voice did not.
It did not overwhelm me with revelations or cosmic explanations the way stories often promised. There was no dramatic unveiling of fate, no declaration of destiny. Instead, it simply resumed.
A soft chime sounded in my ear. Then another. And another.
Information surfaced in neat, orderly layers: pending tasks, scheduled activities, incomplete work flagged for follow‑up. Each item appeared with quiet confidence, as if it assumed I already knew all of it.
Today's agenda unfolded naturally, as though it had been waiting patiently for me to wake up.
Classes I was expected to attend. Assignments left unfinished. Reading materials marked as urgent. One reminder referenced a project already falling behind schedule, paired with a subtle suggestion to reallocate time. Another highlighted long-term goal that I had apparently set for myself earlier—goals belonging to a version of me I could not remember being.
Nothing was explained. Nothing was justified.
The voice simply continued, moving from one task to the next, resuming a routine that had been paused rather than interrupted.
With every reminder came a faint echo of intent. Not memories, but impressions. A sense that effort had already been invested. That these things mattered. That abandoning them would be abnormal.
The pressure built quickly.
My head felt crowded, noisy, as if two lives were overlapping. One belonged to the person I remembered: twenty‑five years of exhaustion, repetition, and quiet resignation. The other belonged to someone younger, someone who had already begun shaping a future I had just stepped into.
Too many obligations. Too many assumptions.
Instinctively, I raised my hand and dismissed the feed.
The prompts vanished. Silence followed.
I took a slow breath and forced my thoughts to settle.
Alright.
First priority was simple. I needed to understand what this thing was before letting it decide what I should do next.
I dismissed the interface completely, not because I understood it, but because I needed silence. Panic would solve nothing. Observation would.
That was when I noticed it and looked down at my hands.
They were smaller than I remembered. The slimmer fingers , the skin smoother. I lifted my feet next, flexing them slightly against the floor. They felt lighter. Younger. My body no longer carried the dull weight it once had, no stiffness from sleepless nights or accumulated fatigue.
Before, my arms, legs, even my chest had been thick with hair—signs of age and neglect mixed together. Now, my legs were almost hairless. My arms looked narrower, less defined, untouched by time or strain. There was no lingering ache in my joints, no heaviness in my movements.
Something clicked in my mind, slow and unavoidable.
I rushed into the washroom and stood before the mirror.
What stared back at me was not the man I remembered. Not the one crushed under expectations, studies, failures, and the constant pressure to become something acceptable. Not the version of myself worn thin by time, regret, and unfulfilled hopes.
The reflection was younger.
Much younger.
A boy, really. Twelve, maybe thirteen years old at most.
I stared at him in silence, trying to reconcile the face in the mirror with the life I carried inside. The eyes were familiar, but everything else felt displaced—like wearing someone else's skin while keeping my own memories intact.
This was not just a new world.
This was a second beginning.
There was no manual for what to do when you suddenly found yourself transmigrated into another reality. No checklist. No universal rules. Still, I had read hundreds of stories like this over the years. Enough to recognize patterns. Enough to know that details mattered.
And one detail stood out immediately.
There was an AI involved.
Whatever it was, it clearly knew me. It had spoken first, unprompted, with confidence. That alone told me it was not passive. It was not waiting for instructions. It was aware.
With that realization, I hurried back into the room, put on the glasses, adjusted the earpiece, and asked the simplest question I could think of.
"What's your name?"
There was a brief pause.
"I am—"
"No," I interrupted. "Who are you? And tell me about myself."
This time, the response came smoothly, almost politely, as if the question had finally aligned with its expectations.
"Certainly, Mr. Raziel. I am your personal artificial intelligence assistant. You may call me Alfie, as you previously designated."
My breath stilled.
"And you," Alfie continued, "are Mr. Raziel Arcas Amin. You are fourteen years old, approaching fifteen in a few days. You are currently in fourth grade and enrolled at NOVA University."
I stood there without moving, letting each word settle.
A new world. A younger body.
And an AI that knew my name better than I did.
Fourteen.
That alone was unusual. Most stories only sent people this far back if it was true reincarnation. Still, another chance at life was not something I intended to reject.
I took a slow breath, steadying myself, then asked the next obvious question.
"Tell me about this world."
The reply came instantly, but something in the tone felt different. Measured. Careful.
"Master Raziel," the voice said, "is everything all right? Is there something I can assist you with? These are matters you should already be aware of."
That single sentence sharpened my focus.
This was not a passive AI. It was evaluating me. Measuring inconsistencies. In this situation, appearing too ignorant could raise suspicion.
"I just want to be sure," I replied evenly. "Go ahead. Tell me about this world."
There was a pause, brief but deliberate.
"Certainly."
The shift in tone was immediate, smooth, and authoritative.
"This country is known as Hedon, located on the planet Terra Erthas. It is the fourth planet of a ten‑planet system orbiting a singular sun within the Milky Way Solar System. Terra Erthas possesses ten continents and is approximately one‑fourth the mass of its sun, making it the second largest planet in the system."
I listened without interrupting, committing everything to memory.
"It is classified as the second colony planet of the Imperial Federation—"
The name that followed blurred slightly in my mind, as if my thoughts refused to hold onto it yet. Perhaps later. One revelation at a time was enough.
I had a new body, a new world—
And an AI that treated my presence as a given.
A different solar system meant more than distance.
It meant a completely different universe.
Classic transmigration, I thought. If I were going to end up somewhere else, at least it followed rules I half expected.
I hesitated, then spoke carefully.
"I might have had a bad dream," I said. "Can you remind me about my family?"
There was no hesitation.
"Certainly, Master Raziel."
"Your mother is a senior instructor at NIXUS Academy, specializing in applied systems theory. She is currently under consideration for promotion to the OMNI Institute, reflecting her standing as one of the highest-ranking educators in interstellar academia.
Your elder sister, Lyra, serves as a gene‑transcendent pilot‑navigator within the Imperial Fleet, her position granting her command of experimental starcraft designed for interstellar exploration and strategic defence.
Your elder brother, Cael, is an elite combat operative in the Federation's Star‑Beast Defense Corps, trained in both conventional warfare and advanced genetic enhancement operations."
Academia. Military. Exploration.
High-functioning. High-risk. High expectations.
"And my father?" I asked. "You mentioned everyone else."
There was a pause, slight but noticeable.
"Master Raziel, your father was one of the Federation's foremost star‑beast combat specialists. He was killed in action prior to your birth. As a result, you are the youngest member of the family."
The words settled heavily.
Two lives. Two worlds.
Both were without a father.
I let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
"Well," I muttered, "that's not surprising.
There was no response.
"No need to dwell on the dead," I added. "Thinking about it won't change anything."
I removed the glasses. Then the earpiece. The room felt quieter immediately. Smaller. More real.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
What now?
A completely new world.
A completely new life.
And a chance I never had before.
I had already lived twenty‑five years once. Long enough to collect regrets. Long enough to recognize patterns. Long enough to understand where I had failed myself.
This time, I was starting early.
If I played this right, maybe I would not reach that same exhausted age carrying the same disappointments. Maybe this life would stretch further. Maybe it would go somewhere different.
I closed my eyes and took a slow, steady breath.
Alright.
Let's see what kind of world this really is.
I stayed seated for a while longer, letting the silence stretch.
One thing at a time.
The room I was in was not a dormitory. It was too quiet, too personal. A family home. That much was clear now. Whatever NOVA was, it wasn't located here.
"Alfie," I said, reaching for the glasses again.
"Yes, Master Raziel."
"I assume I don't live here year‑round."
"Correct," Alfie replied immediately. "This residence is designated as your registered family home. Due to the distance and scheduling constraints imposed by NOVA Academy, in‑person familial interaction is limited to official recess periods and inter‑cycle holidays."
So I only saw them during breaks.
That explained the quiet. The absence. The faint sense that this place was meant to be returned to, not lived in.
"Alright," I said after a moment. "That answers that."
I paused, then continued.
"Tell me about NOVA Academy."
There was a subtle shift—almost imperceptible—but I felt it. The way the system aligned itself. As if this question mattered more than the others.
"Certainly," Alfie replied. "NOVA Academy is the foundational tier of NOVALUXA NIXOM, the Federation's integrated interstellar education framework."
The name settled into my thoughts more easily than most things had so far.
"NOVA Academy represents the planetary‑level division of the institution," Alfie continued. "It functions as a comprehensive academic and developmental environment, integrating early education, secondary progression, and pre‑specialization training within a single continuous system."
I frowned slightly. "So it's not just a school."
"No," Alfie said. "It is a closed‑cycle educational ecosystem."
The words carried weight.
"NOVA Academy enrolls students from early developmental stages and advances them through adaptive academic tiers based on cognitive growth, physical capability, technological aptitude, and cross‑species compatibility. Traditional distinctions such as middle school, high school, and preparatory college have been rendered obsolete."
That explained my age.
"By design," Alfie added, "a human student of standard parameters may complete NOVA Academy between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Exceptional cases may accelerate faster. Others may extend longer."
"And after NOVA?" I asked.
"There are four higher divisions," Alfie replied. "Progression is merit‑based and not guaranteed."
The air felt heavier, suddenly.
"NOVA graduates may advance to LUX Institute, which governs solar‑system‑level specialization. From there, eligible candidates may proceed to ASTRA Division, NIXUS Academy, and ultimately the OMNI Tier, which operates under direct Federation oversight."
I exhaled slowly.
Planetary. Solar. Stellar. Galactic. Federation.
This wasn't education.
It was selection.
"And NOVA itself?" I asked. "What exactly happens there?"
"Foundational convergence," Alfie said. "Students are instructed in multi‑disciplinary sciences, technological systems, applied theory, interspecies communication, physical conditioning, and early exposure to combat, navigation, or research pathways depending on aptitude."
Combat.
That word lingered.
"NOVA Academy also serves as the primary filtering stage," Alfie continued evenly. "It identifies individuals suitable for advanced Federation roles while redirecting others into planetary or civilian systems before further escalation of risk."
So failing didn't mean expulsion.
It meant containment.
I leaned back slightly, absorbing that.
"And my status?" I asked. "You said I'm in the final years."
"Yes," Alfie confirmed. "You are currently in the final academic cycle of NOVA Academy. Core evaluations are ongoing. Your projected assessment outcome will determine eligibility for LUX Institute advancement."
Projected outcome.
I didn't like how calm that sounded.
"What kind of student am I?" I asked quietly.
There was a pause this time. Longer than before.
"Your performance metrics," Alfie said carefully, "indicate high theoretical compatibility and inconsistent execution."
I almost laughed.
Some things really didn't change across universes.
"You exhibit strong conceptual retention, adaptive reasoning, and anomalous learning spikes," Alfie continued. "However, your historical engagement patterns reflect irregular motivation, delayed task execution, and underutilization of available resources."
That hit closer than I expected.
"In simpler terms?" I asked.
"You are classified as high‑potential, low‑consistency," Alfie replied.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment.
Even here.
Even now.
The same pattern followed me.
"Is that… bad?" I asked.
"It is unresolved," Alfie answered. "NOVA Academy exists precisely to determine whether such inconsistencies represent temporary immaturity or fundamental limitation."
I opened my eyes again.
No destiny. No prophecy.
Just evaluation.
A system vast enough not to care about excuses.
I let out a slow breath and nodded once.
"Alright," I said. "That's enough for now."
"Understood," Alfie replied. "Would you like me to resume your academic schedule?"
I hesitated.
Then shook my head.
"Not yet," I said. "I need a moment."
"Of course, Master Raziel."
The interface dimmed.
Silence returned.
I sat there, in a borrowed body, in a quiet house, on a planet I had never known, enrolled in an institution that didn't care who I used to be.
Final year of NOVA Academy.
One step away from something much larger.
This wasn't a story that handed out power for free.
This was a place that decided whether you were worth continuing.
I clenched my hands slowly, feeling the unfamiliar strength in them.
Alright.
If this world was going to judge me—
then this time, I wouldn't look away.