Falling…
That was the only thing I could feel since my interaction with the voice ended.
I counted more than 89,700 seconds before I realized counting was meaningless—time could be passing diffrently while travelling between worlds.
Before Azen could continue his inner monologue, he suddenly lost consciousness.
The next moment, Azen woke to the sound of a school bell ringing loudly in his ears, making him stand up abruptly in the middle of the classroom.
Shiiiit, why is this bell so loud?! Azen thought, pressing his hands against his ears.
Wait… I remember now. I chose hyperacusis. This must be because it made my ears hypersensitive.
The bell wasn't just loud—it felt like a needle drilling into his eardrums. Every shuffle of paper, every whisper from the back row roared in his skull like a waterfall.
Calm down… breathe… focus… I need to control it.
After a full minute of agonizing adjustment, Azen was able to dial down his hearing sensitivity just enough to continue the day without getting a headache from the sound of an ant walking on dry leaves.
"Mr. Lee… would you be so kind as to let us know why you've stood up in the middle of the classroom, interrupting my lesson in the process?" The teacher—a middle-aged man with sharp features—asked Azen.
Meanwhile, Azen, who had just been reincarnated, had already regained his composure after the sudden, painful awakening.
"Sorry, sir. I just remembered a piece of Arabic literature I wanted to share, but I couldn't recall it clearly—even though I worked so hard to memorize it. That'swhy i got irritated." Azen said after glancing at the books on his desk, confirming the subject was literature.
"Oh? Well, if you remember it now, by all means, please go on. Tell us, what kind of literature is this?"
"They are verses from an Arabic poem. They go like this:
قُم لِلمُعَلِّمِ وَفِّهِ التَبجيلا
كادَ المُعَلِّمُ أَن يَكونَ رَسولا
أَعَلِمتَ أَشرَفَ أَو أَجَلَّ مِنَ الَّذي
يَبني وَيُنشِئُ أَنفُساً وَعُقولا
Those are the verses."
Azen recited the verses in fluent Arabic, stunning the teacher and his classmates.
"That's really great, Azen. But won't you tell us what they mean?" the teacher asked, clearly trying to make Azen look unprepared in front of the class.
Even if you can recite it fluently and pronounce every word perfectly, it doesn't matter if you don't know the meaning—is probably what you're thinking, right, Teach? Well, sorry to break it to you, but I studied Arabic literature for quite a while while researching ancient Arabic medical records.
"Sure thing, sir. The meaning is as follows:
Stand up to honor the teacher for his worth,
The teacher is almost a prophet.
Do you know of anyone more noble than one
Who builds and molds new souls and minds?
Or alternatively:
Rise for the teacher and give him due reverence,
The teacher nearly becomes a messenger.
Do you know of anyone more honorable or greater than he
Who builds and nurtures souls and intellects?
Here's a note on the meaning: The central, powerful metaphor is that the teacher's mission of guiding people from ignorance to knowledge is so sacred that it nears the stature of prophethood. This is why 'rasoolan' is often translated as 'prophet' or 'messenger' here, emphasizing the spiritual and transformative weight of the educator's role."
Azen explained without a single stumble.
While handling the teacher's attempted embarrassment, Azen simultaneously conducted a swift internal diagnostic:
Six fingers on each hand—polymelia confirmed.
Vision is crystalline, color spectrum expanded—tetrachromacy active.
Auditory sensitivity acute—hyperacusis present, now modulated.
Memory retention perfect—eidetic and photographic memory online.
Remaining traits—rapid regeneration, controlled osteogenesis, savant processing—await field testing.
"I must say, I'm quite surprised, Mr. Lee. Pleasantly, of course. I can't believe you worked this hard without telling anyone. Still, I'd rather you focus on the curriculum before delving deeper into extracurricular literature." The teacher gave Azen a genuine smile of satisfaction before gesturing for him to sit down.
A prophet huh...
In all my years teaching at this goddamn school, I've never seen anyone even try to study. Most don't even care what subject they're in. Yet he not only knew this was literature, he brought something outside the syllabus—for me. The teacher's chest swelled with pride.
The rest of the lesson passed uneventfully as Azen tried to pinpoint where exactly is he and at which point in the Lookism timeline he had landed and whether he had a family here.
The answer to the 3rd question became clear during lunch break when he opened a neatly prepared lunchbox.
A family, huh... That's going to be hard to handle.
Despite being a family man at heart, Azen had hoped he'd be an orphan in this new life—to keep anyone from becoming a target.
"I'll have to be extra careful with whatever I do from now on." he whispered to himself.
"Well, I'll figure that out later. For now, I'd like to nap until the day ends." Azen rested his head on the desk.
A few minutes into his nap, a girl rushed into the classroom and bolted to his desk.
"Azen! Azen, wake up!!" she screamed.
Azen shot upright, fully alert. "What's going on?" He decided to ask who she was later—time mattered.
"Brother... Brother is… Juseong is…" The girl was shaking, struggling to breathe.
Azen gently placed a hand over her mouth, guiding her to take slow, deep breaths through her nose. "In… and out. Just like that."
She steadied, but her breathing remained ragged. Before she could speak, Azen cut in, "Where is he?"
"T-the roof… they're on the roof…"
"Alright. Stay calm. Don't worry." Azen was already moving, darting out of the classroom and sprinting up the nearest staircase.
Brother... they... the roof... the situation couldn't be clearer.
If my guess is right—and I'm certain it is—then this might be my chance to test out this new body of mine.