The school bell rang, sharp and final, like a guillotine slicing the day in half.
Chen Li Huang sighed, staring at the empty desks in Room 3-B. The clock above the chalkboard ticked with merciless enthusiasm, but the fantasy club had long since stopped caring about punctuality. Not that there were any members left besides him.
He stood up from the lone desk he'd claimed as his own and adjusted the crooked nameplate on the door: Fantasy Research Society. The "Research" part had faded from the laminated sign, making it look like some half-hearted cosplay cult.
No one had come in weeks.
Chen was painfully aware of how pathetic it looked. A sixteen-year-old loner sitting in a dusty room decorated with old RPG posters, piles of monster encyclopedias, and cheap props leftover from better years. He spent most of his club time re-reading old light novels, sketching dragons in the margins of homework, or staring blankly at the ceiling, imagining portals that never came.
"Li Huang!" A sharp voice snapped from the hallway. "Are you in there again?"
He froze. That tone belonged to Vice Principal Han, the eternal enemy of fantasy, freedom, and fun.
Chen hurried to the door and peeked out. The short, stocky woman stood with a scowl etched into her face like stone. She wore the school's official vest like armor, arms crossed, and a broom in one hand.
"You were supposed to submit a cleaning report last semester." She shoved the broom at him. "Since you love this room so much, you can clean it until it shines. I'll be back to check."
"But I—"
"Don't argue." She jabbed the handle into his chest. "And stop drawing elves on school forms!"
She walked off with the righteousness of someone who had personally declared war on fantasy fiction. Chen sulked back into the room, broom dragging behind him like a knight defeated in battle.
Cleaning. Of course. The last remaining fantasy fan in school, reduced to a janitor of forgotten dreams.
He stared at the clutter—stacks of comics, empty snack bags, moldy boxes labeled "Club Funds" with nothing but lint inside. With a groan, he got to work, kicking aside the broken props and sweeping years of dust into loose piles. At least the fantasy books still smelled good, that paper-and-ink aroma that reminded him of quiet summers in the library.
After thirty minutes, he reached the back wall, where an overloaded shelf leaned forward precariously. It was full of old manga volumes—Chronicles of the Mythborn, Demon Duel High, even some early print run of Magic Tavern Panic!!. Some of them were yellowed and warped with age.
He reached for a stack that had slid behind the shelf.
But when he pulled one volume out, the entire shelf shuddered—and with a shhhh-thunk, it clicked backward.
Chen froze.
Behind the shelf was… a door?
It looked like the rest of the wall—wood paneling with faded paint—but there was a clear outline now. He felt around the edges, heart thudding.
Another click.
The door creaked open.
Inside was a closet—at least at first glance. Chen squinted. It looked like an old janitor's room, full of brooms, mops, and spray bottles. But there was something strange about the lighting—it had a soft golden glow, like sunlight filtered through leaves. The air smelled… crisp. Not like mold or chemicals. Like wind from a high mountain, sharp and clean.
He stepped in, heart pounding with both fear and thrill.
And then the broom next to him moved.
Not just shifted from wind—floated up into the air, twirled in a neat little arc, and began cleaning the floor silently. Instead of sweeping, it just absorbed the dust like a vacuum made of bristles.
The mop floated up too, giving the broom a lazy salute. The sanitizer bottle popped its cap and sprayed a misty cloud into the air with a gentle pshhht like a sigh.
"Late again, are we?" the broom said. It had a thin, scratchy voice, like dry straw being ruffled.
"Don't blame me," said the mop. "It's not my turn to sweep the entry anymore."
The spray bottle giggled.
Chen stood motionless, jaw hanging open.
The tools—the cleaning tools—were talking. Conversing. Arguing like coworkers at the end of a long shift.
The mop turned toward the closet door and squinted its head-like handle. "Hey! There's a human in here."
"Is he with the staff?" the broom asked.
"He's not wearing a uniform," muttered the sanitizer.
"I—uh—uhh…" Chen stammered.
The tools began murmuring and shuffling in alarm. The mop glared. "Don't just stand in the way. You knocked over my bucket!"
"I—Sorry!" Chen panicked, stepped back, and accidentally knocked the sanitizer into a stack of magical dustpans. Everything clattered.
"Oi!" the broom snapped.
But Chen wasn't listening anymore.
Because the closet's back wall had vanished, revealing an archway leading into an impossibly wide hallway. Glowing signs hung from curved wooden ceilings, and a rush of warm air greeted him like he'd stepped into a secret city. He rushed forward, brushing past the protesting cleaning tools.
What he saw made his breath catch.