The Architect sandbox [The Archiverse series]

Chapter 53: First Day

Third Person – Narrative View

The early morning haze draped the sky in a soft cream-blue hue. The golden light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a pale shimmer on Oliver's cheeks as he stirred awake.

It had been exactly one week since he arrived in this world—since the gravitational weight of his old life had been replaced with something lighter, unfamiliar, and strange.

But not bad.

So far, it had all gone… smooth.

No crushing anxiety. No hopeless job hunts. No economic dread. Just this quiet, slow unfolding of something new. And now—school.

Oliver sat up in bed, blinking through the calm morning light. He looked at the small dresser near his bed, where a few shirts were neatly folded.

His hand reached for one without thinking:

> The orange fuzzy sweater.

Soft, warm, a little oversized—he liked the texture. Comforting. Kind of like Liam's calm voice or the way Martha hummed while washing dishes.

Just as he pulled it over his head, Martha stepped into the doorway holding his small backpack.

> "Time for school, kiddo," she said with a bright tone. "You don't want to miss orientation."

Oliver nodded.

No complaints. No groaning. Just quiet acceptance.

After brushing his hair and grabbing a quick breakfast roll, Martha guided him out to the compact silver hover-car—sleek, with a leafy charm hanging from the rearview mirror. As they pulled out of the driveway, Oliver rested his small elbow against the door and leaned toward the window.

What he saw outside?

> Wasn't Earth.

Beastkin families walking together—wolf ears twitching, cat tails swaying, dressed in casual shirts and backpacks.

A tall antlered boy helping his little sister cross the street.

A group of humans, clearly native to Elorian, chatting near a crystal-paneled bus stop, their clothing decorated with leaf pins and silver-threaded belts.

Some wore stone bracelets—others, vine-wrapped phones.

Coexistence, not just tolerance.

No gawking. No judgment.

Just… life.

> Beastkin. Elorian-born humans. Foreign travelers. All heading to the same destination.

Oliver stared, watching the streets blur by as Martha drove past glowing signboards and curved buildings made of stone, crystal, and smooth metal.

The car slowed. They were almost there.

> New world. New body. New name. New school.

But Oliver?

He was still very much himself.

And deep down, he wondered—

> What would this school teach him?

Vita?

Discipline?

Or something Earth never did:

> How to actually live.

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Third-Person Narrative:

The morning sun shone softly over the curved rooftops of the school, its walls painted in gentle forest tones, accented with climbing ivy and softly glowing crystal lamps. It didn't look like any school Oliver had ever seen—not on Earth, anyway. More like something out of a whimsical storybook stitched with fantasy and nature.

Martha's car pulled to a stop in front of the gate, and she leaned over from the driver's seat, smiling warmly.

"Be kind, okay? And keep your jacket zipped—it's chilly."

Oliver nodded absently, adjusting his slightly oversized orange jacket, the fuzzy collar brushing against his cheek. Backpack slung over one shoulder, he stepped out, watching the large gate close behind him with a low hum.

Immediately, he felt the energy of the place. Laughter. Chatter. Shouting. Growling?

He turned—and his eyes widened.

The campus grounds were alive. Not just with students—but beastkin. Dozens of them. Horns. Fur. Tails. Wings. Claws. Scales. All ages. All colors. Some ran on two legs, some crawled, some slithered, others floated by on enchanted platforms.

It was surreal—like waking up inside a magical RPG world.

This place is insane… Oliver thought, but not in a bad way.

He tightened the straps of his backpack and began walking. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped into the main building, blinking at the high ceilings and nature-themed murals.

As he turned the corner—bump!

He stumbled back, realizing too late that he had walked straight into a sheep beastkin girl. Her wool was thick, her cheeks round, and she looked startled but not hurt.

"S-sorry!" Oliver said quickly.

She just blinked, then smiled softly and shuffled past without a word.

He continued on, weaving through the halls, wide-eyed.

Three fox girls huddled in a circle, their fluffy tails flicking excitedly as they whispered and giggled about something Oliver didn't catch. Further down, an introverted leopard girl sat alone by the window, her ears twitching as she scribbled furiously in a small notepad, not even looking up.

One hallway over, a tired antelope teacher stood holding a clipboard, clearly exhausted as a group of rambunctious beast children tugged at her tail and shouted over each other in three different languages.

Then, near the main office—

Oliver passed by the sleeping sloth security guard, hanging halfway out of a vine-wrapped chair, a tiny nametag slipping off his chest. Just beyond him stood two massive gorilla guards, dressed in professional navy-blue uniforms, sipping steaming mugs of what smelled like jungle-spice coffee. One of them gave Oliver a nod.

He returned it nervously.

As he reached his classroom door, his heart pounded a little. This isn't anything like Earth.

But somehow… it wasn't scary.

It felt like a world built from stories—only this time, Oliver wasn't just reading it.

He was in it.

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Chapter 54 — "Beastkin Bells and Coffee Guards"

First Person – Oliver Woods

The moment I stepped out of the car and onto the school pavement, my eyes darted around in silent awe. Martha gave me a pat on the back and a "you got this" before driving off, but honestly… did I?

This place was nothing like any school back on Earth. It felt like I'd walked right into the pages of a fantasy novel—or one of those wild isekai anime. Towering walls carved with strange, old symbols. Floating lights. And beastkin. So many beastkin.

Everywhere I looked, there were humanoid creatures of all shapes and sizes. A couple of fox girls with fluffy tails were gossiping near the lockers like it was just another Monday. A sleepy-looking sloth in a security vest was half-slumped over at his desk, drooling a little. Two ridiculously fancy gorilla guards in suits stood by the main hallway entrance, casually sipping coffee like bodyguards out of a mafia movie.

I clutched my backpack a little tighter and stepped forward, doing my best to blend in, which is impossible when you're the only human around. I felt like a walking traffic cone.

The inside of the school was just as strange. The walls seemed to shift colors slightly depending on how the light hit them. Magical? Maybe. The students were even stranger. Some had scales, others fur. Hooves, claws, horns. A few wore traditional school uniforms. Others wore hoodies or ripped jackets.

As I passed by the halls, I accidentally bumped shoulders with a soft, nervous-looking sheep girl. She squeaked an apology and scurried away, her wool bouncing slightly with each step.

"Sorry…" I mumbled, not sure if she even heard me.

I kept walking. A leopard girl sat by herself on a bench, scribbling notes on a glowing tablet. She glanced up at me through her bangs—her eyes bright but distant—and then went right back to writing like I didn't even exist.

Classroom doors opened and closed with quiet whooshes. Teachers—some of whom barely looked older than the students—barked out orders. An antelope staff member was trying to keep a group of energetic wolf kids from climbing on the lockers. Her eyes had that "I-need-a-week-off" look.

Despite how different everything was—bioluminescent hallway vines, students with tails, a magic-infused intercom chime that sounded like bells—I noticed one small, familiar thing. Phones.

They all had phones. Beastkin or not, students were glued to their screens, watching videos, chatting in group apps, taking selfies with filters that gave them sparkly anime eyes or big floppy ears—even if they already had big floppy ears.

It was comforting. Sort of. The only thing tying this world to my old one.

I exhaled slowly.

This wasn't Earth. Not even close.

But maybe, just maybe, I could survive here.

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:

Chapter 55 – "Room 24"

First Person – Oliver Woods

I looked down at the slip of paper in my hand. Room 24. First grade. My teacher's name was Ms. Leafon — apparently a goat beastkin. I raised an eyebrow at that but tucked the paper into my pocket and started walking down the hall.

The first grade hallway felt… surreal. Posters with colorful letters, floating lights that hummed softly above, and students with fur, feathers, scales — every step reminded me I wasn't on Earth anymore.

I stopped in front of the classroom door labeled Room 24 and slowly pushed it open.

Inside, the room was already buzzing with life. Beastkin kids filled the seats — all sorts of monsters doing normal school stuff like unpacking crayons, setting out notebooks, or doodling on their desks. Some had tails swishing lazily behind them. A few had horns. Not a single human in sight.

I stepped inside and scanned the room again.

Just me. One human. The rest… definitely not.

Weird.

I guess the humans must be in a different class or something. But why was I placed here?

Trying not to overthink it, I found an empty desk near the back and sat down. The chair creaked slightly under me. I felt every curious glance that came my way — though most of the beastkin kids were too caught up in their own little worlds to really care.

I kept my head down, organizing my supplies. A pencil, an eraser, a half-empty notebook Martha gave me. Nothing special.

Still, I couldn't shake the awkwardness. I was the only human in a room full of monsters. Friendly-looking monsters, sure… but monsters all the same.

What was this place?

And more importantly… why was I here?

---

Ms. Leafon arrived not long after the last student scurried in. She looked exactly how I expected a goat person to look — soft white fur, rectangular glasses perched on her snout, and a calm, nurturing voice that somehow made the classroom settle down in seconds.

"Good morning, everyone!" she bleated with a cheerful tone. "Let's take our seats and get ready for today's lesson."

I straightened up, expecting… well, something wild.

This was a world with beastkin, floating orbs in the hallways, and guards that looked like gorillas from a fashion magazine. Part of me hoped — maybe even expected — that today would involve learning how to manipulate Vita energy, summon water out of thin air, or study magical phenomena.

Instead?

"Today we're going to review basic shapes!" Ms. Leafon announced as she drew a circle on the chalkboard. "Who remembers what this one is?"

I blinked. Did she just say shapes?

A bear kid raised their paw and shouted, "Circle!"

"Very good!" she smiled. "Now let's try squares and triangles!"

...Okay. That was unexpected.

I glanced around the classroom. Most of the kids were happily engaged — using colorful blocks, tracing triangles with thick crayons, or sticking star-shaped stickers onto worksheets. They were learning math. The very basics. Adding. Counting.

It was… normal. Too normal.

I tapped my pencil against the desk and leaned back in my chair.

So that's what they learn here?

Not Vita. Not elemental control. Not the secrets of otherworldly power.

Just… shapes.

Maybe this world wasn't all spells and sparkle. Maybe, just like back home, even monster kids had to start with the boring stuff.

---

:

Shapes. Counting. "What comes after the number 7?"

I already knew all of this.

I'm a 28-year-old man in the body of a child. This… wasn't teaching me anything new.

I tried to stay engaged, tried to focus on Ms. Leafon's peppy voice and her enthusiastic chalkboard drawings. But slowly, steadily, my eyelids started getting heavier. My head started to tilt forward. And before I knew it, I had laid it down on the desk, arms crossed like a makeshift pillow.

The chatter of the beastkin kids faded. The scratch of crayons and the jingling of educational songs on the overhead crystal screen became a distant blur.

And then I drifted…

---

I was standing in a sunlit clearing, the sky clear and blue — too vivid to be real. A small river curled through the grass, glimmering like glass. Beside me was Lyra.

She stood tall, brushing her long red hair back behind one ear — her usual sharp expression paired with that overly bossy tone she had when teaching something she clearly thought I should already know.

"Okay, stop spacing out, Oliver," she said, arms crossed. "You have to feel the Vita. It's not about force — it's about letting it flow through your hands. Watch me."

She held out her palms, and water spiraled from thin air, dancing in a ribbon-like stream before splashing gently into the grass.

I tried to mimic her — hands out, trying to focus, trying to "feel" the Vita energy. I didn't feel much. Just a shrugging sensation, like something inside me wasn't quite awake yet.

Lyra sighed. "You're not even trying, are you?"

I opened my mouth to respond—

---

"Oliver?" a soft voice called, shaking me gently from the dream.

My eyes fluttered open. Ms. Leafon was smiling kindly down at me, her little goat ears twitching.

"Recess time," she said. "You can go outside now."

I blinked a few times, still half-lost between Lyra's water magic and the very mundane school desk I was slumped over.

The other beastkin kids were already rushing out the door, giggling and bumping into each other, excited for free time.

I stretched, still a bit groggy.

Back to reality.

Back to Room 24.

Guess I wasn't going to be conjuring water today.

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---

The warm sun greeted me as I stepped outside onto the playground. The ground was mostly packed sand, soft underfoot, with a few scattered patches of grass and oddly shaped play structures that looked like something out of a fantasy-themed daycare. Beastkin kids were already sprinting, leaping, tail-wagging, laughing.

I stood there, awkwardly, in the middle of it all.

Was I supposed to… join in?

Back on Earth, recess meant kids shouting, tossing balls, someone scraping their knee and crying for a minute before brushing it off. This… wasn't too different. Just with more fur. More claws. A few kids had horns. One dragon-looking girl flew straight over the slide.

I scanned the playground, unsure of what I was supposed to do.

A few beastkin children looked over at me. I caught their glances. Whispers. They were talking about me, that much was obvious.

"Should we go ask him?"

"What if he doesn't want to play?"

"He looks kinda... weird."

Eventually, they just… moved on. Decided not to bother.

I didn't blame them.

So, I stayed where I was — in the middle of the sandbox, my shoes gently sinking into the fine grains. I felt like a misplaced puzzle piece.

That's when I spotted her again — the leopard girl from earlier. She was sitting under the shade of a tree, scribbling on her notepad just like before. Alone. Calm. Content.

Leopards, I thought. They're solitary animals, even back on Earth. Don't like to be around their own kind.

Maybe that explained it. Her distance. Her silence. I understood it, honestly. Being alone was easier sometimes. No expectations. No awkward small talk.

My gaze wandered until it landed on a plastic bucket near the edge of the sandbox. Probably left behind by some kids who ran off to chase butterflies or each other.

I bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in my hands.

"Well…" I muttered to myself. "Might as well do something."

I knelt in the sand and began scooping, shaping. Little towers. Lumpy walls. My very own quiet castle. Nothing magical. Nothing impressive.

Just… simple fun.

And for now, that was enough.

---

:

---

Oliver stood quietly in the middle of the sandbox, the sun warm on his back as the sounds of recess echoed around him — laughter, footsteps, the occasional flap of wings. Beastkin children dashed across the playground, lost in games and wild chases, but none approached him. They had glanced his way, whispered amongst themselves about the strange human boy, and ultimately decided to leave him alone.

He didn't mind. Not really.

His eyes settled on a small plastic bucket half-buried in the sand. Curious, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It was light, faded from sun exposure, probably forgotten by another kid.

Maybe I'll build a sandcastle, Oliver thought.

He'd seen it done before. On beaches back on Earth. How hard could it be?

But as he scooped up a pile of dry sand and flipped the bucket upside down, it immediately crumbled into a shapeless mound. He frowned.

Another try — more scooping, some light pressing. Again, it collapsed into loose, gritty nothing.

Turns out, building a sandcastle was a lot harder than he remembered. Especially with dry sand that refused to stick together.

He sighed and sat cross-legged, watching the grains slip through his fingers. Frustrating. It looked easy in cartoons — towers, moats, little flags. But in reality, the sand just wasn't cooperating.

Still, he didn't give up. He packed the sand tighter this time, mixing in a bit from the damp shade near the edge of the box. Slowly, carefully, he molded the beginnings of a tiny tower.

Around him, the playground kept moving, beastkin kids in their own worlds.

But for a moment, Oliver was focused. Calm.

Alone, but not lonely.

Just a boy and a half-built sandcastle under an alien sun.

---

Oliver brushed the dry grains off his hands, inspecting the lopsided mound he had managed to form. It barely held its shape — a soft breeze could probably knock it over. He leaned back, sighing through his nose, more thoughtful than annoyed.

Then something caught his eye.

Underneath the curved shadow of the playground slide, the sand looked darker. Slightly damp. Not soaked, but wet enough to clump together in a way the dry stuff couldn't. He stood up and walked over, crouching down under the metal structure.

He pressed a finger into the shaded sand. It held. It was firmer, cool to the touch, almost like soft clay.

A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This'll work.

Oliver dug in with both hands, scooping out the denser sand into his bucket. It packed tighter, heavier, and when he flipped the bucket over this time — thud — it stayed. A solid little turret now stood before him.

Finally.

He went back and forth between the damp patch and his building spot, carefully shaping a tiny castle bit by bit. Towers, walls, even a crooked moat.

The sand clung together like it understood what he was trying to do.

Around him, the beastkin children continued their own fun — tag, flying games, chasing windblown leaves. But Oliver barely noticed anymore. His focus was on the castle taking shape at his feet, one handful of shaded sand at a time.

A small victory in a strange world.