Between Ordinary and Not

My life in college has always been… ordinary.

Hello. I am your protagonist for today’s story. My name is not important—really, it’s not. You can call me whatever you like. But to make things easier, let’s just settle on June. Not the most creative name, I know. It sounds like a placeholder. Fitting, isn’t it? I’ve always felt like one—a background character in someone else’s coming-of-age story. Just another average person in an average world, being painfully average in every possible aspect. Looks? Passable. Grades? Sufficient. Social life? Unremarkable. I am, in short, what some might call an NPC.

Right now, I’m attending a private university nestled quietly in the outskirts of the city. It's close enough to home that I never had to live on campus, though sometimes I wonder if I should’ve taken the plunge and moved in just for the experience.

The university itself is... peculiar.

Not many have heard of it, and those who have tend to whisper about it with either fascination or unease. It isn’t that the school is bad. On the contrary, its academics are respected in some niche corners of the world. But the architecture alone is enough to scare off the average high school graduate. Imagine towering spires, wrought-iron gates, stained glass windows that always look like they’re watching you, and heavy wooden doors that creak with a little too much personality. A blend of Gothic severity and Victorian grandeur. Even the fog here seems thicker than usual, like the campus exists in its own pocket of reality. Some say the place is haunted. Others say the spirits of forgotten poets and failed alchemists still wander the halls at night. Personally, I think that’s a bit of a stretch—but I wouldn’t put it past this place. After all, this isn’t a normal university.

Well, it’s a university that focuses on studying myth and the likes, it’s just normal if the buildings are all a bit antique. I’m currently enrolled in the Department of Intertextual Magic and Literary Worlds. Sounds pretentious, right? Most people seem to think so. They scoff when they hear the name.

“What kind of future can you get from reading fairytales and analyzing metaphors like spells?” they ask. 

Isn’t that just a fancier version of Literature Studies?” Well, maybe.

But the people who ask that have clearly never watched ink slither off the pages of a forbidden tome or seen a character from a myth walk straight out of their story, blinking in confusion under the university’s flickering corridor lights.

Still, the department doesn’t exactly have the best reputation. It’s the black sheep among the other, more “practical” faculties—like Chronomantic Engineering or Necrobusiness Management. Our professors are... peculiar. One of them only speaks in riddles derived from old books, another insists on referring to students by literary archetypes.

“Ah, yes, my tragic hero,” he greeted me once.

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply concerned. But despite the odd looks and whispered rumors, I chose this department without hesitation. I’ve always loved stories. Not just reading them—but living them. Imagining myself as someone braver, smarter, more important. In books, I’m never just ‘June the NPC.’ I’m June the reluctant hero, June the long-lost heir, June the cursed librarian who unlocks forgotten knowledge. Fiction is where I matter.

My days consist of decoding narrative spells, walking through projection portals that lead to alternate literary dimensions, and trying not to get caught in the crossfire when two students argue whether Dorian Gray would beat Carmilla in a literary duel. It’s pretty ordinary, right? You will understand if you see it from my perspective.

Despite all of that—the eerie buildings, the esoteric classes, the occasional flicker of something not quite real slipping through the cracks—we’re all still just... ordinary humans. No, really. We eat lunch, scroll on our phones, stress about deadlines, binge terrible series until 3 AM, and cry over exams like everyone else. Immortals? Please. None here—well, technically, mixed-bloods are an exception, but they’re rare and honestly just as confused as the rest of us. We all still put our pants on one leg at a time. We just might do it while standing inside a teleportation sigil or during a lecture on semi-sentient narratives.

Take me for example. Despite all the so-called ‘mystical knowledge’ I’m soaking up, I didn’t suddenly become some fiction-bending demigod who can fold prose into portals. Far from it. You need a professor-level license or, like, ancestral bloodlines laced with mythic ink to do anything remotely reality-altering. Or be one of those naturally gifted prodigies who just gets magic the way some people just get math. I am very much not one of those people. In fact, I’m still very much me: clumsy, forgetful, probably overdue on submitting my comparative analysis between necro-symbolism in gothic romances and postmodern ghost narratives.

I mean, there was this one time—right after a long break, when my brain was still on vacation mode—I got completely lost inside my own faculty building. Now, you’d think after a whole year of studying here I’d know the place. But no. Not only did I forget where my new classroom was, I took a wrong turn somewhere near the fifth-floor corridor, ended up going down a spiral staircase that I swear wasn’t there last semester, and found myself in a room full of whispering books and portraits that looked like they were trying to offer me snacks. Not helpful, just creepy.

By the time I finally escaped—reeking of old parchment and probably slightly cursed—I was thirty minutes late to class. My professor gave me a look like I had just walked out of a fanfiction. Which, in this school, is honestly possible. So no, I didn’t awaken some hidden literary power or get marked by destiny or anything dramatic. I just got lost. Like a normal idiot.

What?

You still don’t believe that my campus and its students are that ordinary?

Well... I get it. I really do. When I describe the place, it does sound like it was stitched together by an overzealous fantasy writer with a flair for the dramatic. A secretive university that studies myth, literature, and intertextual magic, hidden behind gothic spires and Victorian gates, with hallways that sometimes change shape? Yeah, yeah. Very “realm-between-worlds” aesthetic.

But I swear, it’s real. Noticeable. Just... misunderstood.

We’re not floating in some alternate plane of existence or locked in a magical bubble. Trust me—if you take the bus line 77 and get off two stops after the laundromat that looks like a dungeon entrance, you’ll find us. Keep walking past the statue of a crying cherub holding a book (no one knows who put it there), and bam—campus. Right there. And if that’s not convincing enough, just turn around and walk a few blocks further, and you’ll hit one of those painfully overhyped cafes. You know the type. Neon signs that say “breathe” in cursive, indie music floating through the air like incense, and drink names that sound like spells but cost more than a week’s worth of groceries.

I went there once. Once.

They had this “ethereal toast” that came served on a slab of stone with edible flower petals and mist rising from dry ice. Dramatic, right? Looked like something summoned from a fairytale breakfast scene. I paid for it with the last of my meal allowance, expecting something… I don’t know. Amusing, perhaps?

It was toast. Just toast.

Ordinary white bread, probably made in bulk. Slightly burnt. Smelled like my old toaster back home. And all that for the price of my monthly mobile data plan.

So yes. Our campus might look like a place where fictional universes collide. Our syllabi might include units like “Reanimating Narrative Voice” or “Magical Realism and Its Disobedient Characters.” But we still walk the same streets. Get caught in the rain without umbrellas. Overpay for bland food. And curse the Wi-Fi when it dies right before deadlines.

Another solid piece of proof that our campus is utterly, undeniably ordinary?

We’re holding a Japanese-themed event soon. That’s right—a good ol’ bunkasai. Culture festival, in case you’re not fluent in anime or J-culture. Think food stalls, cosplay contests, fan-dub karaoke, and about five different versions of the same “maid café” idea recycled by different groups. And before you ask—yes, it’s open to the public. No need for a secret password, blood pact, or ancient scroll. Just show up with enough cash to buy overpriced bootleg merch and you’re in.

It’s being organized by... uh, something-something club. I’d tell you the exact name, but honestly, I’ve never been able to remember it. The full title is in a mash of Japanese, English, and whatever cultural studies major thought it was cool to add “society” at the end. Something like “Otaku Culture Exploration Division of the New Aesthetic Front.” I don’t know, I stop reading halfway through the nameplate every time.

Anyway, don’t expect celebrity guest stars or dramatic summoning rituals. The guests are usually normal people—local content creators, indie cosplayers, sometimes even someone’s cousin who once did a voice-over for a visual novel no one’s heard of. It’s very down-to-earth. Unmagical. Approachable.

How do I know all this? Heh. Well, I used to be part of the event committee.

Back then, I joined the event division along with my two best friends—don’t ask me how they convinced me. I think it started with, “Come on, it’ll be fun!” and ended with us designing booth layouts at 1 AM while surviving on instant noodles and the fading will to live.

It was hectic as hell. I swear, planning a cultural festival feels more intense than summoning a character out of a literary realm. People argue over stage time like their lives depend on it. Someone always forgets to file the permit for fire-based performances. And there was this one guy who tried to bring a real torii “for authenticity.” Thankfully, the committee leader stepped in before we had our own incident worthy of a dramatic subplot.

So if anyone tells you that my university is some grand, untouchable citadel of magical academia with glowing towers and reality-defying students—just remind them we also spend a week painting wooden booths, stress over cosplay mishaps, and host idol dance cover groups whose music cuts off halfway because someone tripped over the speaker cable.