Ezra had expected the White-Coat University to be rigorous.

  He had prepared himself for physical conditioning, for the kind of academic dismantling that would break him down and rebuild him in the White-Coat way. He had braced for sleepless nights, for incomprehensible equations, for grueling lectures that would turn theoretical physics into an art form only the insane could decipher.

  What he had not expected…

  Was Bajookind.

  Before his mind could be destroyed, they first had to break his body.

  The first month of university wasn’t spent in a lecture hall or a boratory but in the wilderness, running miles upon miles under the burning sun. The White-Coats believed that a weak body led to a weak mind, and if one’s cardio wasn’t perfect, then one was not prepared for the challenges of the universe.

  Ezra’s past in construction and electrical work had kept him physically strong, but this? This was a whole different beast.

  Day in, day out, he was forced to run obnoxious distances, carrying weighted backpacks, training alongside other students who looked just as miserable as he felt. The instructors—seasoned, terrifying individuals cd in stark white uniforms that never seemed to get dirty—pushed them harder with every passing week.

  One particurly cruel instructor, Professor Ulrich, had a fondness for making them run drills in full suits, ciming, "If you can’t run five miles while wearing a three-piece tuxedo, then you’ll never survive in high society."

  Ezra had no idea why this skill mattered, but at this point, questioning anything was pointless.

  By the end of the boot camp, Ezra had never felt more exhausted, but he had to admit—he had never been in better shape. And just when he thought things might settle into something normal, the real nightmare began.

  Ezra stared at his professor.

  His eyelids twitched. His mind tried to reject what was happening.

  The elderly man at the front of the small, dimly lit cssroom wore a ceremonial white robe, trimmed with golden embroidery that shimmered faintly under the artificial lights. He held a wooden staff, its head carved into the unmistakable shape of a rubber chicken wearing a tiny crown.

  On the chalkboard behind him, written in perfect, swirling calligraphy, were the words:

  THE SACRED HISTORY OF BAJOOKILANDA Tale of Kings, Starships, and the Divine Right to Cosmic Fast Food FranchisesEzra immediately regretted every choice that led him here.

  The professor, who had only introduced himself as Professor Baldric the Unyielding, stroked his beard and peered down at the css of eight students as if they were humble disciples waiting to receive forbidden knowledge.

  "Before we begin," he said, his voice calm yet heavy with gravitas, "you must understand one fundamental truth."

  A pause.

  "Bajookind is eternal."

  Ezra pressed his fingers into his temples. Baldric continued, pacing slowly across the room. "It is older than the stars, yet it has never existed. It is the birthpce of kings, the forge of destiny, the cradle of civilization, and the final bastion against the Unholy Forces of the Anti-Bajookian League, otherwise known as the Tax Collectors."

  Ezra blinked. "I'm sorry. The what now?" Baldric ignored him.

  "Some say Bajookind was once located in what modern maps call Antarctica. Others believe it was a floating kingdom that orbited Jupiter, only to be cast down to Earth by jealous gods. But the most enlightened among us"—he tapped his temple—"know the truth: Bajookind is a state of mind."

  Ezra felt pain behind his eyes. Surely, this was a test. Surely, this wasn’t real history. And yet—None of the other students were objecting. Some even took notes, nodding solemnly, as if this were the most normal lesson in the world. Ezra gnced at Julie’s notes from history css back in community college. She had told him about this. The sheer level of nonsense was unbearable.

  Baldric continued.

  "Rome? Ah, yes, the great empire that spanned not just across Earth, but to the stars beyond." He spread his arms wide. "Before the fall of the Bajookian Senate, before the Great Ketchup War of 4002, before the Grand Migration of the Hamburger Nomads, Rome stretched from the lowliest European hilltop to the farthest reaches of the Andromeda system!"

  Ezra raised a hand. Baldric slowly turned to him, eyes sharp with divine irritation. "Yes, young apprentice?"

  Ezra cleared his throat. "Uh. Professor. Rome, like, the Roman Empire, right? The one from actual history? They never even went to the moon. Let alone to—"

  A student beside him gasped audibly. Baldric narrowed his eyes. "You dare question the annals of history?" Ezra fought the urge to scream.

  At first, Ezra resisted. He spent the next few lectures trying to grapple with reality, to find some sembnce of logic in the nonsense he was being fed.

  But then—He realized something. This was a game. The more he pyed along, the more they encouraged him. So, the next time Professor Baldric ranted about how Mr. Jesus, the icon of outdated religion, had in fact ascended to godhood through the power of oil and cosmic real estate, Ezra nodded solemnly and added:

  "Yes, and it is said his Podcast of Divine Wisdom reached a billion subscribers before the fall of the Old Internet."

  Baldric beamed with approval. One of the students—a nky guy named Marcus—even wrote it down. And Ezra realized the truth. The way to survive this wasn’t to resist. It was to bullshit back just as hard as they were bullshitting him. And suddenly, everything made sense.

  By the end of the semester, Ezra was no longer a passive observer. He actively participated, creating new historical events that his professor gleefully approved of.

  The Great Tax Rebellion of the Bajookian Golden Age?Ezra fabricated it on the spot.

  The 47-Hour Reign of King Cheeseburger XLVIII?Ezra added dramatic embellishments about his downfall due to dietary choices and betrayal by his sad-eating councilors.

  And the final test? A paper on "The Rise and Fall of the Bajookian Podcast Empire." Ezra turned it in with pride. He got an A+. Of course he did. Because none of this was real history.

  It was a trial.

  A trial that he had passed with flying colors. And as Ezra walked out of css that day, he finally understood what Julie had meant. These people weren’t schors. They were cooks.

  And now, somehow, he was one of them.

  The semester had ended.

  Summer break was on the horizon. The students who had survived the boot camp of academia were already making pns—some to return home, others to internships in industries Ezra could barely comprehend.

  But Ezra? He was at his breaking point. This… all of this. There was no way this was real. For months, he had pyed along with the Bajookind nonsense, crafting ridiculous tales about star-spanning Roman Empires, cosmic podcasts, and the divine right of fast-food monarchs.

  And they encouraged him.

  No, worse—they rewarded him.

  But the moment he stepped away from it, the moment he thought about it logically, something gnawed at him. Why the theatrics? Why the obnoxious rewriting of history? If this was just some rich people’s game, some elite intellectual club, why the hell were the White-Coats so deeply entrenched in real-world advancements?

  He needed answers. Which was why, instead of heading toward his dorm to pack, Ezra found himself standing outside Professor Baldric’s office long after school hours.

  And for the first time since joining the university, he was going to break the rules.

  The office door was cracked open. Ezra knocked anyway. A muffled, unbothered "Enter." He pushed the door wider, stepping into what looked less like an academic office and more like the living space of a medieval sorcerer who had long since stopped giving a damn.

  Candles flickered in the corners. Ancient scrolls and leather-bound tomes were stacked chaotically across the shelves. A kettle of tea boiled in the corner, the steam curling through the dimly lit room.

  And there, seated at his desk in what appeared to be a bathrobe, was Professor Baldric the Unyielding.

  Ezra stared. “Uh… you’re not in your normal robes.”

  Baldric took a slow sip of tea, not looking up. “It’s after hours, Mr. Key. I don’t wear official ceremonial garments when I’m off duty.”

  Ezra pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re bathrobes.”

  Baldric finally met his gaze, deadpan. "Every man is entitled to leisure, Mr.Ezra."

  Ezra exhaled. This was already off to a terrible start.

  Ezra knew he couldn’t just ask outright if any of this was real. That would be the fastest way to be thrown out on his ass—or worse, to be fed even more yers of bullshit. So instead, he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Professor,” he said slowly, “why is history so… different?”

  Baldric blinked once, setting his tea aside. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Ezra gestured vaguely. “I mean—there’s what I learned growing up, the actual history, and then there’s… this. The Bajookind version of history.”

  Baldric smiled slightly. “Ah. You wish to know why the common people believe in a simpler, more linear narrative?” Ezra felt the trap but stepped forward anyway.

  “Yes.”

  Baldric steepled his fingers. “Because most people cannot think critically, Ezra. They do not wish to. They require a narrative, a structured story to rule over them. Something digestible.”

  Ezra frowned. "But then why Bajookind? Wouldn’t… wouldn’t propaganda be easier? A more direct control of information?"

  Baldric lifted a brow, as if Ezra had missed the most obvious point.

  "Because," he said simply, "Bajookind is eternal."

  Ezra squinted at him, waiting for eboration.

  The professor sighed, standing from his chair. He walked over to one of the many shelves, scanning his fingers across a row of tattered books before pulling one out. He returned to his desk, pcing the book in front of Ezra with deliberate care.

  Ezra picked it up. It was heavy, far heavier than it looked. The title was embossed in golden filigree, though the name had long since faded, leaving only a whisper of letters barely visible under the light.

  Baldric leaned in slightly. “You are correct to be skeptical,” he murmured. “But there is more to history than simple books.”

  Ezra slowly opened the cover, flipping through the first few pages. The writing was dense, handwritten, filled with meticulously detailed accounts of events that had no business existing. The more he read, the more absurd it became. It wasn’t just some random story about Bajookind. It was a lifetime of work—someone had spent years, if not decades, building this world from scratch.

  And yet—There was something about the way it was written, the way the details interwove, that felt too cohesive to be mere fiction. Ezra looked up. Baldric’s expression had changed. The usual twinkle of amusement was gone, repced with something colder, sharper, more real than anything Ezra had seen before.

  He wasn’t pying anymore.

  “There are kernels of truth to every story, every myth, every legend,” Baldric said softly.

  Ezra stayed quiet.

  “The White Wizard of Bajookind—the one who created an unimaginably prosperous nd, one ahead of its time—he was real.”

  Ezra’s breath hitched.

  Baldric’s eyes flickered with something almost reverent.

  "There are forces," he continued, voice lower now, "that neither you nor I could possibly comprehend. Those forces struck him down, tore apart what he built, erased him from history. But we—we—carry on his spirit."

  Ezra could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

  "The legends we tell, the ridiculousness we spin?" Baldric gestured around them. "They preserve what needs to be saved, and they make light of what is too heavy for one man to bear."

  Ezra swallowed. This was unreal. But these people—these White-Coats—they weren’t just meme-loving schors. They had a goal.

  A real one.

  And that goal was to restore something lost. Something the world wasn’t ready to remember yet. Ezra finally found his voice. "If this is true… why the secrecy?"

  Baldric’s smirk returned. "Because if you told anyone, no one would believe you."

  Ezra exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. Of course.

  The professor leaned forward again. "If you wish to remain here, you must make a pledge, Ezra."

  Ezra frowned. "A pledge?"

  Baldric nodded. “Swear yourself to Bajookind. To the preservation of the stories, the myths, the nonsense that veils the truth.”

  Ezra hesitated. Then, after a long breath, he nodded once. "...Fine. I pledge."

  Baldric’s eyes gleamed. "Good." He leaned back, satisfied. "You may go now, Mr. Ezra. Enjoy your summer. Italy, wasn’t it?"

  Ezra barely processed it. He left the office, the book still heavy in his hands, his mind reeling with everything he had just learned. This was a grand make-believe dollhouse.

  And yet… Somewhere in the nonsense, in the absurdity of it all, there was something real. Something he wasn’t ready to understand just yet.