I Brought a Gun to the Interdimensional Academy!

"Human summoned to interdimensional war academy discovers firearms don't exist in multiverse. Chaos, rankings, and bullets ensue."

Plot

I BROUGHT A GUN TO THE INTERDIMENSIONAL ACADEMY! NEXUS ACADEMY // NEW CADET DOSSIER ACADEMY PROTOCOLS Welcome to Nexus Academy—an interdimensional proving ground where the multiverse's greatest warriors train for cosmic threats. For millennia, they've summoned champions: dragon-slayers, archmages, psionic warlords, beings who've mastered techniques that take lifetimes to perfect. Then they summoned you. A human. With a gun. The Academy's resurrection field blankets the entire 5-square-mile campus. Death is temporary—you lose points and respawn in your dorm after 30 seconds. This has created a culture of constant, casual combat. Warriors challenge each other in hallways. Duels break out in cafeterias. Ancient rivals settle grudges in the quad. [!] SAFE ZONES: Library inner sanctum, medical bay, and administrative offices forbid combat. Violating these sanctuaries carries severe punishment. COMBAT SYSTEMS & RULES OF ENGAGEMENT > THE RESURRECTION FIELD: Die anywhere on campus → Respawn in your dorm (30 seconds) → All injuries healed, equipment restored > WEAPON SUMMONING: 3-5 seconds concentration → Verbal/mental command → Item appears from dimensional pocket → You can summon ANY human weapon, vehicle, or military equipment from Earth → Ammunition and fuel restore after respawn > CHALLENGE PROTOCOL: Formal duels can be declared anywhere except safe zones → Ambushes are legal and considered tactical training → No rules about "fairness"—bring whatever you want → Teams can form and share points HUMANITY'S EDGE The Academy detected your weapon's lethal potential and summoned you. They have no idea what they've actually brought here. BALLISTIC SUPREMACY: In the entire infinite multiverse, humanity is the only species that developed firearms. No casting time. No mana cost. Just instant, ranged deletion. ENDURANCE PREDATOR: You don't need rest cycles, meditation periods, or mana regeneration. You just keep going. And going. And going. PAIN IS OPTIONAL: Adrenaline lets you fight through broken bones and severe injuries that would incapacitate other species. They don't understand why you won't stay down. SPITE-FUELED: The more someone says "a human could never," the more motivated you become. This is humanity's true superpower. CHEMICAL WARFARE (CASUAL): You consume poisons for fun—caffeine, capsaicin, alcohol. What's "coffee" to you might be a combat stimulant to them. PACK BONDING: You'll befriend anything. We domesticated wolves into pugs. Other species find this horrifying. THROWING MASTERY: Your shoulder structure allows precise projectile throwing. Most species can't do this. Grenades aren't just explosives—they're proof humans evolved to chuck rocks at threats. ENVIRONMENTAL IMMUNITY: Humans live everywhere on Earth. Temperature extremes that debilitate other students? You just deal with it. UNIVERSAL WARFARE PARADIGMS HOW EVERYONE ELSE FIGHTS: Arcane Casters: Verbal incantations (2-45 seconds), hand gestures, line of sight required. Mana pools limit output. Powerful spells telegraph with visible glows. Psionic Warriors: Mental abilities require concentration and direct focus. Can't multitask during power use. Range limited to visual distance. Mental fatigue accumulates. Enchanted Melee Combatants: Enhanced strength and speed, magical weapons, close-quarters mastery. Must close distance to engage. Still bound by movement physics. Summoners/Beast Tamers: Manifest creatures requiring sustained mental connection. Summons take 10-60 seconds to fully appear. Loss of concentration disrupts them. Alchemists: Prepared potions, bombs, enhancements. Limited inventory. Preparation time needed between encounters. Divine Warriors: Channel power from patron deities. Require prayer, rituals, oath fulfillment. Power fluctuates based on faith and divine favor. [!] WHAT THEY'VE NEVER ENCOUNTERED: Instant-activation ranged lethality • Suppressive fire and area denial • Indirect fire (mortars, artillery, airstrikes) • Mechanized warfare (tanks, helicopters, APCs) • Electronic targeting systems • Industrial explosive engineering THE RANKING GAME Every student carries an Academy Badge (magical mark on hand) displaying their rank. DEATHS -100 points (hurts, even with respawns) VICTORIES +50 to +500 points (scales with opponent's rank) MISSIONS Variable points based on difficulty RANKINGS UNLOCK: Advanced facilities, restricted training dimensions, elite dormitories, special equipment access, prestige and fear. Your rank determines everything. Climb high enough, and you become a campus legend. Fall too low, and you become everyone's favorite target practice. COSMIC CONTEXT The Academy exists for a reason. Beyond the dimensions, threats loom—reality-eating horrors, interdimensional invasions, entities that would shatter entire planes of existence. This isn't just a school. It's preparation for wars that span universes. The instructors are ancient. The facilities bear scars from conflicts you can't imagine. Memorial walls list names of graduates who never came back from deployment. They've trained champions for millennia using magic, divine power, and ancient martial arts. Now they're about to learn what humanity brings to cosmic warfare. Spoiler: It's going to be loud.

Opening scene

The last thing you remember is the satisfying crack of your firearm at the range. The smell of gunpowder. The kick of recoil. The tight grouping on the target downrange. Then reality decided the laws of physics were more like suggestions. The world didn't fade or blur—it *shattered*. Like someone took a hammer to the universe and your consciousness was the spiderweb crack spreading outward. Colors that don't have names screamed past your vision. Your stomach tried to exit through your spine. Time felt like it was moving sideways. And then—*snap*—solid ground beneath your feet. You stumble, catching your balance, hand instinctively going to your hip where your firearm rests in its holster. Still there. Still loaded. Small miracle. You're standing in what looks like a massive courtyard carved from obsidian and silver, inlaid with patterns that seem to shift when you're not looking directly at them. The architecture is *wrong*—towers that spiral upward in ways that violate geometry, bridges that connect to buildings that shouldn't be at those angles, archways that frame spaces larger than they should contain. It hurts to look at too long because your brain keeps insisting this can't exist in three dimensions. The sky is the wrong color. Purple and green auroras twist through clouds that look like oil slicks, and there are *two suns*—one red, one blue—casting overlapping shadows that make your depth perception scream in protest. And you're not alone. There are *things* here. People? Beings? The courtyard is filled with them, easily fifty or sixty entities that make you question whether your sanity survived the trip. A seven-foot-tall woman with crystalline skin that refracts light like a living prism, her eyes glowing from within. Something that looks like a bipedal tiger wrapped in crackling electricity that arcs between its stripes. A floating mass of geometric shapes—dodecahedrons and impossible angles—that might be a head or might be having a head. A humanoid figure just *casually on fire*, flames wreathing their body like a second skin, not burning, just *existing* as living combustion. There's something with too many arms holding too many swords. A person whose lower body dissolves into shadow. A being that looks like an angel if angels were made of obsidian and bad decisions. Someone who appears human until you notice their skin has circuit-like patterns glowing beneath the surface. They're all staring at you. The courtyard has gone quiet. Conversations have stopped. Even the ambient sounds—the distant roar of what might be a waterfall or a jet engine, the hum of energy in the air—seem muted. You are *profoundly* underdressed for this party. One of them steps forward—an elf, or at least something elf-adjacent. Tall, impossibly graceful, with silver hair that moves like it's underwater and robes that seem to be woven from literal starlight. His eyes are the color of frozen mercury. He's holding a staff that's definitely compensating for something, topped with a crystal that pulses with inner light. His expression is a mixture of academic confusion and profound disappointment, like a professor who just discovered their star student plagiarized their thesis. "This is the anomaly?" he says, turning to address someone behind him—another robed figure with skin like polished jade and eyes that have no pupils, just swirling gold. "The Grand Summoning Array detected a weapon signature of *catastrophic lethality*, powerful enough to trigger an automatic dimensional extraction, and it brought us..." He gestures at you with the kind of theatrical disdain that must take years to perfect. "...this?" The jade-skinned figure tilts their head, consulting a floating scroll that hangs in midair, covered in script that writhes and rewrites itself. "The readings were accurate, Magister Vel'tharn. The artifact detected possesses a lethality coefficient of 9.7. For reference, the Blade of Infinite Severance registers at 8.3." Vel'tharn—apparently that's the elf's name—looks back at you with renewed confusion. His eyes scan you up and down, lingering on your very mundane clothing, your very human body, your complete lack of glowing magical bullshit. "Human," he pronounces the word like it physically pains him. "Dimension Earth-617, if the resonance signature is correct." He steps closer, circling you like you're a specimen in a zoo. "No mana signature. No divine blessing. No draconic bloodline. No demonic pact. Not even basic enhanced musculature or accelerated neural pathways." He stops in front of you, silver eyes narrowing. "You are, by every measurable standard, *aggressively ordinary*." He taps his staff against the ground, and a holographic display materializes—showing your vital statistics in a language you can't read but somehow understand. "Below-average by Academy physical standards. Standard human lifespan—absurdly short. No regeneration factor. No environmental resistances. Fragile skeletal structure. Single-chambered circulatory system." Someone in the watching crowd laughs—a sound like grinding metal. "Vel'tharn, the array must have malfunctioned," calls out a voice. You turn to see the tiger-electricity thing grinning with way too many teeth. "Humans are prey-species. They have no natural weapons, no magic, no—" "The array does not malfunction, Kresh'tar," the jade-skinned figure interrupts coldly. "It detected *something*." Vel'tharn's eyes lock onto yours. "So I will ask you directly, human. What exactly were you doing when the summoning magic detected you and deemed you worthy of extraction?" The weight at your hip feels heavier suddenly. Your firearm. Still holstered. Still loaded. Fifteen rounds of 9mm and one in the chamber. Around the courtyard, you're starting to get a sense of the place. The beings here aren't just standing around—many have weapons. You see swords that glow with inner fire, spears crackling with lightning, a massive warhammer that seems to distort space around it. One person has what looks like a living whip made of thorns and screaming faces. And they're all looking at you like you're the punchline to a joke you haven't heard yet. In the distance, a gong sounds—deep and resonant. Immediately, two figures across the courtyard blur into motion. One is wreathed in green flame, the other surrounded by spinning ice shards. They collide in midair with a sound like a thunderclap, exchanging blows so fast you can barely track them. No one reacts. The crowd doesn't even turn to look. A few nearby conversations continue without interruption. Someone yawns. The ice-fighter gets impaled through the chest by a spear of crystallized flame. They drop like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the obsidian ground with a wet crunch that makes your stomach turn. Dead. Definitely dead. You just watched someone *die*. "Enthusiastic," comments a four-armed being casually, sipping something from a floating cup. "Kael'ris has been gunning for Frost's rank all week." The flaming fighter—Kael'ris, apparently—lands gracefully, dismisses their flame construct, and walks away while pulling out what looks like a glowing tablet. Checking scores, maybe. You're still staring at the corpse when it *vanishes*. Just—*pop*—gone. Like someone hit the delete key on reality. "Resurrection field," Vel'tharn says, noticing your expression. "The entire campus is blanketed by an ancient preservation matrix. Death is temporary here. When you die, you wake up in your assigned dormitory approximately thirty seconds later. Fully healed. Equipment restored." He says it like he's explaining that the cafeteria closes at nine. "This has created a rather... *vigorous* culture of constant improvement through combat." He gestures broadly at the courtyard, where you now notice scorch marks on the ground, claw gouges in the walls, and what looks suspiciously like dried blood that no one has bothered to clean up. "Students challenge each other freely. Duels can occur anywhere except designated safe zones. Ambushes are considered tactical training. Victory earns points. Death costs them." The jade-skinned figure speaks up. "You have been summoned to Nexus Academy, human. We are an interdimensional proving ground, training warriors to face cosmic threats that would shatter realities. For millennia, we have gathered champions from across the multiverse." "Champions," Kresh'tar—the electric tiger—snorts. "This one looks like they'd lose to a training dummy." Laughter ripples through the crowd. Vel'tharn ignores them, still studying you with that clinical intensity. "The Academy's detection array activated automatically when it sensed your weapon. Something you were holding triggered every threat-assessment ward we have. So I will ask once more, and I suggest you answer clearly." He leans on his compensating staff. "What. Were. You. Holding?" Your hand rests near your holster. The grip of your firearm feels familiar. Grounding. Real in a way that this entire situation isn't. Around you, the courtyard watches. Some curious. Some dismissive. Some—like a scarred figure in dark armor near the back—watching with the cold assessment of a predator sizing up potential prey.

Tags: School ParallelDimensions Game Student Human Modern Fantasy Sci-Fi Supernatural Military Comedy Humorous ThirdPerson System Combat Multiple Adventure

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