"Alright, kids. Is everyone here? Josiah—where are you?"

  The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the interdimensional train station, casting golden rays across the polished stone floor. I scanned the bustling platform, searching for the familiar mop of unruly hair and mischievous grin that belonged to our resident troublemaker. Josiah had a way of slipping just out of sight at the worst possible moments—yet somehow always managed to reappear exactly when he was needed.

  “I’m here, Sir!” came his cheerful voice, accompanied by an energetic wave from behind a vending machine.

  There he was—completely unserious as always. A prankster through and through, Josiah had managed to test the patience of even the most seasoned teachers back at the academy. And yet, somehow, he always stayed likable.

  “Good,” I said, raising my voice slightly so the entire class could hear. “Our train should be arriving shortly. Get ready.”

  A murmur of excitement swept through the group like wind through tall grass. The students began to chatter among themselves, their voices rising and falling in a melodic blend of curiosity, nerves, and teenage enthusiasm. Keeping them quiet was nearly impossible under normal circumstances, but today was special. An excursion—interdimensional no less—tended to hold their attention long enough for me to regain some semblance of control.

  Then, with the telltale hiss of energy seals disengaging, one of the portals on the platform flickered to life. A circular shimmer expanded outward before stabilizing, and from its glowing center, the sleek silver nose of the train emerged. The hum of engines vibrated in the air, followed by the harsh, metallic screech of brakes as the train glided to a smooth halt.

  The doors slid open with a crisp whisper. One by one, the students stepped forward, their forms bathed in the blue scanning light that swept across each body to validate their tickets and detect any dangerous anomalies.

  I waited until the last of them had boarded, then instinctively folded my wings tight against my back and followed them inside. As I stepped aboard, a uniformed attendant bowed with courteous formality.

  “Welcome aboard, Instructor,” she said, her tone respectful and practiced.

  She gestured towards my seat, conveniently located within earshot of the students. I gave a polite nod and made my way down the narrow aisle, my wings brushing softly against the walls before I took my place.

  The train began to move with a gentle lurch, slowly accelerating into the corridor of swirling black and violet that formed the heart of the portal. Across the aisle, several students leaned eagerly toward the windows, their faces illuminated by strange, shifting colors. A few giggled, unable to contain their awe.

  Interdimensional travel was still a rarity, even for most humans. But these students weren’t ordinary. They had been chosen—handpicked by the gods themselves to become future angels, each tied to a deity’s domain.

  It was my task, an honor some would say, to train them. To shape them. To prepare them for what it meant to bear divine power and responsibility. And while I was more than happy to serve under the God of Wisdom, I could never quite get used to the chaos that came with teaching angels-in-training.

  Each god, naturally, had their own preferences. The God of Fire was fond of the impulsive and hot-headed. The God of Water chose students as calm and adaptable as their element. And though teaching those two types individually posed little trouble, managing a classroom filled with extremes—emotional, elemental, and psychological—was a challenge worthy of a minor miracle.

  Just as I allowed myself a moment to exhale, I heard a sharp voice from the front of the car.

  “Hey, what’s this?”

  Christopher stood near the door, pointing with unearned curiosity at a red lever marked in several languages—each of them a warning. Of all the students, he had the highest potential to ascend. But not because of discipline, intelligence, or even moral clarity. No—Christopher’s strength was his unpredictability. He was a boy who could, in one breath, offer profound kindness, and in the next, contemplate pulling an emergency stop mid-portal jump.

  “Don’t touch it, Christopher,” I said, my voice stern and measured.

  Our eyes locked for a moment, and I didn’t blink. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, sheepishly returning to his seat. I sighed inwardly, knowing that if I didn’t keep their minds engaged, this trip could go off the rails—literally and metaphorically.

  “Let’s do something useful instead,” I said, raising my voice above the hum of the engine. “Can anyone tell me where this portal leads?”

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  “Purgatory!” answered a boy from two rows back, his eyes wide as he peered out into the sudden void beyond the glass.

  Outside, the view was a shifting tapestry of darkness, broken occasionally by the faint outline of jagged stones and desolate terrain. Even with angelic vision, it was difficult to make out much—Purgatory was not a place of light.

  "That’s correct," I affirmed, nodding at the class. "Now, can anyone tell me why we’re going there?"

  I posed the question to the room, my voice echoing slightly over the hum of the train as it sped through the twilight corridor between dimensions. The silence lasted only a moment.

  "It’s the only place that connects all the worlds—including ours," a girl responded without looking up, her attention divided between the conversation and the flashing screen of her handheld console. Her fingers tapped rhythmically as she continued, "It was chosen for efficiency. Every soul returns there after death. We can’t see them, but they say they wander those barren lands, searching for the path to their final destination."

  Despite her divided focus, her answer was accurate—impressively so.

  "And what is that destination?" I asked, turning my eyes toward her, trying to draw her more fully into the moment.

  But she was already lost to her game, oblivious to the weight of the question.

  From just behind me, a quiet voice spoke up. “The portal tower. It allows souls to move between the world of the living and purgatory.”

  I turned slightly in my seat. It was the boy who rarely spoke unless directly addressed—an introvert among a class of loud, half-divine personalities. A shadow in a crowd of stars.

  "Correct again," I said, my tone softer this time. "Take a good look while you still can."

  As if on cue, a faint rumble vibrated through the floor of the train, making the windowpanes tremble lightly. The students barely noticed—accustomed to such minor turbulence during transit. It wasn’t unusual for the train to roll over stray fragments of stone or spiritual debris as it traversed purgatory.

  Moments later, a ripple of violet energy unfolded ahead, and the next portal came into view—nestled against a towering wall that shimmered with embedded sigils and protective runes. The train passed through effortlessly, and just like that, we arrived.

  Our destination.

  The students sprang up almost immediately, excited chatter erupting through the cabin like an unrestrained tide. But I knew better. I remained seated, motioning subtly for them to wait. There was always a short delay before the official guide arrived—protocols, inspections, all part of the standard process.

  Sure enough, within minutes, a tall, blonde angel stepped gracefully into our wagon. His armor glinted subtly beneath the folds of a formal coat, and the air around him carried a faint hum of static—residue of protective wards.

  "Welcome to the land of all possibilities!" he declared with a broad, practiced smile. "I’m Mihály, the security manager of this facility, and I regret to inform you that disembarkation is momentarily delayed. We’ve been alerted to a minor irregularity during your transit—nothing serious, but rare enough to warrant investigation. Please remain in your seats. We’ll resolve the matter shortly."

  With a polite nod, he turned on his heel and exited through the rear, presumably to confer with other guardians or investigators.

  The students grumbled faintly, but I was grateful for their relative calm. I leaned back, letting out a slow sigh. In all my years of interdimensional travel, I had never encountered a flagged transit—not once. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t routine.

  Twenty minutes passed in heavy anticipation. No alarms. No announcements. Just the occasional whisper among the students and the faint mechanical hum of the train cooling in place.

  Then, at last, the door opened again.

  A new figure stepped inside—a human, clearly, though dressed in the formal garb of the Divine Tour Authority. His cheerful smile barely hid the faint nervousness in his eyes.

  "Welcome once again to the Universal Studios!" he said brightly. "Please accept our sincerest apologies for the brief interruption. Everything has now been cleared, and I’m delighted to inform you that our tour can begin. As compensation for the inconvenience, a complimentary meal will be provided to each of you. If you would be so kind as to follow me, we’ll proceed to the visitor’s center."

  The students surged to their feet again, their earlier impatience forgotten in the promise of food and spectacle.

  As I rose and followed them out of the wagon, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle way the attendant deferred to me—another sign of how humans treated angels, even the lower-tier ones like myself. Reverence. Hope. A quiet desperation. All of them driven by the unspoken dream of one day being chosen—elevated.

  That dream rarely came true. Not unless they possessed a peculiarity—a trait or mindset so unusual it drew a god’s attention. But I said nothing. Offering hope to mortals was not my assignment.

  As we walked toward the station, my eyes wandered. Something about the journey still gnawed at me. I turned my gaze toward the front of the train—and that’s when I saw it.

  A pane of plastic had been fixed to the nose of the train, as if hastily applied. The others paid it no mind, strolling past with casual indifference. But I slowed, hesitated… and then, quietly, knelt to peek beneath it.

  No structural damage. Not even a dent. But there—faint, but unmistakable—was a smear of red paint streaked across the train’s silver surface.

  Fresh.

  Too fresh.

  I stood slowly, a tightness settling into my chest. We must have hit something during the crossing through purgatory.

  It wasn’t wise to meddle in the affairs of gods. Even angels, especially those like me, understood the boundaries. Still, I couldn’t ignore it. My patron, the God of Wisdom, prized knowledge above all. If something unusual had occurred, he would want to know.