My entertainment kingdom

Chapter 1: A Familiar Stranger

The harsh fluorescent lights of the classroom hummed a monotonous tune, a stark contrast to the frantic drumming of Asher Vance's heart. He blinked, the blurry shapes of desks and students slowly resolving into focus. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and something vaguely antiseptic—a scent utterly unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. He was sitting at a desk, a worn textbook lying open before him—a textbook filled with equations that looked vaguely familiar, yet utterly alien in their context.

He'd woken with a jolt, a disquieting sense of displacement clinging to him like a second skin. He was Asher Vance, that much he knew from his past life. But this Asher peak skyler… felt different. Heavier, somehow. Less… sharp. The initial disorientation gave way to a chilling clarity. A torrent of memories, not his own, flooded his consciousness. They were the memories of the person whose body he now inhabited—another Asher Vance no asher peak skyler, in a parallel world that mirrored his own in technological advancement but lagged far behind in the vibrant tapestry of entertainment.

The memories were a kaleidoscope of mundane details: a childhood spent in this city, this very school; the faces of his parents, his friends, all slightly skewed versions of people he'd never actually met; the constant, gnawing weight of loneliness; the sting of relentless bullying; the quiet desperation of a life unfulfilled. He saw himself, this other Asher, a heavier, less confident version of the man he was in his original world. He saw the dreams, crushed under the weight of apathy and self-doubt. He saw the missed opportunities, the potential left to wither and die.

He stared blankly ahead, the sudden influx of information leaving him breathless. The world around him seemed to spin, the sharp edges of reality blurring into an impressionistic painting. The numbers on the whiteboard swam before his eyes, morphing into abstract symbols.

"Asher peak skyler!" A sharp voice cut through the fog in his mind. He flinched, his gaze snapping to Mr. Davies, his mathematics teacher, a man whose face now held a chilling familiarity, yet whose voice still felt alien.

"Yes, sir?" Asher managed, his voice a raspy whisper.

"You've been staring into space for the past ten minutes. Is everything alright?" Mr. Davies's brow furrowed, his expression a mixture of annoyance and concern.

Asher swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn't sure how to explain the sudden deluge of another person's life experience. "I… I'm sorry, sir," he stammered, his voice catching. "I don't feel very well today."

Mr. Davies nodded curtly. "Alright, Asher. Try to focus. We're covering quadratic equations."

The words washed over Asher, but his mind was still reeling. The memories continued to churn, revealing the stark contrast between this world and his own. The technology was advanced, almost identical to his original world, yet the cultural output, the entertainment, was strikingly underdeveloped. The music was bland, the movies predictable, and the video games… primitive. It was a world brimming with potential, yet creatively stagnant. A goldmine waiting to be mined.

The bell finally rang, a jarring sound that jolted him back to the present. As he gathered his things and he unknowingly went to the locker room to put his belongings. a shadow fell across his lockerdoor. He looked behind to see Mark Olsen, the school bully, a hulking figure whose sneer could curdle milk.

"Well, well, look what we have here," Mark sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Fatty, still drooling over his textbooks. You're such a loser, Asher."

Mark's friends chuckled, their laughter echoing in the suddenly empty locker room. Asher felt a surge of anger, a familiar feeling from his past life, but it was tempered by a strange detachment. This wasn't his life, not entirely. Yet, he was trapped within it. He was, however, no longer defenseless.

The memories weren't just of this life; they also included fragments of his predecessor's life, including a surprising detail: Asher, in this life and past life, had briefly taken self-defense classes. Nothing extensive, but enough to give him a fighting chance.

Mark shoved Asher, sending him stumbling against the lockers. This time, however, Asher reacted instinctively. He used the momentum to his advantage, executing a simple but effective takedown he'd learned in those forgotten classes. Mark hit the floor with a surprised grunt.

Before the situation could escalate, Mrs. Peterson, a teacher known for her sharp eyes and even sharper tongue, appeared. "What's going on here?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the air.

Mark, scrambling to his feet, quickly recovered. "We were just… playing, Mrs. Peterson," he stammered, his friends echoing his words. Mrs. Peterson looked unconvinced but, lacking concrete evidence, merely warned them to "behave themselves."

Mark glared at Asher as he walked away, a low growl escaping his lips. "This isn't over," he hissed, the threat hanging heavy in the air.

The walk home was a silent testament to the stark differences between his previous life and this one. The architecture was similar, the technology almost identical, yet there was a subtle dissonance, a lack of vibrancy that struck him as odd. The buildings were older, showing more wear and tear than he remembered from the memories.

He reached his a quitedecent house according to his memory predecessor, a drab structure that mirrored the overall aesthetic of the city. Their own house, small and sparsely furnished, felt strangely familiar yet utterly foreign. He dropped his bag onto the floor with a thud, the sound echoing in the quiet space.

He stepped inside, the scent of something vaguely floral and slightly musty filling his nostrils. It was a familiar scent, yet it evoked a different kind of emotion than the antiseptic smell of the school. It was a scent of home, of family, of a life he hadn't lived but now inhabited.

He saw her in the kitchen, her back to him, her hair pulled back in a familiar bun. She was humming a tuneless melody, her hands moving deftly as she prepared what looked like a simple meal. It was his mother, a woman he'd never known, yet whose face and movements were etched into his memory.

A wave of emotion, unexpected and overwhelming, crashed over him. In his past life, he was an orphan, a child who'd grown up alone. The sight of this woman, his mother in this parallel world, stirred a deep well of emotion within him. He felt a lump forming in his throat, tears threatening to spill.

He cleared his throat, his voice thick with emotion. "Mom," he said, the word feeling both strange and profoundly right.

She turned, her face lighting up with a smile. "Asher, you're home. Wait a minutes dear" Her voice was warm, comforting, a stark contrast to the harsh realities of his day.

He managed a weak smile, unable to speak for a moment. He was home. In a strange, parallel world, but home nonetheless. He still had a long way to go, but for the first time since his arrival, he felt a flicker of hope. He had a beautiful mother, a home, and a secret weapon. And that was a good place to start. His father wasn't home, likely at work, the memories whispered. That was a detail he would need to explore later. For now, he had a mother, and that was enough.

The warmth of the kitchen, the scent of simmering stew, and the comforting presence of his mother were a stark contrast to the harsh realities of his day. He sat at the worn kitchen table, the chipped paint a testament to the modest nature of their home. The house itself was small, somewhat shabby, but it radiated a sense of warmth and familiarity that he hadn't expected. It was a far cry from the sterile, impersonal apartment he'd inhabited in his previous life.

His mother, whose name he now knew was Sarah, busied herself with preparing dinner, humming a simple tuneless melody. He watched her, his heart filled with a strange mixture of emotions: gratitude for her presence, a longing for the family he'd never had, and a profound sense of displacement. He was an intruder in this life, a ghost inhabiting another's body, yet he found himself inexplicably drawn to this woman, this mother he'd never known.

"How was school, dear?" Sarah asked, her voice soft and gentle.

He hesitated, unsure of how to describe the events of the day. The confrontation with Mark, the sudden influx of memories, the overwhelming sense of displacement—it was all too much to process.

"It was… hectic day," he finally managed, a weak smile playing on his lips.

Sarah placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of him. "Eat up," she said, her eyes filled with concern. "You look tired."

He ate in silence, the familiar comfort of the food a welcome respite from the turmoil within him. As he ate, he observed his surroundings, taking in the details of his new home. The walls were adorned with family photos, pictures of him as a child and his twin sister, of Sarah and a man he assumed was his father. He studied the pictures closely, trying to glean any information about his new life, about the family he now belonged to.

'I have a twin sister?'

Knowing he's orphan in his past life he didnt know how to process that information.

The memories of his previous life, of his solitary existence as an orphan, felt distant and surreal. He'd never known the comfort of a family, the warmth of a mother's love. He'd always been alone, a solitary figure navigating the harsh realities of life. Now, in this parallel world, he had a family, a mother who cared for him, a home that offered him shelter and comfort. It was a strange paradox, a bittersweet irony.

After dinner, Sarah cleared the table, humming softly to herself. He watched her, his heart filled with a mixture of gratitude and unease. He was grateful for her presence, for the warmth and comfort she provided, but he also felt a sense of guilt, a sense of intrusion. He was a stranger in this family, a ghost inhabiting another's life.

He spent the evening exploring his room, examining his belongings, searching for clues about his new life. He found a worn guitar in the corner, its strings dusty and untuned. He picked it up, running his fingers over the worn wood. It was a familiar object, a comforting presence. He'd always loved music, and the thought of playing this guitar, of creating music in this new world, filled him with a strange sense of hope.

He sat on his bed, the worn fabric a familiar comfort. He pulled out his phone, opening the music player. He scrolled through the list of songs, each one a dull echo of what he knew to be possible. He closed his eyes, picturing the melodies, the rhythms, the lyrics of the songs he'd created in his original world. He could almost hear them, feel them, a vibrant counterpoint to the muted sounds of this world.

He knew he had a secret weapon, a treasure trove of musical knowledge that could change this world, that could make him a star. But it wasn't just about the music; it was about survival. It was about protecting himself from Mark and his gang. He had to find a way to navigate this new reality, to leverage his skills and knowledge to build a life for himself, a life that was both safe and fulfilling. He had a long way to go, but he was no longer the passive victim of this world. He was Asher Vance, and he was ready to fight for his place in this new reality. He would use his knowledge, his skills, and his unwavering determination to carve a new path for himself, a path paved with music, self-defense, and an unyielding will to survive. The journey had just begun. And he had a mother. That was a good start.

'Maybe... maybe this is not the bad i dea'