By the time Riyura Shiko's second day at Jeremy High rolled around, the school's gossip network had evolved into a living organism. Its veins pulsed with rumor, its breath smelled of cafeteria curry, and its heartbeat was a chorus of "Did you hear what he did this time?"
But for once, the whispers weren't about Riyura's one-person lunch opera, his attempted pineapple basketball tournament, or even the ongoing debate over whether his hair was sentient. No, the new rumor had a different subject altogether: Principal Jeremy Poleheadedsandwich.
The principle, the myth, the administrative legend whose name had to be written in two lines on his business card.
Teachers spoke of him in reverent tones, like monks describing a dragon. Students claimed he could silence a classroom simply by adjusting his tie. There were even tales that his presence alone once stopped a food fight mid-spaghetti arc. He was a fortress of professionalism, an iron tower of calm in a sea of chaos.
So naturally, Riyura decided he absolutely needed to meet him.
He didn't have to wait long.
During second period, Riyura had gotten it into his head that gravity, as a concept, was "overrated." His scientific experiment to test this theory involved twenty classroom chairs, one unsteady desk, and the confident declaration, "If Newton could see me now, he'd sue!"
He didn't fall. The chairs fell around him, like the universe had politely disagreed with his ambitions.
By the time the teacher recovered from the mild existential crisis, Riyura was already whistling on his way to the principal's office, dusting chalk off his blazer and declaring, "Science is beautiful and confusing—like me!"
The door to the principal's office stood tall and intimidating, the kind of door that probably judged people before letting them in. Riyura knocked once. The knock echoed like the opening chord of a symphony.
A low, perfectly modulated voice replied, "Enter."
Riyura stepped inside and instantly felt as if he'd wandered into a courtroom run by a coffee commercial.
The air was rich with the smell of roasted beans.
The blinds were half-drawn, slicing sunlight into respectable rectangles.
Behind a massive oak desk sat Principal Jeremy Poleheadedsandwich himself—a being so composed that the molecules in his suit seemed to align out of respect.
His tie was crisp enough to file paperwork.
His hair shone with corporate radiance.
Even his coffee mug sat at a mathematically ideal 45-degree angle from his right hand.
"Riyura Shiko," he said, folding his hands with the precision of a crane. "I've been expecting you."
Riyura blinked. "Did the wind tell you? Because I told the wind I was coming."
The principal's lips twitched. A dangerous sign. "You... have a reputation."
"Thank you!" Riyura said brightly. "I worked very hard to be unexplainable."
Principal Poleheadedsandwich studied him. For a moment, there was the heavy silence of two universes colliding: one of order, the other of unfiltered chaos.
Then something very strange happened.
The principal locked the door.
Closed the blinds. Quickly... like Sonic The Hedgehog!
And whispered, in a tone that made Riyura tilt his head, "You... inspire me."
Riyura blinked. "Is that... contagious?"
The principal didn't answer. He reached under his desk and, with reverence, pulled out a mug of steaming coffee. The aroma hit the air like a declaration of independence. He raised it slowly, dramatically—then took a long, fateful sip.
And that's when the universe cracked.
His pupils dilated. His spine straightened, then compressed. His entire being seemed to quiver like a rubber band about to snap.
"Coffee," he said softly. Then louder: "COFFEE TASTES LIKE DRUGS!"
His body shrank into an impossible, bouncing chibi form—tiny arms flailing, head enlarged to celestial proportions. His suit became polka-dotted in defiance of every known textile law.
"WEEEEEEEEE-YAAAAAAAAA-HOOOOOOOOO!" he shrieked, spinning in his office chair like a Beyblade possessed by enthusiasm.
Riyura stood perfectly still, eyes wide, brain trying to find an appropriate response among a thousand possible options. He settled on, "Uh... you good, boss teacher?"
"I AM BETTER THAN GOOD!" the chibi-principal cried, now bouncing off the walls like a malfunctioning screensaver. "I AM REJUVENATED! I AM THE FUTURE OF EDUCATION!"
He skidded to a stop in front of Riyura, pointing dramatically. "You! You, young one, are a revelation! I've seen the light, and it's wearing a red bow tie!"
"Neat," Riyura said. "You might be hallucinating."
The principal, undeterred, leapt onto his desk and produced a whiteboard from nowhere. "I SHALL REBRAND! THE WORLD SHALL KNOW MY NAME! JEREMY POLEHEADEDSANDWICH—THE EDUCATIONAL REVOLUTION!"
He scribbled furiously:
POLEHEADEDSANDWICH: A NAME FOR THE AGES!
THE PRINCIPAL WHO DARED TO DREAM!
COFFEE = SOUL JUICE!
Every few seconds he'd stop to chug another gulp of coffee, sending his energy into a new orbit. His tie spun like a helicopter rotor. His laughter echoed like the opening of a circus.
Riyura watched, fascinated. It was like seeing his own personality trapped inside a forty-year-old elderly home on crack.
Then, suddenly, the mania stopped.
The chibi form shimmered and melted away, leaving behind a perfectly normal—if slightly trembling—principal. His shoulders slumped. His coffee cup sat empty, forgotten. The silence that followed was almost reverent.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice heavy with exhaustion. "I lost control again."
"Again?" Riyura echoed.
The principal smiled weakly. "Coffee. It... brings out the part of me I wish I could be. Loud. Fearless. Unforgettable. The rest of the time, I'm just... paperwork in a suit."
He stared down at his immaculate desk, the order of it suddenly oppressive. "I've spent my life being the serious principle, the respectable one. But sometimes I look in the mirror and think—if I vanished tomorrow, would anyone remember my name? Or would they just remember my rules?"
The words hung between them.
For once, Riyura didn't joke. He just listened, bow tie fluttering slightly as the air vent hummed.
Then he smiled—softly, sincerely, like sunlight breaking through a cloud.
"Hey," he said, "if you want people to remember you, don't make your name big. Make their smiles bigger."
The principal looked up, eyes glistening behind his glasses. "And how do you do that, Shiko?"
Riyura shrugged. "Be chaos with a purpose. Make them laugh, make them curious, make them feel. Even if they forget your name, they'll remember the way you made the world tilt for a second."
The principal chuckled, a small, brittle sound that turned warm halfway through. "You're a strange kid."
"And you're a strange adult," Riyura replied. "So we're basically family."
There was a pause—a gentle one. Two odd souls caught in the same absurd storm.
Then the principal lifted his mug. It was empty. His hand shook slightly as he raised it toward Riyura in mock salute. "To chaos with a purpose."
"To purpose with chaos," Riyura echoed, tapping his invisible cup against it.
The moment was... genuine. Unironically touching. Which meant, in Riyura's world, it couldn't possibly last.
The principal's eyes flicked toward the coffee pot. His fingers twitched. "Maybe... just one more sip."
"Sir, I don't think—"
Too late. He drank. The office detonated in a flurry of motion.
The chibi form exploded back into existence, twice as bright and infinitely less stable. Papers flew. Desks danced. The window blinds flapped like applause.
"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-YAAAAAAAAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
"OH NO HE'S VIBRATING IN FOUR DIMENSIONS!" Riyura yelled.
The principal ricocheted across the office, shouting inspirational slogans as he went. "EDUCATION IS PASSION! GRADES ARE A STATE OF MIND! BELIEVE IN YOUR INNER EXCLAMATION MARK!"
The door burst open—teachers and students peering in just in time to witness their principal, reduced to cartoon size, spinning like a caffeinated satellite. Riyura stood calmly in the eye of the storm, bow tie fluttering like a flag of chaos.
He turned to the stunned onlookers.
"It's fine," he said solemnly. "He's just... expressing administrative enthusiasm."
"Should we call for help?" someone whispered.
"Nah," Riyura said, smiling faintly. "He's helping himself. For once."
And then the principal, in his chibi glory, began singing the school anthem—but remixed as a techno track. His tiny voice echoed through the halls, shaking both walls and expectations.
Outside, clouds seemed to part.
A rainbow arced dramatically over the school grounds for no meteorological reason.
Somewhere, a lone bird squawked in awe.
Riyura, standing amid the paperwork tornado, felt his grin widen. The world was absurd, unpredictable, and utterly alive—and that, to him, meant everything.
The chaos finally burned itself out. The coffee wore off. The principal returned to normal size, now slumped over his desk like a deflated parade balloon.
"I regret everything," he muttered into the wood grain.
Riyura patted his shoulder. "Regret's just memory with extra caffeine."
The principal groaned. "Go to class, Shiko."
"Gladly, boss teacher."
As Riyura left the office, the rumor network outside already buzzed with new energy: The principal went Super Saiyan on espresso!
He and the new kid are starting a motivational talk show!
The school is vibrating for no reason with strange awes!
By lunchtime, the entire school would know.
By tomorrow, they'd start calling him the Principal's Protégé.
And somewhere in that ridiculous, caffeine-stained mess of a morning, both of them had found something they didn't know they'd been missing—connection through chaos. A reminder that life was never meant to be perfectly balanced; it was meant to be lived at full, reckless volume.
The episode would end the only way possible:
Freeze-frame on Riyura giving a thumbs-up as the principal spins joyfully behind him in a giant flying coffee cup.
The ending theme kicks in—a pastel montage of dancing mugs, star-shaped eyes, and the school rooftop glowing in the sunset.
The lyrics (sung in unnecessary English): "Be strange, be loud, be freeeee—Jeremy High forever, YEAH!"
Because in Riyura's world, sincerity and insanity weren't opposites. They were dance partners.
And somewhere between the laughter and the caffeine, a hurricane and a principal had just begun a friendship that might—just might—make the world a little less afraid of being weird.