The students went up to the front of the class one by one, advancing nervously or confidently. In front of the chalkboard, they had to present their answer to a seemingly simple yet overwhelming question for some: “What do you want to be in the future?”

A boy had just finished talking about his dream of becoming a firefighter, inspired by his father, earning timid applause from the group. Now it was Felix’s turn—a boy with brown hair who already felt his stomach tighten at the thought of presenting.

Carrying a mountain of poster boards and disorganized papers, he stumbled awkwardly to the front, slightly bumping into the teacher's desk. He could barely see over the pile, and a few classmates stifled giggles as they watched him struggle to set everything up. Felix, with his usual enthusiasm, ignored the looks and focused on pinning the posters to the board and setting up a small tripod he had brought. It took him several minutes to get organized, creating an uncomfortable silence in the room that was only interrupted by the growing murmurs of his peers.

Finally, he took a deep breath and began:

“Well, there are so many things I could be!” he said with an animated tone, trying to spread his enthusiasm. He pointed to one of the posters that read “Astronaut” in big, colorful letters. “I could travel to space and discover new planets, or maybe…” he turned to another poster, this one showing drawings of a stage, “a famous Broadway actor! I’ve always wanted to be in the spotlight.”

His presentation continued in the same vein, jumping from one idea to another: writer, inventor, pilot, even teacher. With each possibility, his excitement grew, but he never reached a conclusion. He rambled, linking one option to the next, as if he was afraid to choose just one.

The teacher, who had been watching with arms crossed, finally interrupted him with an audible sigh.

“Felix, enough,” he said firmly, his tone a mix of impatience and exhaustion. “This assignment was simple. All you had to do was come up here and say what you want to be. Just one thing, understand? You didn’t need all this spectacle.”

Felix froze, the smile vanishing from his face. He looked at the teacher, then at his carefully prepared posters. His enthusiasm slowly crumbled as the weight of the question bore down on him.

“What’s important here,” the teacher continued, now with a sterner tone, “is that you understand this is a key decision. What you choose defines your future. So, tell me, what do you want to be?”

The classroom fell silent, the earlier giggles replaced by expectant curiosity. Felix opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He looked at his posters, his drawings, and suddenly they all felt empty. He lowered his gaze to the floor, a blush creeping up his cheeks as he murmured:

“I… I don’t know.”

The laughter exploded among the children. It was impossible to ignore. Felix felt his chest tighten as he tried to stay upright. The teacher, clearly annoyed, clicked his tongue.

“Not knowing isn’t an option, Felix. If you can’t answer such a simple question, you’ll never amount to anything. For now, I’ll give you a barely passing grade. Pick up this mess and let the next student go.”

Felix nodded silently, his eyes fixed on the ground. He hurried to dismantle his presentation, tearing the posters off the board and piling them up haphazardly. His hands trembled as he tried not to meet anyone’s gaze. Once finished, he paused for a moment in front of the board, staring at one of the papers that said “Astronaut.” Without much thought, he tore it off, crumpled it, and stuffed it into his pocket before returning to his seat.

The rest of the class continued as if nothing had happened, but Felix heard none of the subsequent presentations. His thoughts revolved around a single question that seemed to have no answer:

“What do I want to be?”

That day, as he walked home, Felix pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment before letting it fall to the ground. Although he didn’t know it then, that indecision, that lack of direction, would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Good morning, Rockville!” exclaimed an earth pony—a young light-brown mare with a yellow mane—dressed in an impeccable purple suit as she took her place behind a wooden podium.

The main square, situated in front of the austere town hall, was filled with families scattered in small groups. On the stone pavement, the rays of the sun illuminated expectant faces—some curious, others visibly bored—of the ponies who had answered the summons.

A couple of days earlier, each household had received a letter sealed with the emblem of the local school, the mayor’s signature, and, most astonishingly, the royal seal itself. The missive, though brief, mandated the participation of all the town’s youth in a special event without offering many details about its nature.

The speaker's call to attention prompted the young ponies to line up in orderly rows in front of the podium, some with resigned expressions, others—the younger ones—with an excited sparkle in their eyes.

Among them, however, stood out one particularly irritated colt: a local entrepreneur who seized any opportunity to sell lemonade. With a dramatic groan, he flipped his “Open” sign to “Closed” and, after casting a wistful glance at his little stall, joined his sisters in the central formation, visibly annoyed.

“Well, welcome, everyone,” the mare continued with a rehearsed smile. “I’m Harshwhinny, and we’re here to conduct something very special.”

She paused briefly, taking a deep breath before proceeding. “We’ll ask the young ponies to enter the town hall in an orderly and calm manner. Please, take a seat in the order you enter—”

Suddenly, a pony wearing an assistant’s vest climbed onto the podium and leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Harshwhinny frowned, clearly displeased, but nodded before turning back to the crowd.

“It seems we’re experiencing a slight delay,” she said, trying to maintain a cheerful tone. “So I ask for your patience, little ones, while we finish the preparations.”

Attempting to lighten the mood, Harshwhinny added with forced enthusiasm: “Well, you know how things are here in Rockville. Always at the steady rhythm of the rocks—solid and reliable! Heh-heh…”

But the joke fell flat. The families in the audience stared at her with the same impenetrable neutrality one would expect from a town steeped in rocks: serious expressions and blank eyes.

Harshwhinny’s smile faltered, replaced by a nervous chuckle. “Well… heh-heh… that’s all for now! I’ll be right back!” she excused herself awkwardly before retreating backstage, leaving the podium empty.

The audience, for their part, remained in an uncomfortable silence, exchanging quick glances as they waited for whatever was to come.

Just when I had a line of customers at my lemonade stand, couldn’t they wait a few more minutes? What kind of sudden event interrupts everyone like this? Nothing exciting ever happens in Rockville—ever—and now this. And why only the foals? I glanced around, intrigued.

Pinkie, standing just to my right, leaned closer and whispered:

“Hey, brother, do you have any idea what’s going on?”

I took a moment to think before replying. “For the first time, I have no clue. But this is... weird. Very curious.”

I scanned the area again. There were so many young ponies lined up, all in neat rows. Behind us were our families, but something felt off. There were too many ponies. This wasn’t normal. We were double, maybe triple the usual number.

For the past few days, it’s felt like there’s been a flood of new ponies arriving in town. My class has so many new students now that we’ve had to hold lessons outside because the classroom couldn’t fit everyone. And apparently, this wasn’t just happening in my class.

“Have you noticed how many of us there are?” I asked aloud, tilting my head so Pinkie and Maud, standing on either side of me, could get a better look.

Pinkie leaned out of the line, as did Maud, both of them taking in the crowd.

“There are a lot of us,” Maud said in her usual monotone, though there was a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“Exactly. Way more than a month ago. But that’s not all. Look closely,” I added, gesturing subtly toward the crowd with a nod.

Pinkie squinted, trying to grasp what I was pointing out, but eventually sighed and asked, “I don’t get it. Look at what?”

“Didn’t you notice their outfits? Vests, hats… they’re all wearing something. Both the kids and their parents.”

“I guess it’s the current fashion,” Pinkamena replied nonchalantly. “We’re not usually up to date with that here.”

“Yeah, but doesn’t it seem strange?” I insisted, pointing to a pony in front of us. “Look, that one literally has a bucket on his head.” Then I gestured to another. “And that one… is wearing a princess costume? Seriously?”

Both of them turned to look at the ponies I had mentioned. Pinkie jumped in surprise as she realized, while Maud, though her expression remained unchanged, seemed to seriously analyze what she was seeing.

“They’re... rather unorthodox,” Maud commented, as though evaluating an unusual rock. “Out of place, yes.”

Before we could continue dissecting the eccentric outfits of the crowd, my eyes caught sight of a figure standing out among them. Flashing Blow—the same colt from the restaurant bathroom—was moving through the line with palpable energy. This time, he wasn’t talking to his reflection, but he still seemed to find ways to ensure everyone around him knew he was there.

I managed to glimpse his cutie mark: a spark within a flame.

His posture was flawless—chest puffed out, head held high, with a smile that radiated excessive confidence, almost unbearable. He animatedly talked to the other colts around him, gesturing extravagantly and making sure every word he spoke was loud enough to capture the attention of anyone nearby.

In one of his dramatic movements, I caught sight of his green eyes peeking out from beneath his messy mane. But what struck me most wasn’t his exaggerated enthusiasm—it was how his gaze seemed to look down on everyone else, as if from a higher perch.

As I watched his little performance, Harshwhinny returned to the podium with a nervous chuckle.

“Apologies for the delay,” she announced, visibly uncomfortable. “We underestimated the number of foals in the village, but everything is ready now. Please enter in an orderly fashion, take a seat according to the order in which you enter, and wait for further instructions.”

Once inside, we found ourselves in the central hall of the town hall, cleared of all furnishings except for an endless number of small wooden chairs perfectly aligned.

They directed us to our seats, and after a few minutes, we were handed pencils, erasers, and a stack of papers that looked more like a brick than an exam. When that monster was finally placed in front of me, I couldn’t help but blurt out:

“Ahhh, so that’s what this is about!”

So that’s what all the mystery was: standardized tests. Of course. Tests to evaluate our knowledge, calculate the village’s average performance, and compile educational statistics. It explained why we’d been bombarded with assignments and extra classes recently. It all made sense.

At the sound of the bell, we turned the first page, and the test began.

First Section: History.

Oh, please. Easy. If there’s one thing I love about this world, it’s its history. I didn’t just take the time to learn it—I dove into it with enthusiasm. Between the legends and ancient eras, it felt like reading an epic saga. I breezed through the questions almost without blinking.

Second Section: Language and Writing.

This one was trickier at first, not because of the language itself but because of how ponies write here. Using hooves or mouths to handle a pencil had been a nightmare in the early days, but once I overcame that hurdle, this was a piece of cake.

Third Section: Mathematics.

Here’s where I relaxed, thinking, “Come on, how hard can this be?” I turned the page with confidence, expecting to see basic addition, subtraction, and division. At first, it seemed that way. Simple equations, solving for “x”… trivial. Wait...

Algebra. Geometry. Trigonometry. Calculus. Quadratic equations?!

“What in the world is this?” I thought as my right eye twitched. Why were there letters in this section? Wasn’t this supposed to be for foals?

I glanced at the test again. These questions weren’t just advanced—they were straight out of high school, maybe even college-level material. Who on earth expected an average foal to solve this?

With that thought, I looked around. The scene was a silent chaos: foals with tears in their eyes, others biting their pencils in despair, some completely frozen. It was an emotional disaster zone.

Something was off. I flipped through the test from the beginning. Every section was packed with questions far more complex than what was normal for our age. Even the history section included topics like the Pre-Equestrian Era, the Age of Legends, and political relations with the griffons—subjects I only knew because I’d buried myself in books out of sheer curiosity.

“This is ridiculous,” I thought. I hadn’t even realized how absurd it was because I’d been solving it on autopilot, thanks to the absurd dedication I’d poured into studying in this second life. But now that I looked at it objectively, it was completely insane.

And something else caught my attention: we were all mixed together. Foals of different ages and levels, all in the same room, taking the same test. What kind of educational system was this?

I came to an obvious conclusion: the educational structure of this world was a mess. Whoever was in charge clearly had no idea what they were doing.

I sighed, shaking my head. Well, at least that mystery was solved. I went back to where I’d left off—in the math section—and continued answering.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, but I kept writing. At least it was mildly entertaining.

I spent a good hour solving all the math problems. At least they had the decency to make the advanced problems slightly easier. A small mercy in this sea of numbers.

With a sigh, I turned the page, hoping the next section wouldn’t force me to do more calculations. Equations are a bit tricky when you don’t have fingers to count on.

But then, my eyes landed on the title of the next section, and my mind froze.

"Magic."

Magic? Why on earth would magic be on a test designed for foals in a rock-farming village?

This has to be a standardized test for all of Equestria; otherwise, honestly, I don’t get it. Everything I know about magic boils down to... well, it’s magical. That’s it. How are we supposed to answer something like this when here in Rockville, magic is about as common as rainbows in a mine?

I took a deep breath. Calm down, Echo. Maybe it’s not that complicated. Maybe they’re general questions.

First question: “What can unicorns and pegasi do?”

Oh, sure, that’s easy. I wrote down the answer without hesitation. Unicorns: cast spells. Pegasi: fly and control the weather. Thanks for handing me that one, exam.

Second question: “In rune magic, what is the correct symbol to channel a wind spell?”

...Crap.

The questions quickly shifted from ridiculously obvious to terrifyingly specific. A few were simple logical guesses, but others seemed to be pulled straight out of an advanced Starswirl the Bearded manual.

At least these were multiple choice. If they’d asked for open-ended answers, I’d be officially doomed.

This situation dredged up an unpleasant memory from my past life: the dreaded university entrance exam. I’d prepared for weeks, covering every topic in the guide, only to discover an entire section on a foreign language that wasn’t even mentioned in the syllabus. How was I supposed to answer something like that? It was a disaster.

But this time, I wasn’t going to let something like this defeat me. Nope, not happening... This is not how it ends.

With a dramatic sigh, I dropped my head onto the desk, covering it with my hooves as if all was lost. For a brief moment, I let myself fake defeat, but then a sly grin began forming on my lips. Slowly, I sat up, and in my mind, a maniacal laugh echoed—one that, if released, would have alarmed everyone around me.

Please.

Did they think this would stop me? Of course not.

These are multiple-choice questions, which means I have, at minimum, a 25% chance of getting it right even if I guess randomly. But, of course, I don’t leave things to chance. I have my tricks.

First, elimination. There’s always one option that seems like it was written by a lunatic or someone who didn’t understand the concept. Out. Now I have a 33% chance.

Second, look for clues in the exam. Often, the answers are hinted at in later questions. You just have to read carefully, and voilà, one less guess to make.

Third, longer answers. If one of the options is significantly more elaborate than the others, it’s probably the correct one. Why? Because teachers often think that making the answer longer makes it less suspicious.

And finally, my ace in the hole: the “C” option. Statistically, teachers tend to hide the correct answers in the middle. It’s not foolproof, but it works often enough to be my favorite in desperate situations.

Armed with these strategies, my confidence soared. Nothing like a good set of tricks to turn a disadvantageous situation into a manageable one.

I set my pencil to the paper, looked at the questions, and began applying each trick one by one.

Ha! Now I just have to depend on luck.

It had been two hours since the test started, and I had finished everything. Even the most "difficult" parts—magic and math. Magic, well, pure luck. But math? That’s a different story. I guess living two lives and studying like a maniac has its advantages.

I vividly recall the days I locked myself in the library, devouring every book Rockville had to offer. When I discovered that the math in this world was identical to that of my past life, I felt a mix of relief and disappointment. I had hoped for something... different. A ridiculous twist, like numbers behaving in a non-Euclidean way, or universal laws being as strange as the fact that someone like Celestia moves the sun and moon.

I still don’t know how to fit that into a coherent scientific framework.

I shook my head, pushing away that uncomfortable spiral of thoughts. I didn’t need to get lost in that right now.

“Well, only one page left,” I murmured to myself as I flipped to the final sheet.

And there it was.

A single, simple question:

“What do you want to be?”

...

...

Crap.

I froze, the pencil suspended above the page.

...

Crap, crap, crap.

Why, of all possible questions, did it have to be this one? Couldn’t they have asked something less... existential? Something simple like “Draw a pony” or “Describe your favorite food.” But no. They wanted to know something I haven’t been able to answer—not in one life, and certainly not in two.

My eyes locked onto those words as if they were a trap.

What do you want to be in the future?

In my first life, I tried. I made a decision tree, sought inspiration, followed advice. But every path I explored always led to the same place: more questions. And now, here I was again, facing the same dilemma, but with the advantage (or curse) of having another chance to figure it out.

I rested my chin on a hoof, staring at the page.

"I could write anything," I thought. "Builder. Mathematician. Historian. Even something absurd like 'Parallel Worlds Explorer.' Who would stop me?" But none of those answers felt genuine.

What do I want to be in the future? Well, what does it even mean to "be" something? Is it a profession? A purpose? An ideal?

In my past life, I tried to be many things: a good student, a friend, a good brother. Yet I never managed to meet the expectations others had for me—not even my own. What makes me think it could be different now?

My mind started wandering through options.

“Maybe I could be a teacher.”

Sure, teaching doesn’t sound too bad. But what would I teach? Math? Most foals seem to hate it. Besides, I’m not sure I’d have the patience to deal with that.

“Astronomer.”

It’d be amazing to study the stars, that eternal mantle that fascinates me. But what happens when I come face-to-face with the magic of this world that defies all logic? How would I reconcile what I know with what I see?

“Hero.”

I had to stifle a laugh. I’m not hero material, that’s for sure. Besides, this world already has enough legends; it doesn’t need another one.

“Astronaut.”

...

I sighed and let the pencil drop onto the desk.

Nothing I considered led anywhere. Every option seemed like a dead end.

In the end, my mind always came back to the same place: I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to be. I don’t know what I want to do. What if I never know?

My thoughts began swirling into a growing chaos. Suddenly, everything felt bigger, heavier. The future—that tiny word—now seemed like an impossible mountain to climb.

I forced myself to take a deep breath and shook my head. “If you feel crazy, just breathe a little,” I told myself.

If you feel crazy, just breathe a little...

And with that last thought, I knew what to write.

I looked back at the page.

I picked up the pencil and, with a slow stroke, I began to write.

With my exam complete, I took it and walked toward the large desk at the front of the rows of seats.

Moving slowly, I glanced at the others. I was the first to finish. I saw their desperation as they struggled with the impossible questions.

Even Flashing caught my eye. He looked anxious, glancing around nervously before pulling a small sheet of paper out of his mane. Cheating. But honestly, I doubted it would help him, and at this point, I didn’t care.

I kept walking until I reached the front, where Harshwhinny greeted me with surprise that she quickly replaced with a forced, nervous smile.

I looked at my exam one last time. Maybe it wasn’t the answer they wanted, but it was the only one I had.

And without another word, I handed it over.

Author's Note

The first glimpse of Echo's past life as Felix is revealed, showing a pivotal moment that would define his future. The question, “What do you want to be?” has haunted him ever since, tormenting him with doubts and reflections about his purpose.

In the present, Rockville is experiencing an unusual influx of new ponies. Echo, unsettled, observes how many of them behave strangely, wearing odd clothing and even buckets on their heads. This sudden change keeps him on edge.

Echo participates in a written test that he initially answers without much thought. However, he soon realizes the exam is extraordinarily difficult, far beyond what would typically be expected for foals his age. Upon reaching the final question, he once again faces the same query that defined his past life: “What do you want to be?”

Fun Facts:

• Harshwhinny is introduced in her younger years, showing a surprisingly optimistic and almost playful attitude. Despite her good intentions, her humorous remarks are not well-received in a stern and practical place like Rockville.
• Although Echo's response to the final question remains unrevealed, it will be explored through his backstory in upcoming chapters. Being revealed until the end of the story arc.

Thanks for reading!