After the year-end special exam wrapped, the final event of the school year was the closing ceremony—or, to be more precise, the graduation ceremony.
On March 16, the day after the exam, the large auditorium at ANHS High—where the entrance ceremony had been held last April—was set to bid farewell to the third-years.
Students from every class arrived on time. Unlike the chatter of the entrance ceremony, everyone now understood what kind of place ANHS was. They arrived punctually and sat quietly in their seats.
Even the first- and second-years could somehow sense the faint sorrow flowing through the air—the feeling of about to part with their seniors.
Many students belonged to clubs where upperclassmen routinely taught the younger ones. With the third-years graduating, should you be happy for them? Or, in this isolated campus, should you feel sad that there would be that many fewer familiar faces around?
Even someone like Yukio, who didn't join any clubs, could feel a touch of that mood—his one acquaintance among the third-years, Horikita Manabu, was graduating as well.
And even for underclassmen uninvolved in clubs, the graduating seniors were a mirror of their own future.
Graduates would leave campus to either continue their studies or step straight into society—either way, taking the most important step toward what comes next.
Thinking about the weight of that, the underclassmen couldn't help growing solemn too—because they were lost about their own futures.
When their time to graduate came, how should they choose their path? Continue school? Start working? Enroll in a technical program? Or would they be faced with so many roads that they had no idea which to take?
More and more of them fell into the same thought: where should I go from here? Once you graduate, you're no longer a kid—you're an adult, stepping out of childhood and into the thing called society.
In such a solemn air, if anyone in Yukio's class could ignore the mood, it would be Ishizaki. "Huh? Why's everyone so serious? Do you guys have any third-years who flunked and have to repeat?"
"Pfft." Kaneda, who had just been contemplating his own future, nearly slipped off his chair. He grabbed the armrest, steadied himself, and hissed, "Quiet. And this school doesn't have a repeat-a-year system."
"Then why are you all sitting here like it's a funeral?" Ishizaki blinked, genuinely puzzled.
Ryuen shot him a glance and sighed. If he didn't explain, the blockhead would keep asking forever. "Seeing the graduates makes everyone wonder what we'll do when it's our turn."
"What's the point of thinking about that?" One line from Ishizaki successfully choked both Kaneda and Ryuen; they stared at him like he was a freak. Was his heart just that big—or had he unlocked a new realm of denseness?
Maybe noticing their astonishment, Ishizaki flashed a confident grin, trying to flaunt his smarts. "Tsk tsk. This is why you're not clever."
"Right, Yukio-aniki? Whatever you want me to do after you graduate, that's what I'll do."
Yukio hadn't expected Ishizaki to throw the question at him—and even plan to follow him post-graduation? He'd rather pass on that—way too tiring. "Let's not rush it. We can talk after graduation."
"Anyway, there's no need to overthink things. Trust that everything you've learned here will become the food that keeps you going when you step into society."
"Food, huh?" Ryuen mulled it over. Kaneda looked thoughtful as well. Only Ishizaki blinked, not getting it.
He didn't get a chance to ask again, either—the emcee had taken the stage. Yukio swept a casual glance over—and wait, wasn't that Kiriyama? So he was today's host, huh.
Apparently the student council had mentioned it ten-odd days ago; he'd forgotten.
"The closing ceremony will now begin." Kiriyama, crisp in a black suit, spoke into the mic with measured cadence. "First, please welcome the representative of the graduating class—Horikita Manabu of Class 3-A—to give his address."
No one was surprised. Students across all three years seemed to agree that Horikita Manabu would lead Class A to graduate without any shake-ups in ranking.
That thought set many hearts ablaze. Graduating from Class A meant receiving ANHS's social-resource support—whether for university or a career, you could get what you wanted.
When they first entered this school, some had wanted to become stars, some to study abroad, some to join a pro baseball team. Graduate from A Class, and all those wishes could come true. Just imagining it made you want Class A even more.
Most of the ones thinking that way were second-years. They were itching to challenge Kiriyama's class and reclaim the 2-A ranking. The first-years, though, glanced subconsciously at Yukio's class—their fiery hearts instantly cooled.
There was a precedent—Sakayanagi's class had challenged Yukio's class and ended up in Class C. That happened yesterday. Asking people to rally today and challenge Yukio's class again was a tall order.
While everyone's minds wandered, Horikita Manabu had already stepped on stage. He accepted the mic from Kiriyama and first offered a polite thanks for the education they'd received at ANHS.
Then the representative's speech began. "I believe everyone knows how ANHS differs from other schools. A year has passed. Whether you noticed it or not, you've grown accordingly.
"How much you grow depends on you. If you're earnest and invested, the school's program accelerates your growth. If you fear and shrink back, your growth slows.
"I promise you—and I hope you'll believe this—that what you learn at ANHS will certainly play a role in your lives to come. It will become a very important treasure for you when you step into society.
"Next year and the year after, I hope the graduating representatives will continue to pass this on to each new generation. Thank you."
Thunderous applause rose from the audience.
The smart ones could tell his words were sincere. ANHS might look harsh, but if you passed the trials, what you gained over these three years would truly help you.
The benefits of this school aren't limited to fulfilling your university or job wishes as a Class A graduate. The biggest—and hardest to see—benefit lies in the trials you face for three years and what you gain from overcoming them.
The not-so-smart ones would naturally ask questions. Still, after an entire year here, at least one truth should have sunk in: if you don't understand, ask. It isn't shameful. Pretending to understand and asking nothing—that's what's truly foolish.
Ask your neighbors. Listen to the explanations. One way or another, you'll get it. (Yes, this is directed at Ishizaki.)
....
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