After lunch, Shimizu Akira made a second trip to the supermarket.
He'd noticed it on the bus that morning—none of the students carried bulky luggage, just light shoulder bags. The school had advised that daily necessities could be purchased on-site, leaving students to handle the rest.
Thus began his afternoon shopping spree.
From slippers, toothpaste, and bedding to kettles, power strips, and toilet paper—he scoured every aisle.
To his surprise, the supermarket also stocked high-end electronics: the latest handheld consoles, high-spec laptops, all displayed in a dedicated section.
But the prices were staggering—the cheapest item started at 50,000 points.
He thumbed his phone but ultimately resisted scanning a purchase.
Despite his healthy point balance, splurging on day one risked leaving him strapped by month's end.
Worse, his Class D status loomed like a sword overhead—who knew if they'd even receive points next month?
With bad luck, he might spend all three years pinching points.
Even sticking to budget picks, the total stung: 5,000 points at checkout, plus 1,000 for lunch, slashing his balance from 235,000 to 229,000.
Next morning. 5:30 AM.
Shimizu Akira woke precisely on schedule.
He rolled out of bed without hesitation, changed into workout gear, and began his daily routine:
15 minutes of systematic stretching—each motion exact, joints cracking softly.
100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats—as natural as breathing by now.
Sweat dripped from his jaw by the third set.
At 6:30 AM, he hit the school track.
Eight laps at steady pace, breath even.
Ninth lap: acceleration.
Final lap: all-out sprint.
10K time: 39:34.
The moment he took his seat, the familiar chime rang in his mind.
[Ding~ Today's intel updated.]
[Intel #1] *Yamamura (2nd-Year Class D) desperately needs points. Will trade S-System rules for 30,000P (lowest acceptable: 10,000P).*
[Intel #2] *Ichihashi Fuuka (1st-Year Class B) has 100+ contacts in her phone after just one day—including seniors.*
[Intel #3] *Karuizawa Kei (1st-Year Class D) is seeking a "fake boyfriend" for protection.*
Shimizu's gaze flicked to the classroom clock—exactly 8:00 AM.
This intel system was punctual to a fault.
The first report intrigued him most.
A second-year Class D student trading system rules for points?
The offer itself was telling.
Though he'd pieced together the class ranking system and unequal point distribution, the S-System's evaluation criteria remained opaque.
It was like playing chess blindfolded to the opponent's strategy.
(Evaluation metrics… For students, the clearest benchmark should be academic performance.)
(If I'm right, Horikita-san's grades must be excellent.)
His eyes drifted to Horikita Suzune beside him.
The girl was, as usual, absorbed in Crime and Punishment, her raven hair cascading over the pages.
"Stop staring... Raskolnikov."
The sharp snap of the book closing snapped him back.
Horikita's cool gaze pinned him in place.
Raskolnikov?
Shimizu's pupils dilated slightly—this literary ambush caught him off guard. The protagonist of Crime and Punishment, tormented by moral dilemmas?
Memories of cramming classics to impress literature majors resurfaced. Those sleepless nights with Dostoevsky now paid off in the unlikeliest setting.
"I haven't committed murder yet." He parried smoothly.
Horikita's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
That micro-expression confirmed it—he'd matched her literary gambit.
"...Soon. The victim will likely be Yamauchi Haruki." Her tone was icy.
Ah. She was referencing his confrontation with Yamauchi during the entrance ceremony.
Calling a classmate "the victim"? Her verbal lethality was unmatched.
"He said you're flat-chested." Shimizu added casually, as if recalling trivia.
Horikita's body locked up instantly.
Her pale cheeks flushed crimson, her usually composed eyes blazing with fury.
She stood abruptly, strode to Yamauchi's desk, and loomed over him like an avenging spirit, her voice freezing the air:
"Yamauchi. Control your tongue. Or—"
She leaned in, enunciating each word:
"Next time, I'll ensure your left hand can't hold chopsticks for three months."
Yamauchi froze mid-breath, lips parting to protest—but the glacial glare silenced him.
He shrunk into his seat, a beaten dog in the rain.
Nearby, Shimizu blinked, his expression turning mildly intrigued.
Wait. Wasn't that his exact threat from the ceremony yesterday?
They were oddly in sync—when faced with idiots, both preferred fists over words.
"Horikita-san, if Yamauchi ever turns up dead, you'll be suspect number one."
"Wrong. Given your 'performance' yesterday, Shimizu-kun, the police would suspect you first."