Just as Kiyomizu was about to tap his key card against the sensor for room 402, the door to the adjacent room, 401, slid open silently. A boy with short brown hair walked out expressionlessly. The two of them made eye contact in the narrow hallway.
Kiyomizu immediately recognized him as his classmate, Kiyotaka Ayanokoji. He was the boy who had been exceptionally awkward during his self-introduction, the one Ike had described as "worryingly introverted."
Ayanokoji's gaze was as still as stagnant water, showing neither surprise at seeing a classmate nor any intention of greeting him. Kiyomizu's hand, holding the key card, paused slightly. The aura this boy exuded was less introverted and more like a profound reserve. It was like a dangerous undercurrent moving beneath a calm sea—tranquil on the surface, yet instinctively unsettling.
Introversion and being reserved might sound similar, but they were completely different. An introvert is hesitant to express themselves, while a reserved person chooses not to. The classmate before him was clearly the latter.
(This Ayanokoji... he doesn't seem so simple either. Could it be that all my classmates in Class D are talented in their own way?)
While he was lost in thought, Ayanokoji had already walked towards the elevator with steps as precise as a machine. Kiyomizu eventually looked away. They were classmates, after all, with only Suzune Horikita sitting between them. There would be opportunities to talk in the future.
Kiyomizu turned and gently closed his door. With a soft "click," he officially stepped into what would be his private space. Looking around, bright sunlight streamed through the windows, the independent bathroom was clean and tidy, and an air conditioner was mounted quietly on the wall. The living conditions were much better than he had expected.
Kiyomizu's attention was drawn to the landline phone on the small bedside table. Curious, he opened the dormitory regulation handbook provided at the front desk. His eyes quickly scanned past the garbage sorting schedule and daily rules, finally stopping on a special note: "The landline in each room can be used to contact the front desk directly. In an emergency, you may contact classmates."
This discovery made his eyes widen slightly. An emergency? Did that mean a situation where you couldn't make a call because you had no points left to top up your phone? If every room had the same phone and the front desk had every student's information registered... it meant that with a valid reason, he could be connected to any student in his grade through the front desk.
However, given his current social circle, this service was of no use to him—he could count the number of classmates he knew on one hand.
(I have a feeling this will come in handy someday...)
He quietly committed this discovery to memory. The April weather already carried the heat of early summer, and Kiyomizu felt a thin layer of sweat on his back. Although the room was stuffy, he decided to take a cold shower, adhering to his One-Punch Man training principle of not using the air conditioner.
A dozen minutes later, after a quick rinse, Kiyomizu stood in the steamy bathroom and wiped the condensation off the mirror. In the氤氲vapor, his young body was faintly visible—a well-defined six-pack, but not overly exaggerated, typical of an East Asian physique. Unlike the bulky, intimidating muscles of Western bodybuilders, his body was more like a streamlined cheetah, every muscle exuding a refined beauty.
As the steam in the bathroom gradually dissipated, he dried himself off. He had already completed his morning workout, and having just showered, he didn't plan to train again today. Kiyomizu slipped on a loose T-shirt and tossed his school uniform into the laundry basket. He grabbed a broom and gave the floor a quick sweep. The sunlight outside had become harsh. His phone showed 11:30, and his stomach growled in protest right on cue.
"Time for lunch."
Kiyomizu deftly pulled on his uniform pants, tied his shoes, and grabbed his key card on the way out. An early summer breeze, carrying the chirping of cicadas, drifted in from the window at the end of the hall. For lunch today, he decided to check out the cafeteria. After all, it was the first day of school and he had plenty of points. There was no need to agonize over choosing between rice balls and bread in front of the convenience store's refrigerated section.
As someone from China, Kiyomizu could never get used to the Japanese diet of bread for breakfast and rice balls for lunch. He wanted hot food whenever possible—a steaming bowl of noodles or freshly made fried rice. Only a familiar hot meal could give him the true satisfaction of "eating."
Pushing open the heavy glass doors of the cafeteria, Kiyomizu was momentarily taken aback by the bustling noise that hit him. The spacious area, nearly two stories high, was much larger than he had imagined. Neatly arranged light-colored tables stretched out like a chessboard, and he roughly estimated it could accommodate at least four to five hundred people. He recalled the data from the school handbook: four classes per grade, forty students per class, for a total of 480 students across three grades.
The line for food was still long. Kiyomizu noticed a window in the corner offering a free meal set. This time, there was no sign limiting it to "three per person"—after all, the school couldn't let students with no points actually starve. In stark contrast to the crowded paid food counters, only a few upperclassmen were scattered in front of the free meal window.
Kiyomizu mused to himself: Those who have to resort to the free meal plan right at the start of the school year are most likely seniors from Class D.
Just then, a conspicuous red-haired boy caught his eye. The boy had long, wild hair and had walked up to the free meal window. He stood in front of two male upperclassmen, pointing up at the high-end restaurant on the upper floor and saying something.
(I remember him. He's from Class C.)
He had been standing at the very front of the Class C line during the opening ceremony, so Kiyomizu recognized him instantly. He scanned the area again and spotted another acquaintance, this time from Class B. Like the red-haired boy, she had also been standing at the front of her class line. The pink-haired beauty was chatting with a few female upperclassmen. Even though she was wearing the same uniform as everyone else, she somehow exuded a subtle sensuality—perhaps it was the delicate collarbones revealed by her slightly unbuttoned shirt, or the glimpse of her legs beneath her skirt.
Kiyomizu narrowed his eyes, silently observing the scene.
(So students from Class C and B are also starting to gather intelligence from the upperclassmen?)
(It seems the other classes are not short on forward-thinking people either...)
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