The first light of dawn crept into the academy dormitories, illuminating the neat rows of identical rooms. For most students, the alarm clock was their wake-up call. For Arata Kurosawa, he had already been awake long before the first rays of sun kissed the horizon.
His room, like every other student's, was clean and modern, filled with all the amenities expected of an institution that prided itself as an "elite academy." The bed was perfectly made, the desk bare except for a single pen, notebook, and the neat stack of textbooks. Arata sat at the edge of the bed, uniform already crisp and fitted. He stared at the silent digital clock on the wall, waiting.
Another day begins. Whether it brings anything new is irrelevant.
Three soft knocks broke the silence.
"Arata? You awake?" The voice was unmistakable—bright, friendly, full of life. Haruto Minami.
Arata rose smoothly, adjusted his collar in the mirror, and opened the door. As expected, Haruto stood there with his usual smile, hair slightly messy yet somehow stylish, bag slung over his shoulder.
"Perfect! You're ready." Haruto grinned. "Let's head out together."
Arata's expression remained unreadable. "I don't mind."
The two boys left the dorm room behind, walking side by side through the immaculate hallway. Outside, the campus was already stirring with life. Birds darted across the blue morning sky, and the sound of students chatting filled the fresh air.
Haruto whistled lightly as they walked. Unlike Arata, who carried himself with quiet detachment, Haruto radiated energy that seemed to draw people in. It didn't take long before someone noticed.
"Ah—good morning, Haruto-kun!"
The voice came from ahead. A girl in the Class B uniform approached, her steps light and confident. Her hair, a soft chestnut brown, was tied in a neat half-ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with the kind of openness that made her approachable at first glance. She carried herself with ease, not stiff or anxious, but as though she belonged everywhere she went.
Her name was Sayaka Fujimoto—a first-year student from Class B.
Haruto's face lit up instantly. "Good morning, Sayaka!" His greeting was warm, as if the two had been friends for years.
Sayaka's smile widened. "Up so early as usual? You're always the energetic type."
Arata slowed his pace slightly, observing the exchange. It wasn't just the words—anyone could say good morning. It was the way her voice softened at Haruto's name, the way her eyes seemed to brighten just a little more when meeting his. Subtle cues, yet they spoke louder than words.
She doesn't greet every boy like that. Interesting.
Haruto chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Better early than rushing last minute, right?"
"True," Sayaka replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes lingered for just a second too long before she continued walking.
Arata waited until she passed them before speaking. His voice was calm, devoid of judgment, yet piercing in its directness. "You seem to be popular among girls."
Haruto blinked, then laughed. "You think so? I don't really notice."
Arata kept his gaze forward. "That girl smiled differently at you. Not the type of smile people offer acquaintances."
Haruto tilted his head, amused. "Maybe. But it's not like I do anything special. I just… talk to people. Try to be friends with everyone."
Arata's lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile. Friends with everyone. A contradictory pursuit. True friendship requires time, energy, and risk. To scatter it so carelessly diminishes its value.
Still, he said none of that aloud. "That's your philosophy, then. Not mine."
Haruto studied him curiously, then smirked as though deciding to tease. "You know, Arata… don't you ever feel jealous? I mean, I get along with girls, but you—well, you don't even have a girlfriend, right?"
The words hung in the air, playful but intrusive.
Arata's stride didn't falter. "Correct. And no, I don't feel jealous."
Haruto blinked, waiting for even the slightest crack in his composure. "Seriously? Not even a little?"
Arata finally turned his head, meeting Haruto's gaze with unnerving calm. "What exactly is there to envy? A girlfriend is not a necessity. Nor a measure of worth. If you're implying my life is incomplete without such a thing, you're mistaken."
The delivery was matter-of-fact, sharp enough to cut through Haruto's teasing with surgical precision.
"Whoa, whoa!" Haruto raised both hands, laughing nervously. "I didn't mean it like that. I was just kidding around."
"Jokes or not, the answer is the same," Arata replied flatly, eyes already shifting forward again.
For a few moments, silence stretched between them. Haruto looked at his companion, baffled yet fascinated. There was no embarrassment, no defensiveness—only the unshakable conviction of someone who saw the world through an entirely different lens.
Up ahead, Sayaka glanced back briefly. She caught Haruto's eye and offered another warm smile before turning toward the Class B building. Haruto waved after her cheerfully, then sighed.
"You know, sometimes I wonder if you're even human. Most guys our age would kill for attention like that."
Arata's voice was calm, almost detached. "And most guys our age fail to realize how fleeting that kind of attention is."
Haruto tilted his head, trying to decipher the meaning. But before he could press further, the looming structure of the main school building came into view. Its glass doors gleamed under the morning sun, welcoming the flood of students streaming inside.
As they approached, Haruto stretched his arms as though bracing himself for another day of chatter and chaos. "Well, no matter what you say, you're stuck with me as your friend. I'll keep dragging you into conversations until you finally admit you're normal like the rest of us."
Arata gave no reply. He simply kept walking, his expression as unreadable as ever.
But deep within, a single thought flickered through his mind—one he would never voice aloud.
Normal like the rest of you? That remains to be seen.
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Class 1-D, but the brightness outside could not compete with the noise that erupted the moment the classroom door slid open.
"Haruto-kun! Sit with us today!""Haruto, did you solve the math homework from yesterday? Can you explain number twelve later?""Haruto! Over here!"
As if on cue, the girls rushed toward the doorway. Their cheerful voices overlapped, filling the classroom with an almost suffocating energy. Their eyes sparkled, their tones were light and playful, and every word was directed at one person.
Haruto Minami smiled sheepishly, raising both hands as if to calm them. "Good morning, everyone! Yes, yes, I'll help you later. No pushing, okay? One at a time!"
He was used to this, but it was exhausting all the same.
Walking right behind him was Arata Kurosawa. His expression was blank, his pace steady, and his presence almost ghostlike compared to the bright aura of his roommate. Without so much as a glance at the crowd, he walked past them straight to his desk. He set down his bag, pulled out a notebook, and sat quietly, already scribbling something with mechanical indifference.
Haruto, meanwhile, was completely surrounded. "Wait, wait, don't all talk at once!" he pleaded.
"Arata!" Haruto's voice cut through the chatter. "Arata, help me out here!"
But Arata didn't even raise his head. His pen scratched across the paper, his posture calm. To him, the entire commotion might as well have been background noise.
"Arata! Come on!" Haruto tried again, desperation seeping into his tone.
Still nothing. Arata wrote line after line in his notebook, ignoring the world.
Minutes passed, each one agonizingly long for Haruto, until finally the girls lost interest and returned to their seats with pouts and whispers. Haruto stumbled away from the battlefield, collapsing into the chair beside Arata's desk. His hair was slightly ruffled, his tie loosened, and his usual smile had wilted.
"Haahhh… I thought I was going to die," he groaned, resting his forehead on the desk.
Arata closed his notebook calmly. "Then stop giving them reasons to approach you."
Haruto shot him a look of disbelief. "What? That's your advice? You could've helped me!"
"Helped you with what?" Arata asked flatly. "That's the consequence of your own choices. You enjoy being friendly, you invite their attention, so it's natural you bear the weight of it. That has nothing to do with me."
Haruto blinked, momentarily speechless. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a pause, he let out a heavy sigh. "You really are… full of secrets, aren't you?"
Arata glanced at him, expression unreadable. "I don't have secrets. And I don't have talent, either."
Haruto leaned back, narrowing his eyes, studying him. "Really? Then why do you act the way you do? The way you analyze people… the way you carry yourself… it's not like an ordinary student. You're suspicious."
Arata set his pen down and shut his notebook. His gaze was sharp, yet his tone remained steady, almost cold. "You only see what you want to see. I'm just an average student with average scores. Nothing more, nothing less."
The tension between them was broken by the sound of the sliding door opening sharply. Their homeroom teacher, Saeko Shizuru, entered with purposeful steps. Her black hair was tied back neatly, glasses perched on her nose, and her presence commanded instant silence.
"Everyone, sit down." Her voice was firm, controlled.
The room quieted immediately. All eyes turned to the front as Saeko placed a thick stack of papers on the teacher's desk.
"Today," she announced, "your exam results will be revealed. Listen carefully—your standing in this class depends on them."
The air in the classroom shifted. Nervous whispers spread quickly.
Saeko began reading."Daichi Nakamura, forty-four percent."
A groan of despair came from the back as Daichi buried his face in his arms.
"Ryo Tanaka, sixty-seven percent.""Not bad," Ryo muttered in relief.
"Shinji Ito, forty-eight percent.""What?! I studied all night!" Shinji protested loudly.
"Takumi Sato, fifty-five percent."Takumi exhaled. "Barely made it…"
"Kenta Yamashita, fifty-two percent.""Close call."
"Hiroshi Fujimoto, thirty-eight percent."The class went silent for a moment before a few stifled laughs escaped. Hiroshi's face flushed with humiliation.
"Haruto Minami, seventy-two percent.""Nice one, Haruto!" a girl called. He smiled weakly, still tired from earlier.
"Masato Kobayashi, forty-five percent.""Ugh, seriously?" Masato groaned.
"Aya Suzuki, sixty-five percent.""Phew, acceptable," Aya said with relief.
"Naomi Takahashi, seventy-five percent.""Wow, amazing as always, Naomi!" her friends praised. Naomi only gave a small smile.
"Miyu Kondo, seventy percent.""Glad I passed."
"Emi Yamaguchi, sixty-nine percent.""Almost seventy!" Emi chuckled.
"Hana Morimoto, sixty-two percent.""Could've been worse."
"Kaori Nishimura, fifty-seven percent.""Not great, but fine."
"Yui Hayashi, seventy-three percent.""Way to go, Yui!"
And then—
"Arata Kurosawa, fifty percent."
The classroom froze. For a second, silence hung in the air, before Hiroshi's voice cut through it like a knife.
"Ha! Look at that! Only fifty percent. Pathetic."
A ripple of laughter spread, though some students simply looked curiously at Arata instead of mocking him.
But before it went further, Haruto turned sharply toward Hiroshi. "Shut it, Hiroshi. Your score was even lower. You've got no right to brag."
The laughter quickly shifted. Some students covered their mouths, holding back snickers. Hiroshi's face burned crimson, his fists clenched. He wanted to snap back, but against Haruto's steady gaze, he bit his tongue.
Arata, as always, sat motionless. He didn't frown, didn't smirk—his expression was utterly neutral, as if the number meant nothing.
But up front, Saeko-sensei narrowed her eyes.
Fifty percent… in every single subject?
She glanced back at the paper. Math, Science, History, Literature—all exactly fifty percent. Not higher, not lower.
That's… not possible. Not unless…
Her gaze flicked to Arata. He sat there silently, hands folded on his desk, eyes half-lidded in calm detachment.
He's hiding something. I know it.
For the first time since the school year began, Saeko felt a strange chill. The mysterious student who claimed to be "average" might just be the biggest enigma in Class D.
The classroom buzzed with whispers after the results were read. Some students cheered quietly at their own numbers, others groaned in frustration, and a few laughed at the misfortune of their peers. Hiroshi sulked in his chair, still red-faced from Haruto's earlier jab, while Arata sat completely still, as if none of it mattered.
"Alright, class dismissed," Saeko Shizuru announced curtly. She stacked the exam sheets, gave one final sharp glance to the room, and walked toward the sliding door.
Chairs scraped, conversations burst out again, and the students relaxed instantly. But in the middle of the commotion, Arata stood up. His movements were slow, deliberate. He slipped his notebook into his bag and walked silently toward the door, following the teacher out.
Haruto tilted his head. "Huh? Where's he going?"
No one paid much attention. To them, Kurosawa Arata was still just the quiet boy with a flat expression and an unsettling aura.
The corridor outside was quieter, lit by the bright morning sun filtering through the windows. Saeko walked ahead briskly, clearly intent on returning to the staff office. Her heels clicked against the polished floor.
"Sensei."
The voice was calm, almost cold. She turned, surprised, to see Arata standing just a few steps behind her. His eyes—those sharp, lifeless eyes—met hers directly.
"…What is it, Kurosawa?" she asked, adjusting her glasses.
Arata's tone was steady, polite in form, but unnervingly detached in substance."I want you to expel Hiroshi Fujimoto."
The words were delivered without hesitation, without emotion. As if he were merely stating the weather.
Saeko froze. "What?"
"He failed," Arata continued. "His score is thirty-eight percent. Below the minimum threshold. He contributes nothing to the class. Removing him would raise the overall standard. That's logical, isn't it?"
Saeko narrowed her eyes. "That's not how it works. Expulsion is not so simple."
Arata took a step closer. The sunlight caught his expression, but it revealed nothing—only the sharp glint of calculation in his gaze."It should be simple. He is dead weight. Why should Class D waste resources keeping him?"
For the first time since meeting him, Saeko felt a strange unease. His eyes weren't pleading or desperate like most students when they talked about expulsions. They were cold. Precise. He looked at her as though she were just another cog in the system—something to be bargained with, not respected.
"That's not your decision to make," she said firmly.
Arata tilted his head slightly. "Then allow me to buy it."
"…Buy it?"
"I'll transfer thirty thousand of my points to you. In exchange, you remove Hiroshi Fujimoto from this school."
The words hung in the hallway like ice. Saeko blinked, momentarily stunned. She adjusted her glasses again, studying him carefully.
"…And what makes you think you can negotiate with me like this?"
Arata's reply was immediate. "Because you said it yourself. On the first day—you told us nothing in this school is free. That points can buy anything. That everything has value if you're willing to pay the price."
Her breath caught for a moment. She remembered saying those words, almost offhandedly, to illustrate the school's system. Most students had taken it as an exaggeration. But not him. He had memorized it. Weaponized it.
"I see," she muttered, her voice lower now. "So you were listening very carefully."
Arata's expression didn't change. His eyes bored into hers, calm but unyielding. "You told us the rules. I'm only playing by them. Thirty thousand points is more than a fair price for garbage."
Saeko exhaled slowly, trying to keep her composure. This boy… he's not normal. His gaze is too sharp. Too deliberate. If the other teachers saw it, they'd think the same—he's dangerous.
But thirty thousand points was not a trivial sum. Few students would willingly part with such an amount. For Arata to offer it so casually…
"…Very well," she said at last, her tone clipped. "If that's your decision, I'll process the paperwork. Hiroshi Fujimoto will be expelled."
Arata nodded slightly, as if it were the natural outcome all along. "Thank you, sensei."
Without another word, he turned and walked back toward the classroom.
Saeko remained frozen in the hallway, staring at his retreating figure. A faint chill ran down her spine. That boy… Kurosawa Arata… his eyes are terrifying. He's far more dangerous than he lets on.
The chatter inside was still lively when Arata slid the door open. A few heads turned toward him, but quickly lost interest. To them, he was just the same blank-faced classmate as always.
Haruto waved casually from his desk. "Yo, Arata! Where'd you run off to?"
Arata slipped into his seat without pause. "Bathroom."
"Oh, I see," Haruto said easily, not suspecting a thing.
But another voice cut through the noise. Naomi Takahashi approached slowly, her calm presence drawing attention even without trying. Her eyes, usually unreadable, softened just slightly as she stopped beside Arata's desk.
"…You don't have to listen to Hiroshi's words earlier," she said quietly. "Fifty percent is still good. You don't need to let it bother you."
Arata turned his head, meeting her gaze with the same neutrality as always. "I don't care about his words. Besides…"
He let the silence hang for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low, almost casual—but laced with something unsettling."…This is his last day here."
Naomi blinked. "What do you mean?"
Arata leaned back slightly, folding his arms, his expression unchanged. "…Nothing."
He closed his eyes as if the conversation bored him, leaving Naomi standing there with confusion flickering in her eyes. She tilted her head, but said nothing further.
Haruto, watching from across the room, frowned slightly. What was that about? Arata's tone… it wasn't normal. Like he knew something the rest of us didn't.
Naomi, however, felt a strange shiver. She didn't know what Arata meant, but the weight in his words lingered with her long after she returned to her desk.
And Arata? He sat there in silence, his thoughts already miles away. To him, Hiroshi Fujimoto had already ceased to exist.
Cold. Precise. Absolute.
Revenge had been served—not with anger, not with shouting, but with a transaction. Thirty thousand points to erase a nuisance.
For Kurosawa Arata, it was nothing more than logic.