Part 1
The second day—or rather, the first "useful" day—went as expected: lots of protocol and few surprises. The introductions were already history; now it was time for the exhaustive reading of rules, schedules, and institutional warnings. The Kurohana Academy knows how to wrap competition in courtesy. The teachers spoke with smiles that smelled of numbers and calibrations.
Professor Hoshino, with his dry gaze, reviewed the essentials again for those who still hadn't understood: classes, the Kurohana Point System (KPS), activity counts, and the truth that no one admitted aloud—in each cycle, only one class would advance. The rest would repeat the year or be dismissed. If anyone was expecting a soft campus, they had come to the wrong place.
I listened and took mental notes. What for many was information, for me was a game board. Class by class, point by point, hierarchies were drawn. I began to imagine the structure: A through G in the first year, and us, by some strange chance, in Class F. That label was not an automatic condemnation, but it was a statement of fact. We started with 10,000 class points. That sounded like a cushion; not to me. For the administration, it was the initial variable in an experiment.
"Remember," said Hoshino, "each month consists of four main activities. Each activity is worth up to 250 points. Individual performance will adjust remuneration in Kurei through the CRI. Behavior, cooperation, and results count equally."
As he spoke, my calculations ran through my head. Four activities per month, a thousand points at stake. If a class falls to zero, it is suspended. If a class survives but loses points, its access to resources is reduced. If a class ranks high, it receives social and economic advantages within the Inner City. The SPK rewards not only academic performance: it rewards adaptation, manipulation, and control.
Next to me, Kaori took notes with a steady hand. She made no superfluous comments, but her gaze said, "Let's keep an eye on them." She was the kind of ally who didn't need warmth to be effective. I liked that.
The bell rang, and like hungry social animals, most of the class stampeded toward the cafeteria. The courtyard was dotted with small groups that had already found a place in the campus social network. I stood still, observing patterns: who moved with confidence, who was dragged along, who waited to be invited.
Riku Ayanobe—a straightforward, easygoing guy—emerged as a social magnet. It didn't take long for a circle of boys and girls to form around him. Within seconds, classroom alliances began to materialize. Renji Morimoto, with his calculated smile, was already talking quietly with two classmates; he seemed to be mapping out his sphere of influence. Miyu Fujikawa deployed her charm at another table, attracting those who liked the comfort of networks. Ichika Tsubasa, for her part, sat on the edge of the group, sizing everyone up with the cold gaze of someone evaluating intellectual variables.
Daichi Kuroda moved like a calculated nuisance: big gestures, ostentatious consumption, subtle provocations. A player with physical strength—useful if the game requires muscle—and an unpredictable temperament. Everything would depend on how he was channeled.
I saw Haruto Shimizu in a corner, his back hunched, his eyes avoiding prolonged contact. Someone easy to guide; a pawn who could lean toward either side with the right encouragement. People like that are gold if you know how and when to convince them.
Ami Kisaragi appeared suddenly with her approachable smile, offering me a friendly hand. Her spontaneity contrasted with my calculated calm, but I understood its usefulness: her social network could serve as a bridge for future maneuvers. I accepted her greeting with neutral courtesy. Nothing emotional. All strategic. She perceived it as sincerity; perfect.
During lunch, my silent attempt to fit in was thwarted: the girls crowded around Riku and my arm remained empty, raised expectantly. The scene was a reminder: it's not enough to think about opportunities; you have to act at the right microsecond. Kaori made a short, accurate observation that brought me back to reality:
"Social spaces fill up fast. The silent ones lose out."
"The silent ones also learn," I replied to myself, although my voice was audible.
Ami approached and asked me about Kaori—the other key player. For her, the conversation was genuine; for me, it was an opening. I explained just enough: Kaori is reserved, not interested in forming an army of unnecessary relationships. Ami nodded with that mixture of surprise and tenderness that makes her effective. Having people willing to believe in quick bonds can be useful: people who open doors, who give information out of sympathy.
Around noon, the gym announcement reminded us of the club fair. Kaori immediately rejected the interest, but not out of social disdain: her decision was based on prioritizing goals. Her "no" was a strategy. I agreed to attend out of tactical curiosity rather than a desire to belong. Clubs are spaces where informal alliances are formed; at Kurohana, even leisure produces statistics.
Back in the classroom, the conversation turned to the practical mechanics of the classes. I made a mental note: Class F, 140 students in the first year (approx.), 10,000 starting points. Institutional regulations meant that collective survival depended as much on performance in activities as on controlling Kurei's spending and social discipline. Mediocre collective management results in penalties; outstanding management results in bonuses. In addition, individual CRI can increase or decrease your personal provision by up to ±10% depending on your average. That asymmetry is a vector of power: if one can manipulate not only the class but also the IRP of individuals, one controls real resources.
As I made mental notes, I noticed a detail that I liked: many people talked superficially about cooperation, but few seemed to understand the true metric. Most thought of friendship, instant social networks, small harmless favors. They did not understand that here every gesture could be translated into points, into Kurei, into access. They did not see the equations behind the smiles.
That ignorance was my advantage.
When the final bell marked the end of the hour, I stood for a moment looking at the empty chairs. Class F moved, breathed, competed without knowing exactly why. It was like watching a colony of ants focused on their work pattern: they performed, yes, but they lacked a common goal.
I, on the other hand, already had a rough plan: learn who looks first, who pays for whom, who is easy to push around, and who is tough. With that, I would start to weave.
Because at Kurohana, it wasn't enough to just survive. You had to learn to turn life into points, and points into power.
And Class F was my board for now.