The rain had stopped by midday, leaving the sky a washed-out grey that seemed to hang low over the sea. Ayanokoji stood at the observation deck, watching the clouds shift and churn. The afternoon discussion would begin in twenty minutes, but his mind was still occupied with the conversation from that morning.
Change the paradigm.
Sakamoto's words echoed in his thoughts like stones dropped into still water. The implications were staggering—not merely winning exams or accumulating points, but fundamentally altering the framework within which all of it operated. It was a goal so ambitious it bordered on delusion.
And yet, Ayanokoji couldn't dismiss it.
Everything about Sakamoto suggested deliberate purpose. The way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he intervened at precise moments—all of it pointed toward something beyond the immediate concerns of class rankings and special exams. Sakamoto was playing a game that spanned years, perhaps decades.
What would it take to change the paradigm of a school like this?
The question was still unresolved when footsteps approached from behind.
"You're early again."
Ayanokoji turned. Katsuragi Kohei stood a few paces away, his bald head catching the muted light, his expression carrying that same distracted weight Ayanokoji had noticed before.
"Katsuragi-kun. Your group's meeting isn't for another hour."
"I know." Katsuragi moved to stand beside him, gazing out at the grey sea. "I wanted to speak with you before then."
Ayanokoji waited. Katsuragi was not a man given to idle conversation—if he sought someone out, there was purpose behind it.
"Your group includes Sakamoto-kun," Katsuragi said. "I've been... thinking about certain things. Things he said during our group's first meeting."
"Such as?"
Katsuragi was silent for a moment. "He asked why this school divides students into classes based on merit from the very beginning. Whether the system exists to teach cooperation or competition, or whether its purpose is something else entirely."
Ayanokoji felt a spark of recognition. The same question Sakamoto had posed in the Rabbit Group meeting. He was repeating the pattern across groups, planting seeds in different minds.
"What did you conclude?" Ayanokoji asked.
"I don't know. That's the problem." Katsuragi's voice carried a rare note of frustration. "I've always believed in the school's system. Work hard, earn points, rise through the ranks. It's simple. It's fair. But Sakamoto-kun's question... it unsettled me."
"Why?"
"Because I realized I've never questioned it. I've never asked why things are the way they are. I've just accepted the rules and tried to succeed within them." He paused. "What if the system isn't designed for everyone to succeed? What if it's designed to ensure that most students fail?"
Ayanokoji considered this. It was a darker interpretation of the school's meritocracy—one that aligned with certain observations he had made himself.
"If the system were designed to ensure failure," he said slowly, "it would be strange to reward success so generously. Class A receives privileges that make future success almost automatic. Why would the school do that if it wanted everyone to fail?"
"Maybe the point isn't failure for its own sake. Maybe the point is sorting—identifying a few exceptional individuals and discarding the rest."
"That's one possibility."
Katsuragi turned to look at him directly. "What do you think Sakamoto-kun believes?"
The question hung between them. Ayanokoji chose his words carefully.
"I think Sakamoto-kun believes the current system is incomplete. That it measures certain things well and other things poorly. And that the school knows this—perhaps even intends it."
"Intends it?"
"The system creates specific pressures. It forces students to make choices under uncertainty, to weigh cooperation against competition, to decide what they're willing to sacrifice for success. Those choices reveal something. Something the school wants to see."
Katsuragi's expression darkened. "And what is it the school wants to see?"
"I don't know yet. But I suspect Sakamoto-kun has a clearer idea than either of us."
They stood in silence for a time, the grey sea stretching endlessly before them.
"Thank you for your honesty," Katsuragi said finally. "I should go. My group will be gathering soon."
"One more thing."
Katsuragi paused.
"If Sakamoto-kun asks a question in your group—a question that seems simple but isn't—consider it carefully. He doesn't ask anything without reason."
Katsuragi nodded slowly. "I will. Thank you, Ayanokoji-kun."
He walked away, his footsteps fading into the ship's ambient hum.
Ayanokoji remained at the railing, watching the clouds. The pieces were moving—not just within the Rabbit Group, but across every group on the ship. Sakamoto was planting questions, provoking thought, destabilizing certainties.
What are you building? Ayanokoji wondered. And what role do the rest of us play in your design?
The afternoon discussion began with an unexpected proposal.
"I think we should discuss the beneficiary directly," Ichinose said, her voice steady despite the weight of the words.
The room went still.
"Directly?" Yukimura frowned. "How?"
"I mean—we should talk about what the beneficiary might be thinking. What their situation feels like. If we can understand their perspective, we might be able to predict their actions."
"That's assuming the beneficiary is even in this room," Manabe said. "For all we know, they could be someone who hasn't spoken at all."
"True. But statistically, they're here. One of the twelve of us." Ichinose's gaze swept the table. "And if we can make them feel safe—make them believe that cooperation serves their interests—they might choose to reveal themselves. Or at least not actively work against us."
It was a bold strategy. Ayanokoji studied the reactions.
Ibuki's expression remained unreadable.
Manabe's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Karuizawa shifted uncomfortably, as if the mere mention of the beneficiary made her uneasy.
Sakamoto showed no reaction at all, his gaze fixed on some distant point.
"I think it's worth trying," Hamaguchi said quietly. "If the beneficiary knows we're not a threat, they might be more willing to cooperate."
"Or they might use that knowledge against us," Yukimura countered. "If they know we're trying to reach out, they might manipulate us more effectively."
"Everything carries risk," Ichinose acknowledged. "But doing nothing also carries risk. At least this way, we're making an effort."
"Effort toward what?" Ibuki asked. "Toward convincing the beneficiary to sacrifice five hundred thousand points for the sake of group harmony? That's a lot to ask."
Ichinose met her gaze. "Maybe not. Maybe the beneficiary doesn't want to be the kind of person who profits from others' failure. Maybe they'd rather earn points honestly."
"And maybe they're already counting those points in their head right now."
The room fell silent. Ibuki's words hung in the air like a challenge.
"Then let's find out," Ichinose said finally. "Let's talk about it openly. Let's each say what we would do if we were the beneficiary."
"What?"
"You heard me. We go around the table. Each person says what they would do in the beneficiary's position. No deflections, no jokes. Just honesty."
The proposal was met with stunned silence.
"That's—" Karuizawa started.
"Risky?" Ichinose smiled. "Yes. But also revealing. Someone who lies will be obvious. Someone who tells the truth will reveal their values. Either way, we learn something."
Ayanokoji watched the room's dynamics shift. Ichinose was taking a calculated gamble—forcing everyone to commit to a public position. It was the kind of move that could break the group's impasse.
Or shatter it entirely.
"I'll go first," Ichinose said.
She took a breath, then spoke clearly.
"If I were the beneficiary, I would wait. I wouldn't sabotage the group. I wouldn't reveal myself. I would watch and see what happens. Because five hundred thousand points is tempting, but it's not worth betraying people who trusted me. If the group succeeds, I get points anyway. If the group fails, I get more. Either way, I don't need to hurt anyone."
She finished and looked around the table.
"Who's next?"
The silence stretched. Then, slowly, Yukimura raised his hand.
"I would... I would worry. I would worry that someone else would figure out I was the beneficiary and guess incorrectly, triggering Result Four. That would cost my class fifty points and give me five hundred thousand. But I wouldn't want that guilt. So I would probably try to steer the group toward success—not because I'm noble, but because the alternative is worse."
Hamaguchi spoke next. "I would consider the math. Five hundred thousand personal points is substantial. But fifty class points is also significant. If I could arrange for the group to fail without exposing myself, I might do it. Not out of malice—out of pragmatism."
The honesty was startling. Manabe spoke after him.
"I would want to win. But I wouldn't know how. The rules are too complex. So I would probably just... wait. And hope for the best."
Yabu and Yamashita offered similar responses—cautious, noncommittal, but not hostile.
When the turn reached Class A, Machida and Takemoto both deferred to Sakamoto.
Sakamoto considered for a long moment.
"If I were the beneficiary," he said finally, "I would not want to be."
The room waited.
"To be designated as the beneficiary is to be placed in a position of isolation. The rules set you apart from your peers—make you the object of their scrutiny, their suspicion, their calculations. Whether you cooperate or sabotage, you cannot escape that isolation. You are, by definition, alone."
He paused.
"So I would ask: why does the exam create this position at all? What is it meant to teach—not about points, but about people?"
No one answered.
Sakamoto didn't seem to expect them to.
"Those are my thoughts," he said. "The next person may continue."
The turn moved to Class D.
Karuizawa spoke haltingly. "I would... I wouldn't want to hurt anyone. But I also wouldn't want to be hurt. I'd probably just try to stay out of it."
Sotomura adjusted his glasses. "I would analyze the situation carefully. The optimal strategy depends on the group's composition and dynamics. In some groups, cooperation is the best path. In others, exploitation is possible. I would adapt accordingly."
Then it was Ayanokoji's turn.
He looked around the table, cataloging faces, expressions, the subtle tells that revealed more than words ever could.
"If I were the beneficiary," he said quietly, "I would do exactly what I'm doing now."
"Which is?"
"Watching. Waiting. Saying nothing that commits me to any position. And deciding, at the last possible moment, whether to act."
The words hung in the air.
"Because the beneficiary's greatest advantage isn't the points," Ayanokoji continued. "It's the information asymmetry. They know something no one else does. And the moment they act—whether to cooperate or sabotage—they lose that advantage. So the rational beneficiary delays. They wait until they can be certain of the outcome."
"And what would make them certain?" Ichinose asked.
"When everyone else reveals what they truly want."
He let the words settle, then leaned back in his chair.
"Of course," he added, "that's just what I would do. I can't speak for anyone else."
The meeting ended soon after. Ichinose thanked everyone for their honesty, though her smile seemed slightly strained. The group dispersed, each member carrying their own thoughts.
Ayanokoji lingered, watching the others leave.
Ibuki was the last to go. She paused at the door, glancing back at him.
"Interesting answer," she said.
"Was it?"
"Very." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Almost too interesting."
She left before he could respond.