That evening, Ayanokoji found himself alone in the ship's library—a small, quiet room lined with shelves of books that few students ever touched. The cruise ship was a temporary vessel, but even here, the school had ensured that learning materials were available.
He sat at a table near the window, a book open in front of him that he hadn't read a single word of. His mind was elsewhere.
The afternoon's discussion had been revealing, but not in the way Ichinose had intended. The beneficiaries of the exercise—the people who had revealed the most—were not the ones who had spoken honestly. They were the ones who had spoken strategically.
Manabe's "pragmatism" had been too polished, too calculated. She had offered a response that seemed honest but committed her to nothing. Similarly, Ibuki's silence throughout the exercise had been more telling than any words.
And Sakamoto...
Sakamoto had done something more subtle. He had reframed the question entirely. Instead of answering "what would I do as the beneficiary," he had asked "why does the exam create this position at all." It was a classic deflection—one that Ayanokoji recognized because he himself used similar tactics.
But it was also something more. It was a reminder that Sakamoto was playing a different game. The beneficiary was a distraction. The real question was why the school had designed the exam this way.
What are you looking for, Sakamoto?
A soft sound—a book being pulled from a shelf—interrupted his thoughts.
Ayanokoji looked up.
Ichinose Honami stood a few shelves away, her pink hair catching the dim light. She hadn't noticed him yet, her attention focused on the book in her hands.
He watched her for a moment.
She seemed different here—quieter, more contemplative. The cheerful, inclusive leader of the group discussions had been replaced by someone more introspective. Someone, perhaps, who was carrying a weight she hadn't shared with anyone.
Is she the beneficiary?
The thought occurred to him, not for the first time. Ichinose's behavior had been consistent with someone who genuinely wanted cooperation. But that consistency could also be a mask.
Or she could simply be someone who cared deeply about doing the right thing, even in a system that made doing the right thing difficult.
"You can come out," she said without looking up. "I know you're there."
Ayanokoji blinked. "How?"
"Your breathing. It's very controlled, but the room is quiet. I heard you when I came in." She finally looked up, a small smile on her face. "I didn't want to interrupt your thoughts."
"Sorry. I should have said something."
"It's fine. This is a quiet place. Sometimes we all need to be alone with our thoughts."
She returned her attention to the book—something about maritime history, he noticed. An odd choice for someone in the middle of a special exam.
"Interesting reading material," he observed.
"It helps me relax. Thinking about the past, about people who sailed these waters centuries ago... it puts things in perspective. Our problems feel smaller."
"Do they?"
"Sometimes. Other times, they feel exactly the same size." She sighed and closed the book. "Can I ask you something, Ayanokoji-kun?"
"Of course."
"Your answer today. About what you would do as the beneficiary. Was it true?"
Ayanokoji considered. "Every answer I give is true. That doesn't mean it's complete."
"A diplomat's answer."
"Perhaps."
Ichinose walked over and sat down across from him. Up close, she looked tired—the kind of tired that came from carrying responsibility for too long.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About waiting until everyone reveals what they truly want. Do you really believe that's possible? That people can reveal what they truly want?"
"Don't you?"
"I want to. But I'm not sure it's realistic." She looked down at her hands. "In our group, everyone is guarding themselves. Even when they speak honestly, they're holding something back. Including me."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I think you understand. You're the same way." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "You see things clearly. Maybe too clearly. It must be lonely."
Ayanokoji felt something stir—an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"Loneliness is a choice," he said.
"Is it? Or is it something that happens to you when you're different from everyone else?"
He didn't have an answer to that.
Ichinose smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get philosophical. I think I'm just tired."
"You should rest. Tomorrow will be demanding."
"It will." She stood, returning the book to its shelf. "Goodnight, Ayanokoji-kun."
"Goodnight."
She paused at the door. "One more thing. Whatever the beneficiary is planning—whatever anyone is planning—I hope you'll remember something."
"What?"
"Not everyone is playing to win. Some people are just trying not to lose themselves."
She left before he could respond.
Ayanokoji sat alone in the library for a long time after she left, her words echoing in his mind.
Not everyone is playing to win.
It was a perspective he hadn't fully considered. In his calculations, everyone acted from self-interest. Everyone pursued points, advantage, victory. But what if that wasn't true? What if some people had other goals entirely?
Some people are just trying not to lose themselves.
He thought of Sakamoto, and his question about why the school created the beneficiary position.
He thought of Ichinose, carrying a burden no one else could see.
He thought of himself, hiding behind masks within masks, never quite revealing what he truly wanted.
What am I trying not to lose?
The question followed him to sleep, and into a night filled with dreams of grey seas and unanswered questions.
The fourth day dawned clear and bright, the rain of the previous day a distant memory. The sea sparkled under the morning sun, and even the ship's corridors seemed lighter, as if the weather had lifted everyone's spirits.
But Ayanokoji knew better.
Today was the last full day of the exam. Tomorrow evening, the final answers would be submitted. Whatever was going to happen would happen soon.
He arrived at the discussion room to find the group already assembled—and the atmosphere changed.
Ichinose sat at the head of the table, her expression determined. Manabe and her Class C companions had positioned themselves slightly apart, their body language guarded. Ibuki watched everything with hooded eyes.
And Sakamoto...
Sakamoto was standing at the window again, but this time he held no cup of tea. His arms were crossed, and there was something different about his posture—something sharper, more focused.
"I think it's time," Ichinose said as Ayanokoji took his seat, "to discuss the endgame."
"The endgame?" Yukimura repeated.
"The final day. Tomorrow, we'll have one last discussion in the morning, and then at 9:30 PM, the answer window opens. We need a strategy for how we'll proceed."
"And what strategy do you propose?" Manabe asked.
Ichinose took a breath. "I propose that we agree, collectively, to answer 'I don't know.'"
The room went silent.
"What?" Karuizawa asked, disbelieving.
"If everyone answers 'I don't know,' then by the rules of Result Two, the beneficiary receives the five hundred thousand points. Everyone else gets nothing, but no one's class loses points either. It's the safest option."
"That's—that's giving up!" Karuizawa protested.
"It's choosing not to gamble. If we can't be certain of the beneficiary's identity, any guess risks Result Four. And if even one person answers incorrectly, the beneficiary wins regardless. By agreeing to all answer 'I don't know,' we guarantee a controlled outcome."
"A controlled loss," Sotomura muttered.
"A controlled outcome," Ichinose corrected. "The beneficiary wins, but no one else loses. And we preserve the possibility of cooperation in future exams."
Ayanokoji watched the reactions. Ichinose's proposal was logical, but it required unanimous agreement. And in a group this divided, unanimity was unlikely.
"I can't agree to that," Manabe said flatly. "My class needs points. If I answer 'I don't know' and the beneficiary wins, my class gains nothing. At least if I guess correctly, my class gets fifty points."
"And if you guess wrong, your class loses fifty points," Yukimura pointed out.
"Only if I act before the final answer window. If I wait and submit a wrong answer during the window, Result Four doesn't apply. The beneficiary just gets points, and I get nothing. No loss to my class."
Yukimura frowned, processing this. "That's... actually correct. The early-guess penalty only applies before the exam ends."
"So there's no risk to guessing wrong during the window," Manabe continued. "I can guess on behalf of my class without penalty. If I'm right, we gain. If I'm wrong, we lose nothing."
"But the group loses," Ichinose said. "If anyone guesses and fails, the beneficiary wins."
"The beneficiary wins anyway if everyone answers 'I don't know.' The only way the group wins is if everyone answers correctly. And that requires knowing who the beneficiary is."
The impasse was clear. Ichinose's proposal required cooperation that didn't exist. Manabe's approach was individually rational but collectively destructive.
"What about you, Sakamoto-kun?" Ichinose asked, turning to the window. "What do you think?"
Sakamoto turned slowly. His gaze swept the room, touching each person in turn.
"I think," he said, "that the group has already made its decision. You simply haven't admitted it yet."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the various parties in this room have already chosen their paths. Ichinose-san wishes for cooperation. Manabe-san wishes for individual gain. Class A remains neutral. Class D is divided. And Ibuki-san..." His gaze lingered on her. "Ibuki-san is waiting for instructions."
Ibuki's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
The room erupted.
"That's—!"
"How dare—!"
"What are you implying?!"
Sakamoto raised a hand, and the noise subsided. It was a simple gesture, but it carried weight.
"I'm implying nothing. I'm observing. The exam is designed to create exactly this situation—a group that cannot agree, that cannot trust, that cannot cooperate. The result is inevitable. The beneficiary wins. The rest of us receive nothing."
He paused.
"But that outcome is not predetermined. The rules allow for a different result. If the group can unite—truly unite—then everyone benefits. The question is whether such unity is possible."
"And what do you think?" Ayanokoji asked.
Sakamoto looked at him for a long moment.
"I think," he said, "that we're about to find out."
The meeting ended without resolution. The group dispersed, each member retreating to their own thoughts.
Ayanokoji lingered, watching Sakamoto.
"You didn't answer the question," he said.
"I answered many questions."
"Not the one that mattered. Do you believe unity is possible?"
Sakamoto turned to face him fully. For a moment—just a moment—Ayanokoji saw something in his eyes. Not warmth. Not coldness. Something else. Something like hope, or its shadow.
"I believe," Sakamoto said, "that unity is a choice. And choices can be made."
He left the room without another word.
Ayanokoji stood alone, the weight of the future pressing down on him.
Tomorrow would bring answers. But whose answers, and at what cost, remained to be seen.
The game was approaching its end.
And somewhere on the ship, the beneficiary was making their own calculations.