Sunlight lanced through the polished windowpanes, illuminating the desks of First Year Class A and carrying the scent of fresh stationery and ink.
Arisu Sakayanagi's fingertips drummed a soft, rhythmic cadence atop the silver head of her cane. While her gaze appeared fixed on the podium, she had already cataloged every player in the room. Katsuragi Kohei sat like a monolith of granite, his brow a permanent map of tension. Diagonally behind him, Kamuro Masumi remained sequestered behind a veil of purple hair and icy indifference. In the shadows, Kito Hayato sat shrouded by his own long, seaweed-like curls—he was the only one, besides the boy in the window seat, who remained an absolute enigma to her.
Mashima Tomoya stepped to the chalkboard. With a series of sharp, decisive strokes, he wrote his name.
"Mashima Tomoya," he announced, his voice like grinding stone. "I will be your homeroom instructor and English teacher. For the next three years, I expect each of you to act as the vanguard, defending the glory of Class A as the pinnacle of this institution."
Defending? Sakayanagi's lips curved into a faint, predatory smile. A curious choice of words for those who have only just arrived.
Blue-bound copies of the Advanced Nurturing High School Essentials were distributed alongside sleek, school-issued smartphones. Mashima held his device aloft like a piece of sacred technology.
"This is your pass, your identification, and—most importantly—your survival tool," he said, letting the weight of the phrase hang in the air. "It is powered by the 'S-System'."
Sakayanagi noted the shift in the room. Katsuragi's spine stiffened; Hashimoto Masayoshi's knuckles whitened against his phone; even Kamuro's detached gaze sharpened.
"The S-System integrates your ID, access permissions, and your primary means of financial transaction," Mashima continued. "Within this school, 'Points' are the only currency that matters."
Sakayanagi's finger paused. Survival linked to currency. How dreadfully transparent.
Mashima's gaze drifted toward the window. Sakayanagi followed it. Sakamoto remained bathed in the morning light, his elbow resting elegantly on the sill, chin supported by his hand. He looked less like a student and more like a philosopher contemplating the transitory nature of spring. This utter disregard for the gravity of the moment was a jarring contrast to the suffocating tension of Class A.
"On the first of every month," Mashima's voice rose, "the school automatically deposits points into your accounts. At this moment, you should all find yourselves in possession of 100,000 points."
He paused for maximum impact. "One point is equivalent to exactly one yen."
The classroom didn't explode in noise—Class A was too disciplined for that—but an invisible shockwave rippled through the air. One hundred thousand yen. A fortune for a monthly allowance.
"Questions are inevitable," Mashima stated. "Now is the time."
Before he had even finished the sentence, an arm shot upward from the back of the room.
The gesture was mesmerizing—an extremely standard, striking posture that looked more like an honor guard raising a flag than a student seeking a turn to speak. The line from his shoulder to his fingertips was a perfect, unwavering vertical, his elbow locked with crystalline precision. It was a calm declaration that demanded the attention of every soul in the room.
Sakamoto, the boy who had been lost in the scenery a second ago, had fully turned to face the front. His gaze was steady behind his spectacles.
"Sakamoto-kun," Mashima acknowledged, though Sakayanagi caught the slight narrowing of the teacher's eyes.
Sakamoto rose as fluidly as a bamboo shoot unfurling toward the sun. He offered a respectful, yet perfectly composed bow.
"Teacher Mashima," he began, his voice a clear, resonant baritone. "Thank you for the clarity of your explanation. However, regarding this monthly distribution of 100,000 points, a small curiosity has taken root."
He met Mashima's gaze with an unnerving level of self-assurance.
"Is this generous monthly allowance an equal gift bestowed upon all grades and classes? Or," he paused, the silence stretching with intent, "is it a privilege reserved solely for those of us in First Year Class A?"
The air in the room froze.
Sakayanagi's fingers stopped dead on her cane. An equal gift? Or a unique privilege? The question was a scalpel, peeling back the skin of Mashima's explanation. Had he seen something through that window? Had he observed the behavior of other classes during his "late" arrival?
Mashima's pupils constricted. He clearly hadn't expected a student to strike the heart of the school's hidden mechanics within the first ten minutes of the term. He remained silent for two long seconds—a pause that told Sakayanagi everything she needed to know.
"The points are indeed deposited into individual accounts monthly," Mashima said, choosing his words with agonizing care. He avoided the word "class" entirely. "However, at this school, individual development and collective honor are inextricably linked—"
"I see. Thank you for your answer!"
Sakamoto's voice was like silk, cutting Mashima off at the exact moment the teacher attempted to drift into vague platitudes.
Before the class could process the interruption, Sakamoto offered another impeccable bow and returned to his seat. The conversation had ended on his terms, leaving the room in a state of suspended animation. Katsuragi remained leaned forward, frozen; Hashimoto let out a silent, bewildered breath; and Kamuro's mask of indifference finally cracked, replaced by genuine confusion. Even the shadowed Kito Hayato peered through his curls with a new, dark curiosity.
Sakamoto ignored them all.
He produced a hardcover notebook and a pen from his desk. Under the watchful eyes of the entire class, he gripped the pen in his right hand while his left hand pressed the edge of the paper at a sharp, protective angle—obscuring his work from prying eyes.
Then, his wrist began to move.
A rapid, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh filled the silent room. His right hand became a blurred phantom, the pen tip dancing across the page with a speed that defied human anatomy, while his left hand remained as still as a mountain. He lowered his head, his focused profile silhouetted against the window, appearing more like a grandmaster calculating a final move than a student taking notes.
The entire classroom fell into an eerie, hypnotic silence. Mashima stood at the podium, his lecture forgotten, staring at the blurred motion of Sakamoto's pen.
Arisu Sakayanagi began to tap her cane once more. Her gaze was as deep as an abyss.
This game had produced a variable far more elegant and mysterious than she had anticipated. And this variable, in every calculated gesture, possessed a charm that was becoming impossible to ignore.