The low, rhythmic drone of Mashima Tomoya's voice finally ceased, bringing the exhaustive orientation of the Advanced Nurturing High School Key Provisions to a close.
His hawk-like gaze swept the room one last time, lingering for a fraction of a second on the window seat—on Sakamoto—before he turned and exited the classroom with measured, heavy steps. The door slid shut behind him, and the vacuum of authority was instantly filled by the low hum of shifting bodies and hushed voices.
Though the elites of Class A clung to their decorum, the tension had visibly bled from their shoulders. Yet, as if drawn by a collective magnetic pull, nearly every eye in the room drifted toward the back corner.
Sakamoto had stopped writing.
His pen rested quietly against the paper. His right hand remained in a posture of effortless, taut grace—thumb and forefinger pinching the end of the pen, the other three fingers fanned out like a delicate wing. His elbow rested on the desk at an angle that looked sketched by an artist. It was the calm after the storm, a stark contrast to the blur of motion that had preceded it.
Katsuragi Kohei was the first to break the stalemate.
The burly student walked toward Sakamoto's desk, hands clasped habitually behind his back. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his expression a mask of severe curiosity. "Sakamoto-kun," he began, his voice a low rumble. "What were you calculating just now? That question you asked… you seemed to imply you've already reached a conclusion."
Before Sakamoto could answer, Hashimoto Masayoshi slid into the space beside Katsuragi, his signature sunny smile firmly in place, though his eyes were sharp with scrutiny. "Incredible! Truly, Sakamoto-kun! Interrupting the teacher just to say 'I understand.' What exactly did you catch that we missed? Does that notebook hold the secrets to the S-System?"
Hashimoto leaned in, his gaze attempting to pierce the veil of Sakamoto's handwriting. Even Kamuro Masumi had drifted closer, her indifferent purple eyes betraying a flicker of genuine interest. From the periphery, Kito Hayato moved like a ghost, standing just outside the circle, his intense stare hidden behind a curtain of dark, seaweed-like curls.
Sakamoto remained the eye of the hurricane.
Facing the weight of Class A's leadership, his expression didn't waver. Behind his black-rimmed spectacles, his eyes swept over the group, and a faint, almost imperceptible arc touched the corner of his mouth.
He didn't speak. Instead, he performed a sequence of movements so fluid they bordered on the supernatural. His left hand remained pressed firmly to the page, while his right hand elegantly reclaimed the pen. Then, with a gentle, swift tug, he tore the page from the notebook.
The sound of the paper tearing was crisp, carrying an undeniable sense of finality.
Under the focused gazes of the gathered students, Sakamoto's fingers began to dance. He folded the paper with rhythmic, blurring speed. Crease after crease appeared with mathematical precision, the paper fluttering between his fingertips until the specific steps became a blur of white motion.
A few seconds later, a paper airplane—sharp-angled and perfectly balanced—lay in the center of his open palm.
"Katsuragi-kun," Sakamoto said, his voice a clear, gentle stream. "What is important is not 'what I understood'."
He paused, his gaze drifting over Hashimoto, Kamuro, and the shadowed Kito. "Rather, it is what we must grasp: though points are deposited into individual accounts, their value may not belong solely to the individual."
He weighed the paper airplane lightly in his hand. "Mashima-sensei spoke the truth; the points are for our personal discretion. But remember his use of the word 'inseparable.' Individual points are tethered to the collective honor—or disgrace—of the class."
He tilted his head toward the window, looking at the distant upperclassmen's building. "Points are numbers. They are resources. They can buy anything. But perhaps," he looked back at the airplane, his fingertip stroking the edge of its wing, "they also measure the intangible. The very value of 'Class A' itself."
Katsuragi's brow deepened, his confusion slowly hardening into a grim realization. Hashimoto's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, analytical stare. Kamuro's eyes narrowed, the curiosity within them burning brighter.
"As for this," Sakamoto held the airplane against the sunlight streaming through the window, "it carries no answers. Only a reminder."
He smiled—a profound, lingering expression. "Some things are clearer when verified with one's own hands than when heard with one's ears."
Without warning, Sakamoto's wrist flicked.
The paper airplane took flight. It didn't aim for any student. It traced a precise, low-altitude arc, gliding through the open window and into the afternoon sky. It dipped and swerved with impossible grace, crossing the gap between buildings before diving straight into the "Recyclables" opening of a large trash bin outside the upperclassmen's hall.
Plop.
"There is no bin in our new classroom for the time being," Sakamoto added calmly. "I had to resolve the matter this way. My apologies."
The room was paralyzed. Katsuragi's mouth hung slightly open; Hashimoto's eyes were wide with disbelief. Sakamoto, however, was already moving. He stood up, smoothing the collar of his burgundy blazer and adjusting his cuffs until every thread was in its proper place.
He offered a shallow, gentlemanly bow to the group. "Excuse me, everyone."
He walked toward the door, his gait steady and pine-straight. Just as he reached the threshold, he paused, the hallway sun gilding his silhouette. He pushed up his glasses, the lenses flashing a brilliant, blinding white that momentarily obscured his features.
"May all your points be used for... worthy purposes."
With that, he vanished into the sun-drenched corridor, leaving First Year Class A in a tomb-like silence.
Katsuragi remained standing, his gaze fixed on the window, his mind clearly racing through the implications of Sakamoto's "reminder." Hashimoto scratched his head, a thoughtful, jagged smirk returning to his face. "'Worthy purposes'? This guy is a piece of work."
Kamuro stared at the empty doorway, her mask of indifference shattered by a look of pure intrigue. Kito Hayato walked silently to the window, his eyes searching the trash bin in the distance as if the paper airplane might still have a message to give.
And in her seat, Arisu Sakayanagi continued to tap her cane. She watched the doorway where Sakamoto had disappeared, the playful curve of her lips deepening into a grin.
The variable named Sakamoto hadn't just joined the class; he had cast a shadow over the entire board.