How to Destroy an Archenemy's Academic Prospects: A Treatise by Kaguya Shinomiya
She had been contemplating this question for some time now.
Shirogane Miyuki was an anomaly. A statistical outlier. His self-discipline bordered on the pathological, his effort levels utterly impervious to external manipulation.
Money could not corrupt him. His family's financial situation was, if anything, a source of perverse motivation rather than despair.
Love—not that she had tested this, obviously—seemed equally ineffective. He had never demonstrated the slightest interest in romance. And even if he were to enter a relationship, Kaguya suspected with considerable frustration that he would simply add "diligent boyfriend" to his existing roster of exhausting commitments.
Two fundamental strategies exist for consolidating and elevating one's position.
She observed Sakurai Saki from across the classroom, her gaze sharp, analytical.
One: Eliminate those at the summit.
Two: Prevent those at the base from climbing.
The first was, regrettably, unfeasible.
Thus, the second must be pursued with renewed vigor.
Kaguya allowed herself a small, satisfied exhale. How fortunate that she had so generously assisted Hayasaka Ai in her pursuit of Sakurai Saki. Had she not, her threat level for this month's examinations would have increased by an entire unit.
Twenty-Four Hours Earlier — The Shinomiya Residence
"Tomorrow. After school. A date with Sakurai General Affairs."
Kaguya's tone brooked no argument.
"This is your master's command."
Hayasaka Ai stared at her.
A long, slow blink.
Then another.
Am I dating Sakurai Saki, she wondered with bone-deep weariness, or am I dating Kaguya-sama?
The confession had been orchestrated by her mistress. Every subsequent romantic maneuver had been planned, rehearsed, and deployed according to Shinomiya strategic doctrine. And now, even the date was being issued as a formal decree.
It was less a romance and more a military campaign with herself as the designated infantry.
And yet.
She did want to date Sakurai Saki. Genuinely, embarrassingly, heart-poundingly want to.
So perhaps being ordered to do what she already longed to do wasn't the worst fate.
Present — Shuchi'in Classroom
A serious problem had manifested.
Sakurai Saki did not appear to believe he was dating her.
Hayasaka arrived at this conclusion through rigorous empirical analysis. Specifically:
That morning's text exchange.
Hayasaka Ai: Good morning♦Sakura-chanmuah
[Attachment: carefully curated heart-hand selfie, seventeen takes]
My Dearest Sakura-chan (Note): Good morning~
End of conversation.
Seventeen takes. Seventeen! And all I get is "good morning" with a wave?!
Months of morning greetings. Months of evening well-wishes. Months of carefully escalating affection met with the same warm, friendly, entirely platonic response.
The only variable that had increased was the volume of selfies she sent.
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, watching him from across the room.
How do I ask him on a date?
Sakurai Saki gazed out the window at the cloudless sky.
How do I ask Ai-chan on a date?
The logic was straightforward. Couples dated. They had progressed from Confession to Boyfriend-Girlfriend. The natural next step was Date.
And yet, despite their consistently warm interactions, they had never once gone out together—unless one counted the school trip, which he did not, as that excursion had involved several hundred additional participants and could more accurately be described as a group migration than a romantic outing.
He genuinely wanted to spend time with her. Alone. Just the two of them.
He simply had no idea how to propose this.
His gaze drifted downward, toward his shadow. Today's superpower settled around him like a second consciousness.
I could send a crow with a message.
No. Too medieval. Too ominous. Crows were associated with death, not courtship.
I could arrange insects to form the word "DATE" on the windowsill.
He paused.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he pressed his palm against his own forehead.
Sakurai Saki. Are you an idiot.
Crop-circle confessions belonged in supernatural romantic comedies, not real life. No girl would receive such an invitation and feel flattered.
Well. Fujiwara Chika might. She found everything interesting. But the invitation was not for Fujiwara Chika.
Direct communication, he concluded. Just say it.
He turned.
She was already looking at him.
"Hayasaka-san. Are you free this Saturday?"
Hayasaka Ai's thought process, in that moment, was not unlike a computer attempting to parse corrupted data.
This is—is this—he's—
But Kaguya-sama wanted today. For the exam strategy. If I delay to Saturday, does that compromise the operational timeline?
Wait.
Why am I prioritizing Kaguya-sama's exam strategy over my own romantic life?
I am not dating Kaguya-sama.
I am dating Sakura-chan.
I think.
"I'm free," she heard herself say. "What's up?"
"Would you like to see a movie? Together?"
Direct. Earnest. Slightly stiff, as though he'd rehearsed the line and was still uncertain of his delivery.
Hayasaka Ai's heart performed a small, undignified acrobatic maneuver.
"Yes," she said. "I'd like that."
Across the classroom, Kaguya Shinomiya had not been idle.
She had, in a past moment of aristocratic boredom, taught herself lip-reading. A trivial skill, she'd assumed, unlikely to prove useful.
Watch them. Decode his words. Counter-strategy: immediate.
Sakurai Saki's lips formed: Saturday. Movie. Together.
Kaguya's eye twitched.
WHAT ABOUT THE EXAMINATIONS? HAYASAKA, HOW COULD YOU—
Her fingers flew across her phone screen.
Do not agree.
Hayasaka's phone buzzed.
Hayasaka ignored it.
DO NOT AGREE.
Another buzz. Ignored.
HAYASAKA. HAYASAKA. I FORBID THIS. HAYASAKA.
Hayasaka's phone, facedown on her desk, vibrated with increasing desperation.
She did not so much as glance at it.
Kaguya lowered her phone slowly, a profound sense of betrayal settling into her chest.
…Hayasaka doesn't love me anymore.
She watched her maid—her former maid, apparently—exchange smiles with Sakurai Saki across the aisle.
Fine. Go. Drown in your ocean of love. See if I care.
She cared.
She cared considerably.
But as she watched Hayasaka's guarded expression soften into something genuine and unarmored, Kaguya found herself, reluctantly, typing a different message.
Saturday. Take the day off.
A pause.
You've earned it.
She had, after all, made many excessive demands of Hayasaka Ai over the years.
Perhaps this was simply karma, arriving in the form of a boy who said "good morning" with a wave and asked girls to movies with the earnest awkwardness of someone who had, moments prior, genuinely considered insect-based communication.
Perhaps Hayasaka deserved to be happy.
…I still need her to help me destroy Shirogane, though. This is a temporary reprieve, not a discharge.
Kaguya Shinomiya folded her hands neatly on her desk and resumed plotting.
But the edge had softened, just slightly.
10:47 PM — The Shinomiya Residence
If a proper date cannot be executed today, supplementary operations may still be conducted.
Kaguya Shinomiya sat in perfect posture before her phone, her expression one of intense strategic concentration.
Phone calls. Text messages. Couples in the honeymoon phase are reported to engage in conversational marathons lasting several hours.
Several hours.
Several hours during which studying is mathematically impossible.
She began typing.
Hayasaka. Upon your return this evening, you are to engage Sakurai General Affairs in prolonged telephonic communication. Topics may include but are not limited to: shared interests, childhood memories, fabricated emergencies requiring emotional support, and—
She deleted it.
Too clinical. Too obviously a command. Hayasaka would roll her eyes so hard she'd strain something.
Ai. Listen. When you get home tonight, try to keep him on the phone as long as possible. Ask him about his day. Tell him about yours. If you run out of things to say, just breathe heavily into the receiver. Men are simple creatures. This is basic—
Delete.
Breathing heavily?! What am I suggesting?! I am a Shinomiya. We do not—
She set down her phone.
Pressed her fingers to her temples.
…I will simply direct her actions in person when she returns. Yes. Live direction. Real-time tactical adjustments. This is the superior approach.
She picked up her phone again and began drafting a third message, this one considerably more restrained:
We will discuss the evening strategy upon your arrival.
Perfect. Professional. Dignified.
Now, to wait.
Student Council Room — Earlier That Afternoon
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, illuminating Shirogane Miyuki's face in unforgiving clarity.
Sakurai Saki paused at the threshold.
He's already regressed.
The President had, through sheer force of will and questionable life choices, achieved a state of being that Yakumo Shiro had once described as "a mysterious equilibrium between life and death, so tragic it has circled back to dark comedy."
His eyes bore the distinctive topography of forty-eight consecutive hours without sleep. His posture suggested a man held upright solely by spite and caffeine derivatives.
"Shirogane. What happened yesterday?"
A sigh escaped the President—a sound like air leaving a punctured tire.
"Torrential downpour. Sudden. Ferocious." He paused, reliving the trauma. "My house leaks in seventeen distinct locations. I have mapped them. I have named them. I did not sleep."
Saki absorbed this information.
The Shirogane family residence was, by all accounts, only marginally more structurally sound than Gabriel's crumbling apartment complex.
Speaking of which.
"…Gabriel's building."
Shirogane blinked slowly, processing. "Do angels drown?"
"I have no data on this."
"Then she's probably fine."
Neither of them sounded entirely convinced.
"You completed the homework?" Saki asked. Shuchi'in's workload was, as always, architecturally oppressive. The nation spoke of reducing academic burden while silently transferring that burden to after-school cram programs.
"Between buckets." Shirogane's tone suggested this was not a brag but a simple statement of fact. "More importantly—you slept?"
His gaze sharpened, suddenly, inexplicably suspicious.
"Yes."
"Where."
"The Nakano residence."
Shirogane's pen, mid-approval on a document, stopped moving.
A silence descended.
Five, Shirogane thought. There are five of them.
Quintuplets. Identical. He stayed overnight.
He hasn't even resolved his situation with Hayasaka and Fujiwara, and now there are five more.
The pen in his hand made a faint, concerning creaking sound.
"Sakurai."
"Yes."
"You slept at the house of five sisters."
"Correct."
"All five were present."
"They live there."
Shirogane stared at him.
Saki stared back, utterly uncomprehending.
He doesn't even realize, Shirogane realized. He has achieved harem protagonist density without any apparent awareness of the gravitational forces involved.
A profound weariness settled over him—not the physical exhaustion of his sleepless night, but something deeper. The exhaustion of a man watching his friend walk unknowingly into a romantic minefield with a cheerful wave and zero protective gear.
"Sakurai."
"Yes."
"Be careful."
Saki tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Of what?"
Everything, Shirogane wanted to say. Of accidental confessions. Of childhood friend flashback sequences. Of sudden rainstorms that force shared umbrellas and even closer proximity. Of the narrative itself, which seems increasingly determined to cast you as its protagonist.
But he was too tired.
"…Nothing," he said. "Just. Be careful."
Saki nodded slowly, filing this under Shirogane Says Cryptic Things When Sleep-Deprived.
He retrieved a stack of documents from his bag and began his own approvals.
Outside, the afternoon light continued its indifferent arc across the sky.