In the soft glow of her room, Sakayanagi Arisu allowed herself to slide down the length of the door until she sat upon the plush carpet. Her silver hair was disheveled, falling across her face as she buried it in her knees. Her cane rested forgotten against the wall. In the profound quiet, the only sound was her own, slightly ragged breathing.
The day's events played behind her closed eyelids in a relentless, vivid reel: Kamuro's defiant confession, her own graceless stumble, Sakamoto's preternaturally steadying hands, and Ryūen's mocking, triumphant grin.
Ryūen.
The name crystallized in her mind with new, cold clarity. She had grievously miscalculated. She had dismissed him as a clever thug, a blunt instrument to be pointed and fired. Instead, he had proven himself a strategist with a ruthless ambition that mirrored her own. He hadn't just consumed the bait of information; he had used it to spin a web, attempting to turn her into a puppet that would destabilize her own class. He was a weapon that could turn in the wielder's hand.
Her initial move—to use him against Sakamoto—now seemed a product of rash overreach. The pressure of Sakamoto's effortless superiority, that quiet aura of innate leadership he disclaimed but nonetheless possessed, had sparked in her a competitive fever. It had blinded her to the risks of external alliances and driven her to see a neutral party as an immediate rival.
Today had been a brutal recalibration. Sakamoto's actions—saving her from a humiliating fall, exchanging contacts with unsettling frankness—had reframed her own machinations as petty and reactive. Ryūen's deception was the cold splash of water that finally cleared her vision.
She needed to reassess everything. Ryūen's threat level. Her dynamic with Sakamoto. Her own core objectives.
The alliance with Ryūen had to end. Or, more precisely, it needed to be… repurposed. Since he dared to play her, he must be prepared for the game to be turned back on him. Perhaps she could redirect his aggressive energies elsewhere, or dismantle him entirely. The million private points she'd extracted were a consolation, but not the prize.
As these cold calculations solidified, her phone screen glowed to life.
A reply from Sakamoto.
[I can. Sakayanagi-san, what do you wish to discuss?]
The response was characteristically succinct. No accusation, no loaded silence. Its very neutrality felt like an indictment of her previous, more confrontational stance.
Her fingertip hovered. Honesty, or a curated version of it, now seemed the only viable currency. Kamuro had already torn away the veil. Pretense was pointless.
She began to type, her movements precise.
[Kamuro-san's account was accurate. I did engage in a transaction with Ryūen Kakeru of Class C, providing information in exchange for intelligence concerning you. For this, I offer my apology.]
She paused, then decisively threw Ryūen to the wolves. Let him be the sacrifice that demonstrated her shifted alignment.
[The intelligence Ryūen subsequently provided alleged that you were cultivating agents in other classes, and within Class A itself. He specifically named Kamuro Masumi as being under your influence.]
She sent the messages, the digital equivalent of laying cards on the table. Then she waited, the silence in the room amplifying the quiet hum of anticipation.
The vibration came minutes later.
[I have no such intention.]
The reply was a masterpiece of minimalist deflection. He denied the core allegation without engaging with Ryūen's provocation, without demanding explanations, without revealing anything of his own mind.
Good.
A thin, wry smile touched Sakayanagi's lips. The board was clearing. One problematic piece was being sidelined, and a new, more complex dialogue with the king piece had been quietly opened. The game was far from over, but its rules were being rewritten in real time.
The reply was as expected. If Sakamoto were truly building a network, he would never admit it so plainly.
Sakayanagi's mind raced. What next? Should she press about Shiina Hiyori? Demand to know the nature of that connection, why an outsider topped his contacts? It felt intrusive, a misstep that could shatter the fragile neutrality they had just established.
As she weighed her words, seeking a line of inquiry subtle enough to be deniable, Sakamoto's next message arrived. Its contents made the breath catch in her throat.
[Sakayanagi-san, your particular interest in my associations—does it stem from a preoccupation with the leadership of Class A?]
He had sliced through the layers of pretense and exposed the raw nerve. He had framed all her machinations—the probing, the deal with Ryūen, even her performative apology—as stemming from a singular, narrow ambition: to control Class A.
For a heartbeat, she felt laid bare. Then, a reckless clarity took hold. If the veil was already torn away, there was no point in stitching it back.
Her fingers flew across the screen.
[Correct. Although you profess no interest in leadership, your presence inherently shapes Class A. I would appreciate your candid perspective on the class's trajectory.]
She sent it, her gaze locked on the glowing screen. His answer would define the entire board—friend, rival, or irreconcilable obstacle.
The reply came swiftly, and it was nothing she had anticipated.
[Koudo Ikusei High School is not solely about Class A.]
The sentence landed with the weight of an anvil. Not solely about Class A? Did his perspective already encompass the entire first year? The whole school? The scope of his ambition—or his analysis—suddenly felt vertiginous.
A second message followed before she could process the first.
[The true opposition, perhaps, lies not between us.]
Not between us.
The words echoed in the silent room. If not each other, then who? The other classes? The school's mysterious administration? Some larger, hidden adversary operating within the "meritocratic" framework?
Then, nothing. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had deepened. No further elaboration, no polite sign-off. Just a profound, hanging silence.
Sakayanagi Arisu remained seated on the carpet, the pale light of her phone casting stark shadows across her stunned face. She reread the two final messages, each word a quiet detonation in the landscape of her assumptions.
She had framed Sakamoto as her ultimate rival, the pinnacle she needed to conquer to claim Class A. She had schemed and compromised her principles for a victory she now saw as potentially illusory. He had just suggested the entire arena was larger, and the real conflict lay elsewhere.
All her intricate calculations, her alliances and betrayals, her driven obsession with a single classroom's hierarchy—in the light of his stark perspective, they suddenly felt myopic, even childish.
A cold, clarifying humility washed over her, tinged not with defeat, but with a sharp, exhilarating dread. The game was far more vast than she had imagined.
She needed time. Not to plan her next move, but to reconstruct her entire understanding of the board.