The morning atmosphere in the Class C classroom was unnervingly ordered, a stark contrast to the usual chaotic energy of the first-years. Ryūen Kakeru lounged in his seat, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the desk—a metronome of control. His gaze swept the room, a cold satisfaction settling in his chest. One week of iron-fisted discipline had forced the scattered sand of Class C into a rough, cohesive shape. Open defiance was extinct; a tense, functional order now reigned. It was a foundation—a platform from which to defend their class points and, perhaps, climb.
His mood was predatory, anticipatory. The trap was baited and set. Now, he waited for the prey to stir the water.
That fool, Kamuro Masumi, with her undisguished, worshipful stares at Sakamoto—she was the perfect fracture point. He'd deliberately fed Sakayanagi the crude, provocative line about "Sakamoto's dog," knowing it would needle her pride and paranoia. Sakayanagi was clever, but she was also proud and possessive. She couldn't abide being in the dark, especially not within her own domain. She would move to verify his claims, to probe and test. Whether she confronted Kamuro directly or circled Sakamoto with subtle inquiries, the result would be the same: cracks in Class A's polished façade.
The thought drew a colder curve to his lips. This was the game he relished—pulling strings from the shadows, watching the self-important elites dance to the tune of his carefully placed lies.
As for his "alliance" with Sakayanagi… Ryūen's inner sneer was almost palpable. It was a transaction draped in the thinnest silk of cooperation, ready to tear at a touch. She had provided the initial currency—information on class points. He had provided the labor—probing Sakamoto. A fair exchange on the surface, but the real value of what he'd given her was negligible: a slurry of half-truths and provocations designed to mislead. The partnership was inherently unequal, and its dissolution was inevitable. Sakayanagi was no fool; she was undoubtedly already plotting how to neutralize or use him in turn. He didn't mind. He welcomed it. Conflict was the forge of progress.
Before the final break, however, he intended to extract every ounce of value she had. More intel on Class A's dynamics. Weaknesses in the other classes.
His mind pivoted to the competition. Class B, under that pink-haired ray of sunshine, Ichinose Honami. On the surface, it was the model of harmony—cohesive, positive, seemingly competent. But Ryūen's preliminary assessment was scathing: strong on the outside, soft at the core. Ichinose might be a genuine unifier, but that type of leadership lacked the ruthless edge necessary for true dominance. She could maintain, but not shatter. Class B was a well-rounded sphere: impressive in its symmetry, but with no sharp edges to inflict decisive damage. For the first monthly evaluation, Ryūen was confident his disciplined, if fear-driven, Class C could overtake them.
Then, there was Class D. A flicker of pure contempt passed through his eyes. It wasn't even a challenge; it was an eyesore. A dumping ground of misfits and rejects, fractious and leaderless. He hadn't bothered with a deep analysis. From the scattered reports, it was a zoo of petty cliques with zero collective will. They were irrelevant—background noise in the real contest between A, B, and his own rising C.
He was preparing to consolidate his next move when the classroom door slid open with a sharp sound. The morning chatter died instantly, all eyes drawn to the entrance.
Standing there was a figure that made Ryūen's tapping fingers still.
It was Sakamoto.
He stood in the doorway, his posture unnervingly calm, his gaze sweeping the room before settling directly on Ryūen. The ambient noise of the school seemed to mute, the air in Class C thickening with sudden, electric tension.
He hadn't come with an entourage. He was alone. But his presence felt like an invasion.
Ryuuen slowly leaned forward, the legs of his chair touching the floor with a soft click. A wide, challenging grin spread across his face. This was unexpected. The fish wasn't just stirring the water—it had just swum directly into the net.
"Well, well," Ryūen drawled, his voice cutting through the silence. "Look what the cat dragged in. To what do we owe the honor, Sakamoto?"
He'd heard of a Hirata Yōsuke—a would-be peacemaker, flitting between factions, trying to bind wounds with goodwill. Pathetic. In Ryūen's estimation, such gentle, powerless diplomacy was a terminal naivety in a place like Koudo Ikusei. Class D was likely a more fractured, troublesome mess than his own had been, boiling with petty conflicts and devoid of a central, ruthless will to forge them into a weapon. They were destined for the basement, not even worthy of being called rivals.
Circling back, the true opposition remained Class A.
Sakayanagi Arisu had now become a piece on his board, though she likely still fancied herself the player. Her own suspicion and pride would be the engine that destabilized her class from within.
And Sakamoto… Ryūen's eyes narrowed to slits. His final gambit—using Shiina Hiyori's phone to send that crafted distress call—had been designed to lure Sakamoto into a direct confrontation, to force him to defend "his asset" in a public, compromising way. But Sakamoto had defused it with that absurd, theatrical coffee stall, and Shiina herself had shown no subsequent reaction. The move hadn't landed as intended. A minor setback, but not a fatal one. Sakamoto was still just one man.
And Ryūen? He had sown seeds of discord in both Class A and, more subtly, within his own ranks. The harvest might be unpredictable, but it would yield chaos. For now, his role was that of the spectator: consolidate Class C's fearful discipline, safeguard their points, and watch the splendid fire show about to ignite in Class A. He could almost smell the acrid smoke of silent warfare between Sakayanagi's calculated elegance and Sakamoto's inscrutable calm.
"Heh…"
A low chuckle escaped him. Let the fire he'd kindled burn. Let it consume. He would be waiting in the ashes, ready to claim what remained.
In Class 1-D, the atmosphere hung loose and unfocused, a stark contrast to the tense order Ryūen had imposed next door. Ayanokōji Kiyotaka gazed out the window, his expression a mask of vacant contemplation.
But behind that placid façade, his mind was a silent workshop, meticulously reassembling the events of the café. A specific, quiet interest had been kindled—directed at Sakamoto.
His purpose here was to be ordinary, to dissolve into the background like a drop in the ocean. Yet Sakamoto was an anomaly so glaring it refracted the light around him. It wasn't merely the preternatural competence or the bewildering actions. It was the gaze.
Yesterday, when his own careless probe—"You've already observed the truth of this school?"—had slipped out, Sakamoto's eyes had met his. They were calm, deep, but carried a quality Ayanokōji recognized yet could not fully categorize. In the White Room, he had been measured against countless prodigies—their eyes sharp with ambition, hollowed by pressure, or glittering with madness. Sakamoto's were different. They held a purer form of observation, as if he perceived the world as a complex, flowing system to be understood, not a battlefield to be conquered.
That quality had stirred something within Ayanokōji—a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of interest in a psyche long since sculpted into ice. It was a negligible amount by any standard, yet for him, it was a significant deviation.
A few ambiguous words proved nothing. But that gaze, combined with Sakamoto's actions, solidified him as an "anomalous variable"—a piece on the board that didn't conform to the established game's logic.
Ayanokōji slowly turned his head from the window, his eyes lowering to the textbook before him. He needed data. He needed to understand the parameters of this variable named Sakamoto. The passive observer was preparing, for the first time, to engage in a more active form of scrutiny.
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