With the class point system now laid bare, a new, charged quiet descended upon the first-year hallways. The morning's lessons concluded within this altered atmosphere.
The moment the dismissal bell chimed, the classroom seemed to exhale, the stillness breaking into a flow of movement.
Katsuragi Kōhei did not hesitate. His solid frame rose from his seat, his gaze cutting directly across the room to the window seat. All morning, Class C's anomalous 910 points had needled at him, a persistent dissonance that broke his concentration. He needed clarity, or at the very least, a focal point for his suspicion. And within Class A, the individual most likely to possess that clarity was the one who had first unlocked the rules themselves: Sakamoto.
To his slight surprise, Sakamoto did not make his customary, efficient exit toward his café shift. Instead, he was methodically arranging the stationery and textbooks on his desk, his movements a study in deliberate calm, as if time itself had slowed to accommodate his rhythm.
Nearby, Kamuro Masumi observed this from the corner of her eye. She was not surprised. She knew the reason for his lack of haste. Days prior, during one of their now-regular phone conversations where she found the courage to ask direct questions, she had inquired about his schedule. Sakamoto had explained—with that patient demeanor so unlike his public aloofness—that his café contract had covered only the initial month. A new arrangement was in place: no fixed salary, but a commission of private points tied to the increased revenue he generated during his shifts. Kamuro had done the math; the points he'd accrued were likely substantial.
She had also tentatively broached the subject of Sakayanagi and Ryūen's alliance. His response had been characteristically vague: observe the changes and adapt. Yet, it seemed his strategy had worked; Sakayanagi's overt maneuvers had ceased. Kamuro had decided to let the matter lie—stirring old conflicts now, amidst their class's perfect-score glory, served no purpose.
But Class C's 910 points… that was a different kind of thorn, one she felt lodged in her own side as well.
She shouldered her bag and left, not lingering. She had no fear that Sakamoto would be at a loss; he always navigated such pressures in ways that were both bewildering and ultimately incontestable.
Katsuragi arrived at Sakamoto's desk, his posture rigid with purpose. His tone was respectful but devoid of preamble.
"Sakamoto-kun. A moment of your time? Regarding the rankings—specifically Class C's score—I have concerns I wish to discuss."
He was direct, wasting no words on courtesy.
Sakamoto closed the final textbook. He looked up, his gaze meeting Katsuragi's through the thin frames of his glasses. "Please proceed, Katsuragi-kun."
"Class C. 910 points." Katsuragi's voice dropped, ensuring their conversation remained private. "It defies logic. Given their conduct at the start of the term, such a score is impossible through unaided effort. I am convinced they possessed prior knowledge of the rules. And the source of that knowledge…" He let the implication hang, sharp and accusing. "…originates within our class."
He stopped short of saying traitor, but the word echoed in the space between them.
Sakamoto listened, his expression a placid mask. After a measured pause, he replied, "The application of rules inevitably leaves a signature. Class C's result must possess an internal logic of its own."
The answer was frustratingly evasive. Katsuragi's frown deepened, ready to demand more, but Sakamoto continued.
"Katsuragi-kun," Sakamoto said, his gaze seeming to sharpen, to look not just at Katsuragi but through him. "An excessive focus on a single internal 'leak' may cause us to miss the broader shifts in the competitive landscape. An informational anomaly is often merely the precursor to a more significant realignment."
The words were not a denial, nor an admission. They were a redirection—a suggestion that the mystery of Class C's score was not a problem to be solved, but a symptom of a larger, more complex game just beginning.
Katsuragi was momentarily taken aback. Sakamoto's words felt less like a defense and more like a strategic redirection—a guide away from the murky waters of internal suspicion.
"The essence of competition is the ebb and flow of power," Sakamoto continued, his tone that of one stating a fundamental axiom. "When confronted with internal noise that cannot be immediately clarified, redirecting focus outward—to identify true adversaries and potential allies—often proves the more prudent priority."
True adversaries and allies.
Katsuragi's mind instantly recalled the rankings: A: 1000, C: 910, B: 820, D: 0.
Class C, aggressive and unnervingly close, led by the ruthless Ryūen, was the clear and present threat.
Class B, though temporarily behind, possessed cohesion and a leader of notable charisma in Ichinose—a potential ally to be courted or a future rival to be monitored.
Class D was a wildcard, negligible for now but unpredictable.
Sakamoto's implication was clear: instead of expending finite energy on a divisive internal witch-hunt with uncertain results, Class A should first secure its external position. Consolidate advantage, manage the clear threats, and create strategic breathing room. The internal leak, if it existed, could be addressed from a position of greater strength.
The shift in perspective was illuminating. Internal investigations bred paranoia and discord. In this early stage, establishing external dominance was cleaner, faster, and more beneficial for collective morale.
"I understand," Katsuragi said, his voice firming with resolve.
Sakamoto offered a slight, acknowledging nod.
"Thank you for the insight, Sakamoto-kun."
"You are welcome."
Katsuragi turned and left, his stride purposeful. The internal audit could wait.
The classroom emptied, the last few students filtering out until only two figures remained: Sakamoto by the window, and Sakayanagi Arisu, who had not moved from her seat.
She sat with an air of deliberate leisure, her fingers resting lightly on her cane, her silver eyes fixed on Sakamoto as he prepared to depart.
"A masterful deflection of conflict, Sakamoto-kun."
Her clear voice cut the quiet, a playful smile touching her lips.
Sakamoto's movements stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming. He turned to face her, his expression unsurprised, as if he had been expecting this.
"It's no surprise Katsuragi-kun suspected an internal issue," Sakayanagi continued, her tone conversational. "Class C's score is an obvious anomaly. And it's equally unsurprising there's no evidence pointing to me." Her gaze swept the empty room. "The only two who know the truth—Kamuro-san, the honorable whistleblower, and you, the core maintaining balance—neither would willingly shatter Class A's unity with a baseless accusation."
She leaned forward slightly, her smile deepening. "But what I didn't anticipate was that you would… shield me? Or rather, shield this fragile peace. The conventional wisdom is 'secure the home front before battling abroad,' yet you advocate the opposite: 'suspend internal strife, unite against the external foe.' A fascinating choice."
She felt a flicker of genuine surprise. He had not seized the opportunity to let suspicion fall upon her. She should have felt gratitude. Instead, a more potent curiosity ignited. This flawlessly composed Sakamoto had chosen to protect a potential internal flaw for the sake of superficial stability. Was this a calculated "noble lie" for a greater end?
"Really now…" Sakayanagi's voice dropped to a murmur, ripe with the thrill of discovery. "Have I found a weakness, Sakamoto-kun? You are not truly unattached. You have considerations. You have desires."
She awaited his reaction—a denial, an explanation, any crack in the façade.
Sakamoto offered none. His expression remained impenetrable. Instead, he performed a single, fluid, utterly unexpected motion.
His arm lifted, his fingers tracing an elegant, precise arc through the air. They came to rest not on her, but on the decorative beret perched upon her head. With a touch so light it was almost imperceptible, he adjusted the brim—tilting it less than a millimeter back to a state of perfect, symmetrical alignment. It was a correction so minor it was almost insulting in its fastidiousness, performed with the effortless grace of a maestro tuning an instrument.
The entire act was over in a heartbeat, so natural it seemed part of the room's atmosphere.
"Secret Technique—"
His voice was calm, devoid of mockery or warmth.
"—Not At All."
He did not look at her stunned face. His gaze simply drifted past her, out the classroom window to some distant point. Then, without another word or a backward glance, he picked up his bag and walked out, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
Sakayanagi Arisu sat frozen, her hand rising unconsciously to touch the beret. It sat perfectly straight, a silent, impeccable rebuke to her moment of self-congratulatory revelation.
This had not been a threat.
It was something far more disarming—a condescending reminder, delivered with the effortless superiority of one correcting a barely noticeable flaw. A demonstration that her perceived 'discovery' was not a vulnerability he feared, but a triviality he could adjust with a flick of his wrist. The hunter had not found a weakness; she had been gently, and utterly, put back in her place.