For Horikita Manabu, however, what he truly wanted to know now was Shimizu's take on this month's exam.
"I'm curious—have you figured out the hidden secrets of this month's special exam and the test papers?"
"Pretty much."
"Share your thoughts."
"I can grasp what the school is testing through this exam." Shimizu met his gaze. "But one thing puzzles me—why make the test papers themselves the focus? Shouldn't a school prioritize evaluating academic fundamentals? Also, what's the school's background that it dares to risk being reported?"
"This school's foundations run deeper than you realize." Horikita Manabu tapped the desk lightly. "But using test papers as a special exam is just the beginning. There are more to come."
He paused before answering Shimizu's question. "As for the exam's theme—this special test simulates a workplace environment. The test papers represent work output. Unless your 'professional skills' are flawless enough to score full marks, you must learn to find alternative paths. For instance, first-years buying papers from second-years. The school's message is clear: in the real world, don't just bury yourself in work. Sometimes, being resourceful and leveraging external help isn't a bad thing."
"So the school encourages this kind of shortcut?" Shimizu followed up.
"Not at all." Horikita Manabu immediately countered, counting off on his fingers. "First, this special exam is held only once a year. Future midterms won't reuse old questions to prevent habitual gaming of the system. Academic ability remains the core foundation. Second, this is a buffer period for first-years—giving those lagging behind a chance to catch up before being weeded out. Third, regarding 'unfair papers,' there was mass reporting years ago. The school's response? A complete test overhaul."
After a beat, he added, "The school permits shortcuts but never tolerates reliance on them. What this institution values most is competence—because solid skills are the ultimate backbone. But it also refuses to produce book-smart drones. Balancing fundamentals with adaptability is how you climb higher in society. Do you understand?"
"I do." Shimizu nodded slowly.
He'd suspected that such "shortcut-friendly" exams couldn't be the norm—and indeed, future tests wouldn't reuse material.
Horikita Manabu was right. Take Class D—eight students, himself included, had failed the last assessment.
Without this exam as a buffer, those who neglected studies would've faced expulsion by now.
Learning couldn't be avoided. Come finals, there'd be no shortcuts.
More intriguing was the "test reporting" incident—someone had tried it, and the school had acted.
"So the school's already accounted for every possibility," Shimizu observed.
"That's the ultimate goal—to cultivate individuals with both hard skills and flexibility." Horikita Manabu rose, gazing at students milling below. "Bookworms only score basics. Opportunists lack endurance."
After a silence, Shimizu smiled. "Are you warning me not to over-rely on shortcuts?"
"I'm reminding you that shortcuts are allowed, but they can't be your only path." Horikita Manabu's eyes sharpened. "Your surveillance scheme last month, your insight into exam rules—that's impressive. But fundamentals matter too—they're your bedrock."
His tone deepened. "Here, 'fundamentals' mean academics. In society, they become your core competencies—certifications, hard skills that anchor you."
"Of course, two exceptions exist. First, those with flawless fundamentals—who ace even bonus questions beyond textbooks. Even if socially inept, their expertise speaks for itself. No company fires irreplaceable talent."
"Second, master opportunists—those who exploit societal loopholes invisible to others. Even without hard skills, they thrive by gaming systems."
The student council president's understanding was ruthlessly precise—connecting exam rules to real-world survival logic.
And he wasn't wrong.
No wonder A-Class graduates could enter any university—such individuals were versatile by design.
Wherever they went, they'd rise swiftly.
"Those A-Class alumni—are most now top talents in their fields?"
"Correct. This school's rapid ascent owes much to their support. Otherwise, it wouldn't be Japan's top high school."
"A simple example." Horikita Manabu sat back down. "Many A-Class graduates are scions of conglomerates. Last year, one donated an entire island to the school—exclusively for special exams."
Shimizu's interest spiked.
So special exams had dedicated venues?
An island, no less?
What next—survival trials?
Though surely the school wouldn't strand students that brutally.
"We've digressed. Shimizu, your second matter—don't disappoint me."
Horikita Manabu cleared his throat, realizing he'd spoken too much. For a first-year, these concepts might've been heavy—but he trusted Shimizu's grasp.
Precisely because he saw potential, he'd rambled.
"It's about the test papers." Shimizu organized his thoughts. "Like last time, it's another points opportunity. I'd appreciate your assistance."