Sunlight streamed through the freshly polished windows of Class 1-A, casting clean lines of brightness across the new desks. The air smelled of new paper and untouched textbooks.
Sakayanagi Arisu's fingertip lightly tapped the top of her dark wooden cane. Her gaze appeared directed toward the podium, yet in truth she had already surveyed every face in the classroom.
At the front, Katsuragi Kōhei sat steady and unmoving, his rigid posture like a stone monument—brows locked, mind clearly already analyzing.
Diagonally behind him, Kamuro Masumi rested in an aura of aloof isolation, her curtain of purple hair cascading like a quiet warning sign: *Do not intrude.*
In the corner, Kito Hayato's curly hair hung down in unruly clumps that obscured half his face. Quiet, unreadable, withdrawn—an unlit lantern among the rows of bright new desks.
She noted all of them, methodically.
Mashima Tomoya picked up a piece of chalk, turned with crisp precision, and wrote his name in sharp characters on the board.
**Mashima Tomoya.**
He set the chalk down.
"I will be your homeroom teacher and your English teacher."
His voice was cool and precise.
"I hope, through these three years, to stand with all of you in defending the honor of Class A as the pinnacle of Advanced Nurturing."
Concise. Unyielding.
A faint, nearly invisible smile touched Sakayanagi's lips.
**'Defend'?**
Now that was an interesting word.
Students from the front row began distributing dark-blue copies of *Advanced Nurturing High School Essentials* along with school-issued smartphones bearing the school emblem.
Mashima held up the identical device.
"This will be your pass, your identification—and most importantly, your *survival tool* at Advanced Nurturing."
He paused deliberately, letting the phrase hang.
*Survival tool?*
Sakayanagi's eyes glimmered behind her lenses. Such a term carried weight. Purpose. Strategy.
She saw Katsuragi's spine straighten just a little more. Hashimoto—still smiling as always—rubbed a thumb across the phone casing with a focus that betrayed tension. Even Kamuro Masumi's disinterest flickered as she glanced down.
"The S-System is integrated into this phone," Mashima continued. "It acts as student ID, room key, facility access, and—most importantly—your method of payment."
He tapped the screen lightly.
"All transactions within this school are made through points. Points are the only currency here."
Sakayanagi's fingertip halted mid-tap against her cane.
Survival linked to currency.
A blunt framework, striking in its honesty.
Mashima's gaze swept the room again.
This time, it lingered deliberately on the window seat.
Sakayanagi knew exactly who he meant.
Sakamoto-kun sat with his body angled toward the podium, profile illuminated by the morning sunlight. His posture was leisurely, elbow resting on the windowsill, chin supported lightly by his fingertips.
Black-rimmed glasses framed calm, inscrutable eyes; the small tear mole beneath his left eye caught the light.
He looked less like a student attending homeroom and more like a nobleman pausing to appreciate the tranquil view of his private garden.
Effortless. Impossibly so.
This disregard for authority—no, this composure—stood out all the more starkly amid the tense air of Class A.
Sakayanagi caught the flashes of surprise, the puzzled glances, the suppressed whispers weaving through the room.
Mashima's voice rose a half-step:
"On the first of every month, the system automatically deposits a fixed amount of points into your accounts. As of this moment," he slowed his speech deliberately, "you should each have 100,000 points."
A pause.
"One point equals one yen."
Buzz—!
An intangible shockwave rippled through the class.
One hundred thousand yen. Even for these elites, it was a figure that unsettled their composure. Katsuragi Kohei leaned forward in an instant.
Sakayanagi captured every subtle twitch—restraint cracking beneath the surface of immaculate discipline.
Class A held back chaos with manners, but it could not suppress the quickened breaths, the thrum of tension filling the air.
"Questions are inevitable," Mashima continued.
"Now is question time. You may ask anything."
He had not even finished speaking—
An arm rose from the window seat at the back of the classroom.
It shot upward with an almost ceremonial precision, the movement standard yet overwhelmingly striking—like a flagpole raised by an honor guard. The shoulder and arm formed a flawless line, fingertips pointing to the ceiling, the elbow steady without the faintest tremor.
It did not look like a student requesting permission.
It looked like someone calmly announcing: *I have a question.*
The shift drew every eye—Sakayanagi's investigative gaze included.
Sakamoto, who a second earlier had been admiring the scenery outside, had now turned completely toward the podium.
His posture was tall and composed. Behind the black-rimmed glasses, his serene gaze met Mashima's directly—self-assured, unhurried—forming a sharp contrast with the suddenness of his raised hand.
As if a spotlight had found the lead actor.
Whispers resurfaced around him, low but impossible to ignore:
"He was just looking outside…"
"That posture… kind of cool…"
"He's doing it on purpose, right…?"
"Sakamoto-kun."
Mashima's voice remained calm, though Sakayanagi noticed the brief flash of sharpness in his eyes.
Sakamoto rose, his movements smooth—like a bamboo shoot quietly unfolding.
"Teacher Mashima," he bowed lightly, respectful without appearing the least bit deferential, "thank you for the explanation. Regarding this monthly distribution of 100,000 points, I have a question."
His tone was clear, deliberate.
"This generous allowance—does every grade receive the same amount each month? Or…" he paused with perfect timing, "…is this a privilege given exclusively to us, First Year Class A?"
The moment the words left his lips—
Silence locked the room in place.
Sakayanagi's fingertip froze atop her cane.
Equal gift? Or exclusive privilege?
He asked it lightly, as if merely curious about fairness—but the implications were sharp as glass.
He had been gazing out the window earlier.
*Was he comparing classrooms?*
Sakayanagi felt her curiosity flare; her gaze sharpened on Sakamoto-kun.
Mashima's pupils contracted—a tiny, telling reaction.
He had not expected this aloof boy to open with such a loaded question, one that cut straight to the heart of the system.
A two-second pause.
And in that silence, too much truth leaked through.
When Mashima finally spoke, his voice had deepened.
"The points are indeed deposited monthly… to individual accounts."
He skirted the word *class.* And immediately—
"However, at this school, individual development and collective honor are—"
"I see! Thank you very much."
Sakamoto's calm voice sliced cleanly through Mashima's vague, diplomatic phrasing.
Before anyone could react, he bowed once more—graceful, impeccable—and sat down with effortless ease.
It was like a symphony abruptly cut mid-crescendo.
The room stilled.
Katsuragi froze mid-lean, a flicker of shock cracking through his stoic face.
Hashimoto Masayoshi parted his lips, exhaled silently, his sunny expression tightening into subtle scrutiny.
Kamuro Masumi's indifferent gaze wavered—confusion slipping through her icy facade.
Even Kito Hayato, half-concealed in shadows, lifted his usually downcast eyes, peering through the curtain of curly hair with a spark of curiosity.
Sakamoto paid none of them any mind.
He simply drew a new hardcover notebook from his drawer, along with a pen.
Under Mashima's unsettled stare—and the collective breathlessness of the class—he pressed the page down with his left hand at a clever angle, both steadying the sheet and obscuring what he wrote. Then his right hand began to move.
The pen glided with astonishing speed.
A swift, dense *shhhhhh* filled the room as the tip danced across the page, leaving only a phantom afterimage behind. His left hand remained perfectly still; his right moved like a controlled blur. A few strands of hair fell over his glasses, shading his eyes, yet highlighting the quiet determination along his jawline.
He was completely absorbed in the rhythm of his own rapid writing, a calm intensity enveloping him—almost like meditation.
That seamless concentration, effortless yet impossibly refined, radiated a quiet sophistication that others could only interpret as professional… and undeniably cool.
It felt as though he wasn't taking notes in a classroom at all, but conducting some crucial, high-precision calculation known only to himself.
A peculiar hush settled over the room.
Mashima, momentarily forgetting the continuation of the question period, stared at the half-hidden notebook. Only the flash of the pen tip—moving with inhuman swiftness—was visible, each stroke crisp and sure.
On the other side of the room, Sakayanagi Arisu's fingers resumed their gentle tapping on her cane, this time in a steady, analytical rhythm. Her gaze deepened—dark, thoughtful, unfathomable.
This silent chess match had produced an unforeseen variable, and far earlier than she ever anticipated.
A variable wrapped in elegance, mystery…
…and a unique charm that refused to be ignored.