After a while, Mashima Tomoya's low voice finally trailed off, marking the conclusion of the routine explanation of Key Provisions of Advanced Nurturing High School.
His sharp gaze swept the room one last time, lingering for a fraction of a second on the window seat—Sakamoto—before he turned and exited with measured steps.
The door closed softly behind him, as if sealing away some invisible pressure.
Instantly, the taut atmosphere rippled outward like water disturbed by a stone.
Class A's elites maintained their composure, but their bodies visibly relaxed. Whispers began to thread between desks, yet, as if magnetized, most eyes remained glued to the back of the classroom—Sakamoto.
At some point, he had stopped his rapid, dazzling writing.
The pen rested lightly on the page, his right hand holding it with effortless poise—thumb and forefinger pinching delicately, the other fingers extended naturally. His elbow rested elegantly on the desk, giving the impression that what he had just completed was not a high-speed calculation, but a carefully crafted sketch.
The contrast between this serene posture and his earlier intensity made his presence even more arresting.
Katsuragi Kohei was the first to move.
His broad frame approached Sakamoto's desk with a steady, measured gait, hands clasped behind his back. The sunlight glinted off his bald head, accentuating the seriousness of his upright posture.
His brow furrowed slightly, eyes narrowed with scrutiny, voice low but calm:
"Sakamoto-kun… what were you writing just now? That question—did you understand something?"
His gaze fixed on the notebook under Sakamoto's hand.
Immediately, Hashimoto Masayoshi followed, his usual sunny smile stretched wide, bounding up beside Katsuragi. His eyes sparkled with curiosity:
"Wow! Sakamoto-kun, that was amazing! You interrupted the teacher, said 'I understand'—what did you understand? And that notebook—does it hide secrets of the S-System? Tell us!"
He leaned forward, trying to glimpse the page.
Even Kamuro Masumi, normally detached, took a few steps closer, her purple eyes narrowing with measured interest.
Kito Hayato, quietly emerging from his corner, stood slightly outside the cluster, his curly hair falling over his eyes as he observed intently, silent as a shadow.
Sakamoto had become the center of the storm.
Katsuragi's analytical scrutiny, Hashimoto's eager probing, Kamuro's cool observation, and Kito's shadowed curiosity—all focused on him.
And yet Sakamoto's expression remained unshaken.
He lifted his gaze behind his black-rimmed glasses, letting his eyes sweep over the small group. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, inscrutable arc.
He ignored Katsuragi's question. He ignored Hashimoto's persistent curiosity.
Instead, with a smooth, fluid motion, he lifted the pen again with his right hand, his left hand still pressing firmly on the notebook.
Then, in a movement so precise it seemed almost magical, he tore the page he had just written on from the notebook.
The motion was gentle, deliberate, and perfectly controlled.
Under the scrutinizing eyes of Katsuragi, Hashimoto, Kamuro, and Kito, Sakamoto's hands began folding the page.
Long, flexible fingers guided the paper with fluid grace, folding it into sharp, clean angles. The process was almost imperceptibly fast, yet the rhythm carried a strange, mesmerizing elegance.
Moments later, a single paper airplane rested in his open palm—simple lines, sharp edges, yet containing the entirety of his furious calculations from moments ago and the unspoken question on everyone's minds.
Sakamoto picked it up, eyes calmly meeting Katsuragi's. His voice was clear, steady, gentle:
"Katsuragi-kun, what matters isn't 'what I understood.'"
He paused, letting his gaze drift briefly to Hashimoto, Kamuro, and Kito, ensuring each caught his words.
He continued, calm and deliberate, holding the paper airplane lightly in his hand:
"Rather, what matters is what we need to understand: although points are deposited into individual accounts, their value may not belong solely to individuals."
His posture remained effortless, elegant.
"Mashima-sensei is correct; points are indeed for personal discretion."
His words carried clearly to every ear in the room.
"But notice his use of the word 'inseparable'—individual points are closely linked to the honor and disgrace of the collective."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the upperclassmen's teaching building outside the window, implying something unspoken.
"Points are numbers. Resources. They can buy anything… but perhaps—"
He shifted his gaze to the paper airplane, fingertips tracing its edge with gentle precision, his tone soft but firm, like a reminder passed down through careful observation:
"They can also measure intangible things—like the value of Class A itself, where we are."
Under Katsuragi's tightly furrowed brow, confusion gave way to reflection. Hashimoto's smile faded, replaced by thoughtfulness. Kamuro's purple eyes narrowed, deepening her investigative scrutiny. Kito Hayato's gaze, hidden beneath curls, brightened slightly.
"As for this," Sakamoto held up the paper airplane, tilting it in the light streaming through the window, "it carries not an answer, but a reminder."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips—gentle, yet layered with meaning.
"Some things, seen with one's own eyes, verified with one's own hands, may be clearer than what is merely heard."
Before anyone could process his words fully, his wrist flicked lightly.
The paper airplane, folded from the notes he had just written, seemed almost alive. It slid from his fingertips, tracing a precise, low arc—never aiming for a person, only for the open window.
Sunlight glinted off its wings as it glided outside, adjusting with uncanny accuracy.
It landed perfectly in the large, clearly marked "Recyclables" bin below the upperclassmen's teaching building across the courtyard.
Sakamoto finally spoke, calm and unflustered:
"There's no trash can in our classroom yet, so I resolved it this way. My apologies."
The action stunned everyone. Katsuragi's jaw hung open. Hashimoto's eyes widened. Kamuro unconsciously took a half-step forward. Kito's gaze followed the plane's path with quiet intensity.
Sakamoto, however, had already turned his attention elsewhere.
He stood, adjusting the cuffs and collar of his burgundy uniform with meticulous care. Then, he bowed slightly to the small circle of onlookers—Katsuragi, Hashimoto, Kamuro, and Kito Hayato—his posture refined, almost ceremonial:
"Excuse me, everyone."
Without waiting for a response, he began to walk. His steps were measured, fluid, each swing of his arms perfect, shoulders straight as pines. He navigated the small gap in the crowd with ease, heading toward the classroom door.
Just before crossing the threshold, he paused, turning slightly. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the corridor windows, illuminating his tall figure.
He pushed up his glasses, lenses catching a dazzling streak of light, briefly highlighting the dark brown tear mole beneath his left eye.
He looked back at the room, the corner of his mouth curving into a fleeting, mysterious smile. His voice, calm and gentle, carried clearly:
"May all your points be used for worthy purposes."
Then he vanished into the sun-drenched corridor, leaving Class 1-A in complete silence.
Katsuragi remained frozen, furrowed brow deep in contemplation, eyes drifting toward the upperclassmen's building.
Hashimoto scratched his head, a smile returning to his lips, though now layered with thoughtfulness:
"'Worthy' purposes… this guy's something else."
Kamuro stood silently, purple eyes fixed on the door, curiosity breaking through her usual detachment.
Kito moved to the window, peering at the bin below, a shadowed intensity in his gaze.
Sakayanagi remained seated, fingertips tapping rhythmically on her cane, lips curling in an ever-so-slight smile.
That paper airplane, that cryptic reminder of "worthiness," and the elegant, mysterious figure who had vanished into sunlight… the variable named Sakamoto had just cast a new, unpredictable piece onto Class A's elite chessboard.