Mashima's gaze was as sharp as a blade, examining Sakamoto for several long seconds.The excuse he had given was simple—even naïve—but his tone had held an unusual firmness.
"Just this once,"Mashima said, his voice deep and authoritative.
"Class A is a model of excellence. Nothing excuses a disregard for time discipline. Remember that."
Sakamoto nodded.
"Please take your seat."
Mashima didn't outright accuse him of being late, but the repeated emphasis on "time discipline" made the message crystal clear.
"Thank you, teacher."Sakamoto bowed again, calm and collected.
When he straightened, his gaze swept naturally across the classroom—as if briefly meeting every pair of eyes watching him.Then he took a step.
There was no awkwardness.No panic.Nothing resembling the behavior of someone who had just arrived late.
His pace was steady and fluid, like he was walking alone in an empty hallway.Every step had a rhythm that felt meticulously measured, yet his movements showed no trace of effort.
His arms swung naturally, his shoulders and back straight like a pine tree.His destination—the empty window seat—was clear, yet the arc of his movement seemed to draw an invisible line of elegance in the eyes of those watching.
As he walked between the desks, countless eyes followed him.He seemed unaware of them all.
The burly bald student leaned forward slightly—brow furrowed, mouth tightly pressed, eyes sharp and questioning, as if something was ready to burst out.
The silver-haired girl with the cane tapped the tip of it lightly with her finger, the playful smile on her lips deepening, curiosity brightening behind her glasses.
The blond-haired boy's sunny smile held steady, but his eyes now glinted with a touch of curiosity. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the table.
The purple-haired girl shifted her gaze from the window toward him. Her expression stayed indifferent, but deep in her violet eyes a faint ripple stirred before fading back into stillness.
In the silence, only Sakamoto's footsteps echoed softly through the classroom.
He reached the window seat.
But he didn't sit down immediately.
His left hand brushed lightly through the air above the back of the chair with such natural ease that it felt almost unreal.Then his body turned smoothly toward the seat, lowering with perfect balance until his posture settled into quiet, effortless relaxation.
And the moment his body touched the chair—
Ding—!
The sharp electric bell rang out without warning—so perfectly synchronized it felt deliberately calculated.
The sudden sound shattered the silence.One moment: quiet.The next: a deafening chime.The contrast made several students tense up reflexively.
Only the boy by the window adjusted his posture calmly, looking toward the podium without the slightest disturbance.His composure felt like a silent salute to the bell.
He even tilted his head slightly toward the window, as though searching for the silhouette of falling cherry blossoms.
On the podium, Mashima stood frozen, his gaze fixed on Sakamoto.
The timing—the instant he sat down matching the exact ring of the bell—was impossibly precise.Sakamoto had taken his seat at the very moment the bell rang.
Technically, he wasn't late.
That unshakable composure, that second-perfect rhythm—
Was it intentional?Coincidence?Or an astonishing "performance" crafted by fate?
A wave of vigilance, mixed with disbelief, rippled through Mashima's mind.
He tightened his grip on his folder, cleared his throat, pushed down the turbulence in his chest, and forced himself back to composure.
"Class meeting will now begin."
His voice was steady and powerful, but deep in his eyes, the name "Sakamoto"—along with the lateness and that eerie, perfect timing—had already been carved into his mental watchlist.
This was someone who required special attention.
The bell gradually faded, leaving only Mashima's steady voice filling the room.
By the window, Sakamoto sat upright, gaze fixed calmly on the podium, his expression serene behind black-rimmed glasses—as though none of the earlier commotion had ever occurred.
This composure in the face of authority was especially striking in the tense atmosphere of Class A.
Sakayanagi caught the suppressed whispers and the surprised, puzzled expressions spreading around the room.
Mashima's voice rose slightly:
"On the 1st of each month, the system automatically deposits a fixed number of points into each student's account. At this moment—"
He slowed his speech.
"You should all have 100,000 points in your accounts."
He paused.
"One point is equal to one yen."
Buzz—!
An invisible shockwave rolled through the entire classroom.
100,000 yen!Even for elites, this was a staggering amount that shattered their assumptions.Katsuragi Kohei instantly leaned forward.
Sakayanagi caught every subtle reaction—the flickers of emotion beneath the classroom's enforced silence.
The discipline of Class A prevented noise, but it couldn't suppress the sudden tension in the air or the collective quickening of heartbeats.
"Questions may remain,"Mashima continued.
"Now is the time for questions. Feel free to ask anything."
Before he even finished—
A hand shot up from the back of the room near the window, raised with an impeccably standard, strikingly conspicuous posture.
The movement was fluid and powerful—like a ceremonial flagpole rising—yet carried an inexplicable elegance.The shoulder and arm formed a straight line, fingertips pointed cleanly toward the ceiling, not a single wobble in the elbow.
There was no impatience, no humility—Instead, it felt like a calm declaration to the world:
"I have a question."
All eyes shifted toward it—including Sakayanagi's probing gaze.
Sakamoto, who moments ago had been absorbed in the scenery outside the window, had now fully turned back.
He stood with his spine perfectly straight, his black-rimmed glasses reflecting the classroom light, his gaze calm as he met Mashima's eyes.His composed demeanor contrasted sharply with the suddenness of his raised hand.
It was as if a stage spotlight had snapped onto the lead actor—instantly making him the center of the scene.
Soft whispers rose across the room:
"I thought he was just staring outside…""That pose… is kind of cool…""He's really putting on a show…"
"Sakamoto-kun."
Mashima's voice was calm, though Sakayanagi caught a fleeting sharpness in his eyes.
Sakamoto stood, his movements smooth and graceful—like bamboo growing straight upward.
He spoke, his voice clear and steady, carrying a serious and thoughtful tone:
"Ms. Majima,"
He nodded politely.
"Thank you for the explanation. I have a question regarding the distribution of the 100,000 points."
He looked directly at Mashima, his expression serene.
"This generous monthly allowance of 100,000… is it a uniform benefit distributed equally across all grades by the school's administrators? Or—"
He paused elegantly.
"Is it a privilege unique to Class 1-A?"
The moment the question landed, the air froze.
Sakayanagi's fingers stopped tapping her cane.
A uniform benefit?Or a privilege exclusive to Class A?
He asked it so casually—like he was simply checking whether the system was fair.
Was he looking out the window earlier…to observe the other classes?
Sakayanagi felt her curiosity ignite.She looked at Sakamoto with blazing interest.
Mashima's pupils shrank—ever so slightly.
No one had expected this seemingly detached student to ask such a pointed question—one that went straight for the heart of the system.
He paused for two seconds—a silence heavy with implication.
Then, in a lower, more cautious voice, he said:
"Points are indeed deposited into each student's account on a fixed monthly basis."
He avoided using the word "class," but then added:
"However, in advanced training, individual development and the collective's honor and disgrace are inextricably linked—"
"I understand. Thank you for your explanation!"
Sakamoto cut him off cleanly—with perfect politeness, but with a precision that severed Mashima's attempt to blur the details.
Under the stunned gazes of the entire class—and Mashima's stiffened expression—he bowed smoothly toward the podium and sat down before anyone could react.
Every movement was fluid, elegant, effortless.
The abrupt end to the exchange felt like a powerful musical crescendo suddenly cut short—leaving the entire room in stunned silence.
Katsuragi's forward-leaning posture froze, shock flickering across his features.Hashimoto Masayoshi's mouth opened slightly, then closed with a soft sigh, his eyes now filled with renewed scrutiny toward this "strange guy."Kamuro Masumi's gaze darted rapidly between Sakamoto and Mashima, confusion cracking her normally indifferent expression.Kito Hayato remained in the shadows, but Sakayanagi noticed something—
His usually lowered eyes were lifted just a little, peering through his curly hair at Sakamoto… with curiosity.
Sakamoto ignored every gaze directed at him.
He quietly pulled out a brand-new hardcover notebook and pen from his desk.
Under Mashima's unsettled stare and the class's stunned silence, he positioned the pen in his right hand while his left hand pressed lightly on the paper—perfectly angled to stabilize the page while obscuring most of his writing.
His wrist moved with breathtaking fluidity.
The pen glided across the paper with a rapid, crisp shh—shh—shh, leaving only a faint afterimage behind.His left hand remained perfectly still, while his right hand worked like a poised phantom.
He lowered his head slightly; a few strands of hair fell across his forehead, brushing the frames of his glasses—only emphasizing the calm, focused line of his jaw.