The conversation flowed smoothly after that initial confrontation, the tension gradually dissolving into something almost resembling a lecture—a masterclass in realpolitik delivered by a man who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art.
Chairman Sakayanagi didn't speak of the White Room and Ayanokouji Kiyotaka out of nostalgia or sentimentality.
He spoke because this super soldier program, this grand ambition, was inextricably tied to both the institution and its most famous product.
"The future program we're discussing," the chairman continued, leaning back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers, "centers on a serum. A revolutionary compound that could create a new species of human—one free from disease, stronger, smarter, and potentially capable of awakening the psychic powers that have lain dormant in our genetic code since before recorded history. We call it the T-Virus. A mass-release serum designed to enhance our very essence, to elevate us beyond the limitations of ordinary flesh and blood."
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.
"And you, Manabu-kun, have been granted access to it. Consider it recognition of your excellence, your contributions, your unwavering dedication to the principles this school represents."
Manabu Horikita's expression remained perfectly neutral.
No flicker of excitement. No gleam of ambition.
Just the cold, calculating stillness of a mind processing information, weighing probabilities, searching for the trap hidden in plain sight.
"If this serum is truly so powerful," he asked, his voice calm, almost conversational, "why haven't you injected it into your own daughter, Chairman? Arisu is brilliant, accomplished—by your own standards, she represents the pinnacle of the school's philosophy. If the T-Virus is the future, why keep it from her?"
The question landed like a scalpel.
Chairman Sakayanagi's smile faltered. Just for a moment.
A flicker of something raw and human passing behind those knowing eyes before the mask slid back into place.
"It's dangerous," he admitted, the words coming slower now, weighted with something that might have been honesty or might have been the most calculated manipulation yet. "I have every confidence in my daughter's genetic makeup. Her excellence is undeniable. Her body and mind could likely coexist with the virus, adapt to it, emerge superior on the other side. But..."
He paused, looking away for just a fraction of a second. "As a father, why would I take that risk? My daughter is already brilliant. She is beautiful, accomplished, possessed of a future brighter than most can imagine. Why would she need this serum? Why would I gamble her existence on a possibility when certainty already sits before me?"
Manabu didn't blink. "You know what I mean, Chairman."
The old man met his gaze, and for a long moment, neither spoke.
The silence between them was heavy with everything unsaid—the bargains made in shadows, the lives traded for progress, the bodies buried beneath the foundation of this gleaming institution.
"Then let me be blunt, Manabu-kun." Chairman Sakayanagi's voice hardened, the grandfatherly warmth evaporating like morning mist.
He rose from his chair, walking to the window, his back to the young man as he gazed out at the students below—laughing, chatting, living their ordinary lives, perfectly content in their mediocrity.
"Once you agree to this injection, your old life ends. There is no returning to it. If you accept this deal, whether you succeed or fail, we will tell your family that you have taken a position with Umbrella Company—a sensitive role that prevents you from coming home due to classified information."
"If you die on the table—if the virus consumes you instead of elevating you—we will create a chatbot AI in your image. Your memories. Your knowledge. Your personality, replicated with inhuman precision."
"When your family reaches out, they will never know their son is dead. They will receive gifts, money, occasional news of your 'accomplishments.' They will see your name in headlines, your 'research' credited with advancing humanity. They will be proud. They will never grieve."
Manabu's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"If you live—if you emerge from the procedure intact, elevated, superior—you will remain at this school for one year. Training. Conditioning. Perfecting the weapon you've become. Then we send you to the capital to work for the government."
"You can meet your family anytime after your training concludes. You will have freedom, authority, power, wealth—all the things those ordinary graduates out there could never dream of achieving. You will be more than them. Your gene, elevated, will place you on an entirely different plane of existence."
The chairman turned, gesturing toward the window, toward the students below who had no idea they were being discussed like cattle at auction.
"Look at them, Manabu-kun. Happy. Content. Mediocre. They will graduate, find jobs, marry, reproduce, and die—forgotten within a generation. Their names will vanish like ripples on still water. But you? You have the chance to be remembered. To be more. To stand at the forefront of humanity's next great evolution."
He let the silence stretch, watching Manabu's face for any sign, any crack in that perfect composure.
"The choice, as always, is yours. But understand this—there is no third option. There never was."
Chairman Sakayanagi continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a lecturer delivering the most important lesson of a student's life.
"Remember what I told you about Ayanokouji? He is first generation. Along with Yuuji Kazami, they are the only two who enjoyed the full benefits of what we called the Prototype Serum."
"More superior. More dangerous. Anyone who received it and survived—truly survived—experienced what it felt like to be a god. The peak of human intellect and strength, pushed beyond all natural limits. They didn't just become stronger; they became more. More aware. More capable. More alive than anyone around them."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.
"Unfortunately, the government destroyed all remaining doses of that serum. Wiped them out completely. You want to know why? Because it granted nothing but misery over their budget and time."
"Out of hundreds of subjects—hundreds of promising candidates, trained from childhood, conditioned to survive—only two succeeded. Two."
"Everyone else died screaming on the table or became vegetables, their minds erased, their bodies useless shells."
Manabu listened, his face unreadable.
"And there's more," the chairman continued. "Even for those two successes, the transformation wasn't instant. It didn't trigger at the moment of injection. It required something else—a near-death experience."
"Or actual death followed by resurrection. The serum lay dormant in their cells, waiting for the body to reach its absolute limit, to stare into the abyss, before it would activate and rebuild them from the inside out."
"And before that moment, they had to undergo harsh training—months, years of conditioning—for their bodies to even have a chance of adapting when the crisis came."
He spread his hands, the gesture of a man presenting undeniable evidence.
"Now, with your intelligence, you understand why the government threw that project away, don't you?"
Manabu nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place with cold precision. "I understand, Chairman. When you invest enormous resources—time, money, personnel—into training someone, only for them to potentially fail at the final moment because they couldn't survive a near-death experience... of course the government would cut its losses."
"The risk-reward ratio was unacceptable. Too much investment for too little guarantee of return."
"Good." Chairman Sakayanagi's grin widened, genuine approval in his eyes. "You're learning, lad. You're seeing the world as it truly operates—not as idealists pretend it should, but as it does."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial register.
"That's where the T-Virus enters the picture. It's inferior to the prototype—let's be clear about that. It won't grant godlike strength or transcendent perspective. You won't become Ayanokouji or Kazami."
"But it will make you a super soldier. Enhanced strength, accelerated reflexes, improved cognition, extended lifespan. And most importantly—it's instant. No years of training required. No near-death experience gamble. No waiting for the right crisis to trigger transformation. The T-Virus works immediately upon injection—if your genes are excellent enough to accept it."
He paused, letting the implication land.
"And your genes, Manabu-kun, are perfect for this. Years of excellence. Peak physical condition. Unwavering mental discipline. You are exactly what the T-Virus was designed for."
"With this serum, you will become part of the ruling class of the new world. You will join us—the true elites. The ones who don't just survive, but shape what becomes of our society."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of decision.
Manabu Horikita's answer came without hesitation. Without drama. Without the slightest tremor in his voice.
"Then let's begin the operation, Chairman. Tell Akane—my secretary—to remain here. If the operation succeeds, she stays at my side. If it fails..."
He paused, just for a moment, and something flickered behind those cold eyes. Something almost human. "If it fails, my terms are simple. My family and hers will receive all the benefits you've offered. Every single one. That is not negotiable."
Chairman Sakayanagi's smile grew wider, warmer, more genuine than anything Manabu had seen from the old man in all his years at this school.
"You will not regret this, son," he said softly. "I promise you that. Whatever comes next—whatever the T-Virus does to you, whatever you become on the other side—you will not regret choosing to be more."
He extended his hand.
Manabu took it.
And somewhere in the depths of the school, in a laboratory hidden from every student's knowledge, machines began to hum and vials began to warm, preparing for the transformation of Horikita Manabu from exceptional human to something beyond.
Outside the window, the ordinary students continued their ordinary lives, laughing and chatting and worrying about exams and relationships, completely unaware that in the chairman's office, the future of their world had just taken another irrevocable step toward darkness.