"Yagami? Yagami, are you okay?" The Class 1-B students were still worried about their leader. Seeing him off, maybe it was heatstroke.
"No, I'm fine." Yagami paused, his face a little less dark, and shook his head kindly, pointing to the distance. "The quiz was tense—my head's a bit dizzy. I'll walk around and clear my head."
"Oh—please be careful." His teammates didn't press it. Those questions were really brain-burners; feeling dizzy was normal. Let him walk it off.
What they didn't know was that Yagami went deeper into the trees and kept walking until his kindly expression twisted into something hideous.
Veins stood out on his face, features contorted, and he gripped a nearby tree so hard that flakes and powder of bark scraped off.
Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Yagami wanted to scream and tear into the tree, but the mind is strange—even in a blaze of rage his reason was the last bridge to hold fast. He knew the island's terrain was complex; even in the woods, someone from another class could be nearby.
If he shouted and someone heard and could recognize his voice, it would be awful. He was a White Room assassin in disguise—his mission was to take Ayanokouji. His true intent was to kill Ayanokouji. Exposed, he'd be ruined.
His external persona had to remain the affable, sunlit fake—if he lost his temper and started hollering in the forest, that'd destroy the character and arouse suspicion.
But not shouting left his chest full of rage and resentment with nowhere to go—like a clot lodged in his throat. It couldn't be swallowed or spit out; the pressure was unbearable.
During the quiz he'd even thought about pitying Yukio the student council president—only to lose first place to him. And before leaving, Yukio's disdainful "That's it?" had been burned into Yagami's brain—every motion, every tone, every expression replayed like a two-second loop that spiked his anger each time.
The resentment swelled—his blood rushed, a bulge at his temple throbbed; it was terrifying. Anyone seeing him might think his forehead would pop.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! I hate it so much!" Yagami forced himself to whisper, a low, demonic growl.
"I can't hold it!" He couldn't accept losing to an ordinary person.
For over ten years he'd been raised in the White Room. In every training and subject, he'd been undisputed first. Only Amasawa could barely keep up; everyone else was trash. That arrogance made him certain he was humanity's pinnacle—intellectually and physically—second only perhaps to the questionable Ayanokouji praised by instructors.
But today the supposed number one lost to Yukio. How could he bear it? The humiliation and collapse of his lofty pride tormented him.
He couldn't stand it. If he couldn't shout, then…
Yagami's face grew cruel. Like a madman, he lunged forward, gaping, and started gnawing at the ancient island tree. (T/N: Don't try this at home)
His teeth and gums throbbed, but the pain made him feel better—like a starving ghost refusing to waste even bark. He went berserk, absolutely shameless.
After his mouth filled with wood dust, he spat repeatedly until it was clear.
Calming slightly, he drew a bottle of mineral water to rinse—he couldn't let anyone see bite marks.
But rinsing only eased him a little. He wasn't done. He hurried back and found his teammates, then started scouring for first-years.
He planned to use Yukio's class-as-threat angle to rally allies—to form alliances and persuade other first-years on the island: if you see Yukio or someone from his class, stop them.
Many first-years agreed; after all, the special island exam was really a contest between grades. The winners could seize class points from the losing grades—no grade would accept that.
So collisions between the three grades were inevitable; no one would sit by.
In the end, Amasawa heard the news and came to find Yagami alone—she was also traveling solo for convenience.
She asked immediately, "Why? Our target was Ayanokouji-senpai. Why make such a big show to go after Yukio-senpai instead?"
At the mention of Yukio, Yagami ground his teeth. He could still taste the wood dust; his face was foul. "Amasawa, I don't care about anything else. Just tell me—will you help me or not?"
Amasawa blinked her dark-gold eyes. What had gotten into her White Room colleague? She couldn't remember the last time his face was this ugly—maybe years ago, when an instructor once said he was inferior to Ayanokouji.
So Yagami-kun had really been trounced by Yukio-senapi? No wonder he couldn't swallow it.
Amasawa almost laughed, but out of long acquaintance she kept it in. "Fine. You said it—tell me what I can do to help."
They talked quietly; outsiders had no idea, but by the first night of the exam the first-years were already preparing to cooperate—targeting Yukio's class together.