The luxury cruise ship Speranza cleaved through the night sea with the smooth, constant hum of its engines.
I stood alone on the uppermost deck, where the sea breeze blew the strongest, tousling my hair. Down below, on the main deck, the students were celebrating the end of the island exam with a barbecue party. Ike's laughter, Sudou's shouts, and the cheerful chatter of the Class C girls drifted up faintly, muffled by the distance and the roar of the waves.
They were celebrating a victory. They were celebrating the 300 class points they had successfully secured.
However, I was not here to celebrate. I was here to do what I had always done ever since I was capable of thought: Analyze anomalies.
I stared at the moon's reflection on the dark surface of the water. My mind spun backward, reconstructing every single second since I first stepped onto the school bus this past April.
My initial goal in coming to this school was simple: Freedom.
I wanted to know what a "normal" life felt like. I wanted to know what it was like to be an ordinary, inconspicuous student, with perfectly average grades, unburdened by the expectation to become the perfect human being. I wanted to escape the White Room—the blindingly white facility that defined my entire existence.
However, my calculations were off.
I had assumed this school was merely a complex social hierarchy system where I could comfortably hide in the shadows. I had assumed the biggest monster here, if there even was one, was myself.
I was wrong.
There was another monster. And that monster did not hide in the shadows. He stood directly beneath the spotlight, smiling amicably while spooning gelato into his mouth.
Koroizumi Seiji.
My memories drifted back to that first moment on the bus. When he confronted Kouenji Rokusuke.
Kouenji is pure ego. A human who lives by the law of the jungle where he is the undisputed king. Ordinary logic does not work on him. Yet, Seiji did not use ordinary logic. He did not use morality.
He utilized psychological surgery.
With just a few sentences about varicose veins and male ego, he tamed Kouenji without even touching him. At the time, I merely thought he had a silver tongue.
But then, I saw him tame Sudou Ken.
Sudou is a ticking time bomb. A mad dog who only understands the language of violence. In a regular school, Sudou would have been expelled in the very first week. But Seiji... he didn't hit Sudou. He didn't lecture him.
He spoke the language of basketball. He entered Sudou's narrow logic and expanded it from the inside out. He transformed that wild stray into a loyal guard dog.
Those are not the abilities of a high school student. Those are the abilities of a veteran educator—or a mind controller.
Then came this Island Exam.
I closed my eyes, letting the cold wind strike my face.
The events on the North Beach yesterday afternoon were still vividly burned into my retinas.
The fight between Ryuen Kakeru and Seiji.
I was there, hiding behind a rock, acting as the silent witness per his request.
Ryuen is a competent street fighter. He doesn't fear pain, and he doesn't hesitate to destroy his opponents. In the world of teenage delinquency, he is a king.
But Seiji...
When Seiji released his aura, even I—who was raised in the White Room entirely devoid of the emotion of fear—felt a chill crawl down my spine.
It wasn't merely bloodlust or murderous intent. Murderous intent can be possessed by anyone holding a knife with trembling hands.
What Seiji possessed was absolute nothingness.
It was an aura of death so dense, so ancient, and so professional. It was as if killing, to him, was as effortless as breathing. As if the human life standing before him was nothing more than a speck of dust he could blow away at any given moment.
His movements...
I opened my eyes, staring down at my own hands.
In the White Room, I was taught every form of martial arts. I know how to break bones, how to incapacitate an opponent in a matter of seconds. I am the "Masterpiece."
But Seiji moved with an efficiency that transcended theory.
He didn't block. He flowed. He predicted Ryuen's attacks before Ryuen's muscles even contracted.
There was a moment, a fraction of a second, where I saw—or perhaps hallucinated—the shadow of something else behind Seiji's back. Something massive, waving about, moving at an incomprehensible speed.
Mach 20, perhaps? The number popped into my head out of nowhere.
I attempted to run a combat simulation in my mind.
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka vs. Koroizumi Seiji.
Scenario 1: Hand-to-hand combat in an open space. Win probability: 15%. Reason: His reflexes are beyond the human spectrum. He reads micro-expressions and shifts in body weight faster than I can process an attack.
Scenario 2: Long-term strategic battle. Win probability: 30%. Reason: He possesses real-world experience that I lack. The White Room provided me with academic and theoretical knowledge. But Seiji... he has wisdom. He knows how to manipulate the human heart using empathy, something that was never taught in that facility.
Scenario 3: Death Match. Win probability: ...Approaching 0%.
I let out a long sigh. Admitting defeat, even in a simulation, was a rare occurrence for me.
My father, a man obsessed with creating the perfect human, would undoubtedly be furious if he knew I rated myself lower than someone else.
But facts are facts. Seiji Koroizumi is not an experimental product like me. He is something else entirely. Something forged in a completely different kind of hell.
The Reaper. Shinigami.
Those titles somehow felt incredibly fitting for him. An angel of death who decided to retire and become a kindergarten teacher for problem children like Sudou, Ike, and Yamauchi.
And ironically... it was the very existence of that monster that saved me.
I looked down again, toward the bustling crowd on the main deck.
Down there, Seiji was laughing alongside Horikita and Kushida. He looked exactly like a normal teenager. He hid his fangs behind a goofy smile and a love for sweet foods.
Because he is there, everyone's eyes are drawn to him.
Ryuen targets him. Sakayanagi is obsessed with him. Ichinose is wary of him. Even the Student Council President, Horikita Manabu, must be keeping tabs on him.
He became the center of gravity. He became the Tanker absorbing all the aggro on this battlefield.
And thanks to that, I can remain as "Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, the insignificant student."
I don't have to lead the class. I don't have to devise strategies to save Sudou. I don't have to face off against Ryuen.
Seiji handles it all.
"He is the ultimate shield," I murmured.
As long as Seiji stands at the front, my peaceful life is guaranteed. I can enjoy my youth—if I can even comprehend what that entails—without interference from my father's ambitions or the school's intrigue.
However, there is one thing that piques my curiosity.
Why?
Why would someone with that much power bother taking care of "trash"? Why does he spend hours tutoring Ike in history? Why does he care about Horikita's health?
In the White Room, the weak are discarded. The failures are erased. Efficiency is god.
But Seiji... he picks up the weak, polishes them, and makes them shine.
Is it a hobby? Atonement for past sins? Or simply the instincts of a teacher etched into his very soul?
I don't know the answer. And perhaps, I don't need to know right now.
"All alone again, Ayanokouji-kun?"
The voice shattered my train of thought. I wasn't startled. I had heard his footsteps ever since he climbed the stairs.
I turned my head. Seiji Koroizumi stood there, holding two cans of warm coffee. He was smiling—the exact same smile he had given Ryuen before destroying him mentally, but this time, it was far warmer.
"I was just getting some air," I answered flatly.
"The breeze is nice up here," Seiji said, offering one of the coffee cans to me. "Take it. You need the caffeine to keep that brain of yours sharp."
I accepted it. "Thank you."
Seiji leaned against the guardrail beside me. We both stared out at the same dark ocean.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Seiji asked suddenly.
"Saw what?"
"The show. On the north beach."
"I saw someone absolutely dominate an opponent without ever touching him," I answered honestly. "It was a beautiful dance."
Seiji chuckled softly. "A dance... yes, perhaps that's the right word. Ryuen is a rather rough dance partner; he kept stepping on my toes."
He took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at me from the corner of his eye.
"You know, Ayanokouji-kun. I have a feeling that, sooner or later, this world is going to try and drag you out of your shell. Your father... or perhaps this school itself."
My hand, holding the coffee can, paused for a fraction of a second. He knew about my father? Just how much did he know?
"Don't tense up," Seiji continued casually, as if reading my mind. "I have no intention of selling your information. I just wanted to say... if that time comes, and you feel too lazy to make a move..."
Seiji patted my shoulder lightly. The pat felt heavy, yet profoundly reassuring.
"...you can always hide behind me. My back is broad enough to shield one or two geniuses looking to play hooky."
I stared at him. He was offering protection. To the Masterpiece of the White Room.
It was a ridiculous offer. And incredibly arrogant.
But somehow... I didn't feel offended.
"I'll keep that in mind," I replied. "But in exchange, make sure you don't die a foolish death because you were too busy trying to save everyone else."
"Nurufufufu... Die? I've already died once," Seiji joked, his eyes glinting playfully yet carrying a terrifying truth. "It's going to be pretty hard to kill me again."
He finished his coffee, then crushed the can with a single hand.
"Let's head down. Horikita is looking for us. She wants to discuss our point expenditure strategy for next month. That girl truly doesn't know how to relax."
"You're the one who made her that way," I commented.
"Perhaps," Seiji shrugged. "Or perhaps she was always like that, and I merely handed her a new pair of glasses."
Seiji walked toward the stairs. I followed behind him, maintaining a distance of two steps.
This position... walking behind his back... it didn't feel bad.
For now, let Seiji Koroizumi be the protagonist of this story. Let him be the hero, the teacher, and the monster everyone fears.
I, Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, am perfectly content being a spectator in the VIP seats.
However, as I looked at Seiji's elongated shadow stretching across the deck floor, I knew one thing for certain.
This peace was merely a temporary illusion.
I cracked open my can of coffee.
Click.
...I'm going to enjoy this vacation while it lasts.
End of Arc 3: Tropical Warfare
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