Part 1
The interior of the karaoke box was spacious and sleek, a testament to the school's excessive funding. The air was crisp, carrying the faint, sterile scent of a high-end filtration system and expensive leather polish. Polished chrome accents glinted under the soft, recessed LED lighting that traced the ceiling in a steady glow of violet. At the center of this modern comfort sat Ryuen Kakeru, his legs kicked up on the marble-topped table, a wireless microphone lying forgotten beside a condensation-beaded pitcher of imported soda.
Around him, several students from Class C—Ishizaki, Kaneda, and a few others—sat in various states of unease. They weren't there to sing.
"Start talking," Ryuen commanded, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that cut through the muffled bass of a pop song bleeding through the walls from the next room.
Kaneda, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, opened a small notebook. "The mapping is nearly complete for the first month. As you suspected, the classes aren't moving at the same pace."
Ryuen let out a sharp, mocking huff of air.
"Of course they aren't. Give me the highlights."
"Class A is... stifling," Kaneda began.
"They've been disciplined from day one. It's hard to get close, but the divide is already visible. There's a faction forming around a guy named Katsuragi—stoic, traditional, plays by the book. But then there's a girl, Sakayanagi. She doesn't move much, but the students around her, like that guy Hashimoto, are always watching. They aren't just spending points, they're investing them in information. They're already acting like a functional elite."
Ryuen narrowed his eyes. "Katsuragi and Sakayanagi. Two heads on one body. That'll rot eventually. What about Class B?"
"Ichinose Honami is the center of everything there," Ishizaki chimed in, leaning forward.
"She's terrifyingly popular, especially among boys around school. Along with guys like Shibata So and Kanzaki Ryuji, they've turned Class B into a fortress of cooperation. By the second week, they were already coordinating their behavior, keeping quiet in halls, showing up to class on time. It's like they're trying to be the 'perfect' class."
Ryuen drummed his fingers on his knee. The math was always in the back of his mind. One hundred thousand points for every student. Across four classes, that was eighty million points a month for a single grade. If those points truly traded one-to-one with the Japanese Yen, the government was hemorrhaging money on a bunch of teenagers.
Government-funded charity? Don't make me laugh, Ryuen thought. The cake on the table is a lie. They're fattening us up for the slaughter.
"And Class D?" Ryuen asked, a predatory grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"A circus," Kaneda replied bluntly. "They're still acting like they're on summer vacation, wasting points on high-end electronics and gourmet food. Well, I suppose Class D could be considered united and in sync when it comes to being reckless. The only ones worth noting are the popular ones—Kushida Kikyou, who seems to have connections in every class, and Hirata Yousuke, the golden boy keeping the girls happy. But as a unit? They're a mess. They have no idea what's coming for them."
Ryuen leaned back, his eyes tracking the rotating disco ball on the ceiling. He had spent the first few weeks breaking the spirits of his own classmates, cementing his position as the undisputed dictator of Class C. It had put them behind the curve compared to the 'natural' discipline of Class A and the 'forced' harmony of Class B, but Ryuen didn't care. A pack of wolves led by a tyrant was better than a flock of sheep led by a girl.
"So, Class A is disciplined, Class B is organized, and Class D is a dumpster fire," Ryuen summarized. "And we're the black sheep in the middle."
"We've started keeping our heads down since mid-month, just like you ordered," Ishizaki said, while hoping not saying anything wrong.
"But some of the guys are complaining. They want to spend their points."
"Let them whine," Ryuen snapped, his gaze sharpening. "The school dangled a carrot to see who would trip over their own feet. This 'S-System' isn't a reward; it's an evaluation. They want to see who's functional and who's a waste of space."
He picked up a grape from a fruit platter and tossed it into his mouth.
"The popular names—Ichinose, Katsuragi, Hirata—they're all playing the roles the school wants. They're the 'good' students. But the moment that point balance hits zero on May 1st, we'll see who's still smiling."
Ryuen wasn't worried about being 'proper.' He was worried about being the one holding the leash when the panic started.
"Anything else?" Ryuen asked, his voice flat, signaling he was losing interest.
Ishizaki cleared his throat, looking a bit hesitant. "Actually... there's one guy from Class B. I ran into him in the corridor a few days back. Name's Makoto Yuki."
Ryuen didn't move, but his eyes shifted toward Ishizaki. "And? What about him? Is he another one of Ichinose's disciples?"
"That's the thing," Ishizaki scratched the back of his neck, remembering the icy stillness of the encounter. "He doesn't feel like the rest of them. I tried to rattle him—the usual provocation—but it was like barking at a wall. The guy didn't even blink. He just gave me his name and class like he was reading off a menu. But his eyes... they were too damn calm. It felt like he was looking through me, not at me. Usually, students either explode or turn into cowards."
Kaneda tapped his notebook. "I've seen the name. He scored a perfect hundred in every subject on the entrance exams—rank one for the entire year. On paper, he's the definition of a 'perfect' student. Even in the recent quizzes, from what I've gathered, his performance has been consistently flawless."
Kaneda paused, adjusting his glasses. "But his behavior is what's odd. He never draws attention to himself. No clubs, no fixed social circle, and he barely speaks in class. He lives like a background character, intentionally fading into the scenery. Yet, he remains sociable and approachable."
"Perfect scores, huh?" Ryuen chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "In a school that rewards 'functionality,' a genius who stays quiet in a class of pacifists is either a gold mine or a landmine."
Ryuen's grin widened. This was a detail that broke the pattern. Ichinose was the face of Class B, but this Makoto Yuki acted like a background character while his records stuck out like a sore thumb.
"Should we mark him as a target?" Ishizaki asked, eager to settle the score for the awkwardness he felt in the hall.
"Don't be an idiot," Ryuen cut him off, his voice ice-cold. "What do you mean, 'target'? I've already told you—for now, Class C keeps their heads down and behaves. Doing something reckless without understanding the rules only makes you look like a clown. For now, just watch. I want to see if this 'perfect student' is truly a saint, or if he's just wearing a mask that's a bit too tight."
Ryuen stood up, the flickering light of the disco ball fracturing across his face. The "honeymoon phase" of Advanced Nurturing High School was coming to a quiet, cold end. He hadn't bothered with the loudmouths or the petty popularity seekers. His eyes were now on the foundation itself—the hidden gears of the S-System that the school was so carefully concealing.
"Keep a close watch on the point flow, Kaneda. Not just ours, but the movement across all classes."
He pushed the door open, the bass from the corridor flooding the room like a low, rhythmic warning. The first month was over. The school had finished setting the stage—now, it was time to see who actually knew how to play.
Part 2
The ramen shop near the school's commercial district wasn't particularly eye-catching.
There was no large signboard, no flashy decorations—just a long wooden counter with eight seats, two small tables in the corner, and the deep smell of broth that had long since seeped into the walls.
Makoto had discovered the place by accident two weeks ago while walking down a street he had never explored before.
Since then, he had returned three times.
The ramen was good.
No other reason was necessary.
He sat at the counter—third seat from the left. It gave him comfortable distance from the entrance without putting him all the way at the edge. After placing his order, he waited with a glass of free water taken from the self-serve pitcher.
The shop had already passed its busiest hours.
For Makoto, this was the ideal time.
There was only one other customer at the far end of the counter, almost finished with his bowl.
Makoto watched the thin steam rising from the cooking area—or more precisely, he looked in that direction without really seeing anything, letting his mind drift nowhere in particular for a few minutes.
To be honest, he was already looking forward to eating.
The entrance door slid open.
Makoto didn't turn.
The footsteps that entered weren't hurried. Someone who had come here with the same purpose he had—dinner.
The seat to his left—the second from the left—was pulled out.
From the corner of his eye, Makoto noticed the same uniform as his.
He glanced over briefly.
Then he gave a small bow.
"Senpai," Makoto greeted casually but politely.
The student who had just sat down paused for a moment—perhaps not expecting to be greeted first, or perhaps processing something else.
"You know who I am?"
"Didn't you give the speech on the first day?" Makoto tilted his head slightly, saying it as though it were obvious.
"Ah. Right. I suppose I relaxed too much being alone."
That meant he was a first-year.
"Yuki Makoto. First-year, Class B."
"Horikita Manabu. Third-year, Class A."
Makoto gave him space to place his order.
"So senpai eats dinner here too?" Makoto asked.
"Hm. Is there something wrong with eating here?" Manabu replied.
"Sorry," Makoto said calmly. "I assumed a student from an elite school—with an elite position and status—would have luxurious dinners with candles on the table."
Manabu smiled faintly.
"You have quite an imagination."
"How many times have you come here?"
"Three times. I suppose this is the fourth," Makoto answered casually.
"In that case, I don't need to explain why you keep returning," Manabu said.
"Eating here is a kind of luxury greater than any restaurant."
Makoto paused.
Then he nodded in agreement.
Behind the counter, the middle-aged owner preparing their ramen gave a small smile as he overheard the conversation between the two students waiting for their bowls.
Horikita Manabu studied Makoto briefly, as if evaluating something.
Then he gave a small nod—like someone accepting information and storing it away.
Neither of them said anything further.
Makoto's ramen arrived.
He began eating.
Several minutes passed in silence—not an awkward silence, but the quiet of two people with their own business who didn't feel the need to fill every gap with words.
Manabu's ramen arrived shortly after.
He ate with the same efficiency he spoke with—nothing wasted.
"The ramen's good, isn't it?" Manabu said without lifting his eyes from his bowl.
"Yes. It's good."
Makoto scooped some broth with his spoon.
Manabu glanced toward the shop owner, who was stirring something behind the counter.
"This place has been here since the school first opened. The owner hasn't changed. Neither has the shop."
Makoto glanced at the man behind the counter—a middle-aged figure moving with the calm familiarity of someone who had done the same job for years and had no complaints about it.
"Interesting," Makoto said.
"To be honest, I assumed all school facilities followed the same pattern—large and extravagant. That's why I ended up here."
It wasn't small talk.
Just an observation worth stating.
The shop was small, but it felt old in a well-maintained way—almost as if its modesty was part of the school's standard itself.
Manabu glanced at him briefly.
There was something faint in his eyes—perhaps approval, or simply acknowledgment.
"You're a calm person."
"Thank you."
"When you speak, you choose your words carefully."
Makoto thought about that for a moment.
"I'm just trying to be polite."
Manabu didn't respond immediately. He took a few bites before continuing.
"Class B has been doing well during the first month."
"Well, they're a group of diligent students from the start."
"And you?"
"Me?"
Makoto took a sip of water.
"I simply do my duties as a student properly. Nothing more."
"Your definition of a student's duties apparently includes perfect scores in every subject."
"Isn't that what normal students are supposed to pursue?"
Manabu looked at him again.
This time more directly—like someone deciding the conversation deserved more attention than casual talk.
"Most students don't see it that way."
"I agree. Some students come here with different priorities."
Makoto set his spoon down for a moment.
"That's a valid choice. But if I'm going to do something, I don't see a reason not to do it well."
"A simple philosophy."
"Is it?"
Silence settled again.
They continued eating.
Outside the shop, footsteps occasionally passed by—students heading back to the dorms, the wind carrying distant sounds from the busier commercial district nearby.
Inside, there was only the clink of spoons, the soft simmer of broth, and the quiet whir of a small fan in the corner.
Manabu placed his chopsticks down.
"Have you ever considered the student council?"
Makoto glanced at him.
"In what context?"
"Joining."
"Ah…"
Makoto thought about it for a few unhurried seconds.
"No."
"Not interested, or never considered it?"
"Both."
Makoto returned to his ramen.
"I don't have an agenda that requires a position like that. And the work that comes with it isn't worth the investment."
"You speak about the student council as if it's a transaction."
"Everything is a transaction," Makoto said calmly.
"The difference is that sometimes you gain something difficult to measure."
He drank some water.
"The student council isn't one of those things. At least not for me."
Manabu remained silent for a few seconds.
His expression suggested someone reconciling the answer with something else in his mind.
Then he said,
"An honest answer."
"If I'm being honest, senpai," Makoto added, "I'm just lazy."
That caused a small shift in Manabu's expression.
He didn't seem offended.
In fact, he gave a quiet chuckle.
"Most people I offer that position to give far longer answers."
"Because they don't want to reject it in a simple way," Makoto said, finishing the last of his ramen.
"That requires more energy than necessary."
The corner of Manabu's mouth moved slightly.
Too subtle to be called a smile, but too deliberate to be neutral.
"Why did you enter this school?"
"The facilities are good. The point system works like a scholarship."
Makoto set his spoon down in the now-empty bowl. "Three years is enough time for many things."
"Have you ever wondered why you were placed in Class B despite your perfect scores?"
"I assumed it was a matter of evaluation criteria I wasn't aware of. But it doesn't bother me."
"You aren't curious about what it takes to reach the top? To be in Class A?"
"Not particularly. I'm here for the three years of 'stability' the school promised. Which class I'm in doesn't change the taste of this ramen."
Manabu studied him for several seconds.
This time it didn't feel like evaluation anymore.
More like someone who had already reached a conclusion and no longer needed verification.
"You're interesting, Yuki."
It wasn't praise expecting a response.
Just a statement.
"In a way I rarely encounter."
Makoto considered his reply.
"Senpai," he said, "if you know any other good food spots, please tell me."
Manabu looked at him.
Something in his eyes shifted—very slightly.
Too controlled to notice easily, but it was there.
"Very well."
Makoto paid, stood up, and picked up his bag.
At the door he paused briefly—not because he had forgotten something, but because there was one thing left to say.
"Senpai."
Manabu lifted his gaze from his bowl.
Makoto pushed the door open.
"See you."
"Yes. See you."
Outside, the night air was fresher than inside the shop.
Makoto walked toward the dorms with his hands in his pockets.
Above him, the sky was fully dark, a few stars visible through the school's lights.
He's a good person.
Makoto stored that observation.
In a different place from where he kept his observations about Sakayanagi, Koenji, or the Class C students in the corridor.
Closer to where he stored his observation about Hiyori.
Someone worth remembering, not because they're useful for something.
Just because they were good to be around.
Makoto kept walking.
— End of Chapter 6 —
Omake : "Yuki vs. Yuki." Convenience Store Standoff!!!
The convenience store was bathed in the artificial, sterile hum of fluorescent lights. It was that quiet hour where the only sounds were the rhythmic thump of the refrigerator compressors and the distant chime of the automatic door. The air smelled faintly of steamed buns and floor wax—a peaceful atmosphere, until two hands collided over a single, purple plastic bag.
The last pack of Grape Jelly Candy.
"Yuki-kun?" The girl gasped, her eyes widening in shock.
"Yuki-san," the boy acknowledged, his voice low and cautious, his grip on the candy tightening.
Makoto Yuki looked up, his gaze meeting a pair of narrowed violet eyes. He recognized her. Himeno Yuki. She was his classmate in Class B, and though they shared the exact same surname, they had scarcely exchanged a word since the first day of school.
A heavy, awkward silence followed. They stood frozen, their hands still stacked atop the crinkling plastic.
"Yuki-kun," Himeno began, her voice strained with a polite veneer that was rapidly thinning. "As a classmate, I'd appreciate it if you didn't make this difficult. I've had a long day of... 'cooperating' with everyone. I need this sugar."
Makoto didn't even turn his head. His gaze remained fixed on the packaging. "Yuki-san, your internal exhaustion isn't a valid currency for a transaction. First come, first served."
"I was the one who spotted it first!"
"But my hand established physical contact 0.2 seconds earlier," Makoto replied flatly.
Himeno's violet eyes narrowed. She hated how calm he was. In Class B, everyone was so emotional and warm, but this boy was like a block of dry ice—cold and unyielding. "Yu—Yuki! Makoto Yuki! Haven't you ever heard of 'Ladies first'?"
"Using the gender card for personal gain at every opportunity is exactly the type of behavior I dislike the most," Makoto countered, his grip tightening.
The silence between them stretched. To any passerby, hearing two people repeatedly say "Yuki" to each other while fighting over snacks was a surreal comedy. Finally, Himeno let out a sharp breath.
"Fine! We settle this. Rock-paper-scissors. Best of five," she hissed. "If I win, you go buy some bread or something and leave me in peace."
"Fair enough. But, before we start, let's make one thing clear."
"Tch, what now? Say it..."
"You are the challenger here."
The way those words left Makoto's lips made Himeno's face flush a deep crimson. "Haahh!!? Don't act so mighty when you haven't even won yet!"
"Rock, Paper, Scissors—!"
Round 1: Makoto threw Rock. Himeno threw Scissors.
Round 2: Makoto threw Paper. Himeno threw Rock.
2-0. A total slaughter.
Makoto looked at the score, then at Himeno. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated defeat. Her violet eyes looked genuinely devastated, as if losing this candy was the final straw after a month of suppressing her soul for Class B's harmony. She looked like a small animal that had just lost its last winter reserve.
Makoto felt a slight twitch in his chest—not pity... actually, it was just pity.
Round 3: Makoto (Scissors) vs. Himeno (Rock). (2-1)
Round 4: Makoto (Paper) vs. Himeno (Scissors). (2-2)
Round 5: Makoto (Rock) vs. Himeno (Paper). (2-3)
"I lost," Makoto said, his voice as monotone as ever. He retracted his hand, letting the candy slide into Himeno's grasp.
"Hah! See?!" Himeno suddenly stood tall, her previous devastation vanishing in an instant. She clutched the bag like a trophy. "A win is a win, Yuki-kun! Maybe you should practice your 'evaluation' skills more. Sore loser!"
She turned on her heel, skipping toward the counter with a triumphant smirk. After paying, she walked out of the store into the cool night air, mocking him one last time with a wave of the bag. "Better luck next time, Dry Ice-kun~!"
She popped a jelly into her mouth. Hm~ The flavor was incredible. The sweetness felt amplified, surging through her senses. Was it the sugar, or the victory over the most stoic guy in class? She hummed a small tune, feeling more alive than she had all week.
Then, She stopped dead in her tracks.
She replayed the last three rounds. Rock... Scissors... Paper...
Makoto had dismantled her in the first two rounds with zero effort. Then, his patterns became... telegraphed. Almost insultingly deliberate. He hadn't just lost; he had engineered her win.
Her face went from pale to a nuclear shade of red. She clutched her burning cheeks, the jelly candy suddenly tasting like ash.
"Are you kidding me!?" she hissed at the empty street. "Was he... was he pitying me?! That expressionless jerk!"
She looked back at the convenience store window. Makoto's silhouette was calmly exiting, clutching a plain bottle of water. He didn't look back. He didn't gloat. He just... moved on.
"Yuki Makoto... I'll make you regret looking down on me!"