The piercing sound of an old-fashioned school broadcast echoed through the dormitory, cutting through the early morning silence like a sword. The second day of the exam had begun.
"Ugh… that damned music again…" Ishizaki grumbled from his bunk, burying his face in his pillow. The alarm-like tune carried a crisp rhythm, meant to stir even the laziest student awake.
"Everyone, hurry up. We've got five minutes to reach the assembly hall," Yukimura announced, already out of bed, straightening his glasses as he looked around. His tone was firm, though it carried the heavy exhaustion of a man who'd barely slept.
The rest of the group scrambled. Yahiko, muttering curses under his breath, tripped over Albert's duffle bag. Hashimoto sighed, brushing his messy hair aside as he checked the clock.
"Five minutes, huh? That's generous compared to the last wake-up call," he said with a faint smirk.
But one person was missing.
"Where's Kōenji?" Yukimura frowned, scanning the bunks.
"Gone," Ishizaki snapped. "He's not even here. Don't tell me that narcissist overslept."
Just then, the dorm door creaked open. A figure appeared in the doorway, radiant and unbothered.
"Good morning, peasants. The sunrise was absolutely sublime," Kōenji announced, brushing back his golden hair with an elegant flourish. His perfectly ironed uniform gleamed even under the dim dorm lights.
"Where the hell were you!?" Ishizaki shouted, glaring at him. "You think this is your private vacation or something?"
"Training, of course," Kōenji replied with a nonchalant grin. "Perfection does not rest, Ishizaki-kun. I simply went for a morning jog and light meditation."
"You mean you went out to flex?" Yahiko muttered under his breath.
"Quiet," Hashimoto said calmly, standing up. "We've got no time to argue. Let's move."
The group, still grumbling, hurried through the narrow corridors and reached the assembly hall just in time. The second- and third-years were already lined up, standing in formation like soldiers.
A teacher stepped forward — an older man with neatly tied hair and a sharp gaze.
"Good morning, students," he began, voice cold but measured. "Each morning will begin with Zazen and cleaning duties. This is not merely for physical development — it is to discipline the mind."
Kōenji yawned, earning a sharp glare from Yukimura.
The teacher continued, "Today, we will begin with cleaning. Follow your group leader's instructions. Those who fail to cooperate will receive demerits. Accumulate three, and you will suffer a group penalty."
After the announcement, they were divided into smaller teams to clean different sections of the old wooden building. The scent of tatami, dust, and soap filled the air.
Kiyotaka Ayanokōji worked quietly, his movements efficient, measured — as if he'd done this a hundred times before. He didn't need to be told what to do. He simply acted.
Hashimoto, wiping the windows beside him, glanced sideways. "You're really composed, huh, Ayanokōji. Not even a sigh?"
"I don't see a reason to waste energy," Kiyotaka replied.
Hashimoto chuckled. "Fair point."
Meanwhile, Yukimura was trying to manage Ishizaki and Albert, who were arguing over the correct way to sweep.
"Albert, use shorter strokes. Ishizaki, stop bumping into him!"
"Tell him to move faster then!" Ishizaki barked back.
Kōenji leaned lazily against the wall, watching the chaos unfold with a look of amusement. "Ah, teamwork. Such a quaint concept."
"Start working," Yukimura snapped. "You're part of this group too."
"My dear Yukimura-kun," Kōenji replied smoothly, "a leader should understand division of labor. You are born to lead; I am born to inspire."
Yukimura's temple twitched.
Kiyotaka silently observed the tension. This is going to be a long week.
By the time cleaning ended, most of the group was already drenched in sweat. The next task was Zazen — seated meditation under the supervision of an instructor who looked as if he'd been carved from stone.
"Cross your legs. Straighten your back. Breathe," the instructor said sharply. "Still your mind."
Hideo Sotomura, a first-year from another group, raised his hand. "Sensei, I ain't never done—"
Before he could finish, the instructor smacked the floor with his wooden stick. "Demerit! Improper speech. Manner and morality are one!"
Sotomura flinched. "Ah, s-sorry."
The instructor nodded curtly. "Remember this: Zazen is not silence. It is consideration. You do this not for yourself, but for harmony."
Kiyotaka's gaze lowered. Harmony… huh.
After practice, they gathered for breakfast. The air smelled faintly of grilled fish and miso soup. The cafeteria was filled with chatter, the sound of trays clattering echoing through the wide hall.
A third-year stood up and suggested, "Let's have a rotation for breakfast duty. First-years start tomorrow."
Yukimura nodded. "Understood."
When he suggested they wake up early to prepare, Ishizaki groaned. "No way. You think I'm getting up before dawn for this crap?"
Yukimura frowned. "We'll take turns. If you want this to work, everyone has to contribute."
Hashimoto gave a small laugh. "You sound like Hirata."
"I don't care what I sound like," Yukimura said coldly.
Kiyotaka quietly ate his meal, analyzing. Yukimura was trying to lead by logic — but logic didn't always motivate people. Hashimoto could've taken the role easily; he had the charisma. But he was deliberately holding back, preferring to observe the dynamics unfold.
Yukimura's problem wasn't intelligence. It was compatibility.
Meanwhile, in another section of the cafeteria, Miyamoto sat across from Ibuki.
Ibuki ate silently, occasionally glancing up. "So… you really meant what you said yesterday? You're not participating?"
"That's right," Miyamoto said with a calm smirk, stabbing at his rice. "I'll sit this one out."
"You're out of your mind," she said flatly. "This isn't one of those beach exams where you can just hide in the background. You'll drag your group down."
"I know," he replied. "That's the point."
Ibuki frowned. "You're planning something again, aren't you?"
Miyamoto looked at her quietly. "I'm just... balancing the board. If Class A wins too easily, the system becomes boring."
"You sound like Ryūen," Ibuki muttered.
"Maybe," Miyamoto said, smiling faintly. "But unlike him, I don't yell. I just act."
That night, fatigue spread through the camp like a fog. Most students collapsed into bed after the evening meal, but the third-years had other plans.
Nagumo Miyabi appeared at the first-year dormitory, flanked by Vice President Kiriyama and third-years Ishikura and Tsunoda. His confident smile radiated through the room like a spotlight.
"Yo, first-years," he greeted casually, holding up a deck of cards. "We came to deepen our bonds. How about a friendly game?"
Hashimoto arched an eyebrow. "A game?"
"Old Maid," Nagumo replied cheerfully. "Losers take breakfast duty. Simple enough."
The first-years exchanged glances. It was a trap, obviously — but rejecting him would look bad.
"Fine," Yukimura said, stepping forward. "We'll play."
The game began. Cards shuffled. The sound of laughter and teasing filled the dorm room.
Yukimura, nervous and untrained in games like this, lost almost instantly — twice. That meant two days of breakfast duty.
"Ahaha, rough start for the rookies," Nagumo said with a grin.
"Don't worry, we'll bounce back," Hashimoto said, swapping in for the next round.
They won the third, but lost the fourth. Another penalty. The room groaned.
Finally, Kiyotaka was pushed to take the seat.
"Your turn, Ayanokōji," Nagumo said, his eyes gleaming.
The cards were dealt again. The atmosphere shifted — quieter, heavier.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
Kiyotaka's gaze moved over the cards in Nagumo's hand. He noticed the faintest irregularity — a small, almost invisible crease near the edge.
A marked card.
The round played out slowly, deliberately. When only two cards remained, Nagumo leaned forward, smirking. "Careful. The Joker's waiting for you."
Kiyotaka calmly picked a card — the marked one.
Nagumo froze.
"…Oh," he muttered.
Kiyotaka revealed the card. It wasn't the Joker.
"I guess luck's on my side tonight," Kiyotaka said quietly.
Nagumo's smile faltered for just a moment before returning. "You're sharp, Ayanokōji. Reminds me of Horikita-senpai."
He rose from his seat, gathering his things. "That's enough for tonight. Sleep well — you'll need it."
As the third-years left, Hashimoto chuckled. "You really don't miss a thing, huh?"
Kiyotaka didn't reply. He simply stared at the door Nagumo had exited through, his thoughts drifting.
He's not playing games. He's testing us.
Meanwhile, in another dorm across the compound, Miyamoto sat by the window, gazing at the faint moonlight filtering through the trees.
I smiled faintly. "Ayanokōji's probably stirring up trouble again… Looks like I'll have to keep my own tempo."
The forest was drenched in moonlight.
A faint mist drifted between the tall trees outside the dormitory, making the silver glow of the moon look like a soft veil spread across the entire camp. The silence was almost complete—until a sharp cough broke through it.
Inside the boys' dormitory, Miyamoto sat upright on his bunk, eyes half-lidded, staring out the window. The cold moon reflected off his irises like steel. Then, with a slow smirk, he pulled out his phone, opened a playlist, and pressed play.
The sound that burst from the small speaker was anything but gentle. A metal song, loud, aggressive, and defiant, crashed through the stillness of the night. The heavy rhythm bounced off the wooden walls, echoing throughout the dormitory.
At first, there was confusion. Then came chaos.
"What the hell—!?" someone shouted from below.
Blankets were thrown aside, feet hit the floor, and angry voices filled the room.
The irritable guy with glasses, a student from Class A, shoved his own blanket aside and glared at Miyamoto. "Miyamoto, what the hell are you doing!? You want to die!?"
I didn't even look at him. "No," I said lazily, turning my head slightly. "Someone told me a few days ago that my voice isn't bad. Said if I practiced a bit, I could sing pretty well. So I figured I'd give it a try."
"Try it in the morning, idiot! Do you know what time it is!?"
"It's a beautiful night," I replied, brushing his messy hair back. "The moon's perfect. Don't waste it."
The student's veins popped. He looked like he was about to lunge when a calm but heavy voice cut through the noise.
"Miyamoto."
The dorm lights flickered on. Standing by the switch was Katsuragi, his expression dark and composed. His slippers shuffled across the floor as he approached.
"What do you mean by this?" Katsuragi asked coldly. "It's one thing if you refuse to take the exam. But if you interrupt our rest like this, you'll drag us all down. If we end up last, I'll take you down with me. Don't think the school will accept your 'singing practice' as an excuse."
The other Class A students quickly got up, standing behind Katsuragi. The tension in the air was sharp, almost tangible.
Miyamoto leaned against the window frame, moonlight outlining his profile. His tone was casual, unconcerned.
"What does it matter?" I said. "Even if your group ends up last, Class C will only lose, what, 105 class points? But you guys—Class A—you'll lose 170. That's a huge difference. If Class B performs well, they'll probably get promoted to Class A next semester. It's not such a bad outcome, is it?"
The words hit the room like ice water.
Katsuragi went silent for a long moment. The others exchanged uneasy glances. The calm logic in Miyamoto's voice was what made it worse. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't mocking. He was simply explaining it like a fact.
"…You'll be expelled," Katsuragi finally said in a low tone. "If this continues, there's no saving you. Ibuki from Class D—your friend, right? And your other classmates from Class C. Do you think they'll accept that?"
I smiled faintly, expression unreadable. "Maybe not. But that's my business. Has nothing to do with them."
"I see…" Katsuragi's voice grew even deeper, almost sorrowful. He closed his eyes briefly. "So that's how you've always thought."
Around them, the second-year students stared silently. Up until now, they'd thought Miyamoto's laziness was just an act—some kind of slow play to irritate them. But now, they understood something worse: he truly didn't care.
This wasn't strategy. It was conviction.
Miyamoto's indifference felt heavier than any insult. His posture—leaning against the window with one leg crossed—radiated a quiet, fearless confidence.
The boy with short hair, Morishige Takuro, clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You think you can screw us over and just get away with it?"
I turned my gaze toward him, smiling faintly. "If you think you can hit me, go ahead."
Morishige froze.
Everyone could see it—the way Miyamoto tilted his head slightly, daring him. But there was something in his eyes, something cold, something that said, Do it, and you'll regret it.
If they laid a hand on him, the school would step in. And then the consequences wouldn't just be personal. It would drag Class A down into Class B territory instantly.
It was like being threatened by a hedgehog: small, irritating, but dangerous to touch.
Katsuragi's deep voice broke the silence. "Then tell me this, Miyamoto—what do you want?"
I tilted his head, feigning thought. "Hmm… what do I want?" He walked slowly toward the center of the room and sat down on a wooden chair, folding his arms.
"It's very simple," I said with a small smile. "No matter where the group ends up in this exam, everyone from Class A will give me the personal points they earn."
The Class A students went pale.
"In return," I continued, voice calm, "I won't disturb you. I won't sabotage anything. I'll just… fish quietly. But if you drop below fourth place, forget it. You'll eat the penalty yourselves. Has nothing to do with me."
I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and began to write. The scratching of the pen filled the tense air.
When I finished, I slid the paper toward Katsuragi.
"Here. A contract. Simple terms. You get your peace. I get my share. Fair trade, isn't it?"
Katsuragi stared at the paper. He didn't move.
Shinji Matoba and the others crowded around, reading over the words. There were no tricks, no hidden loopholes. Just a blunt agreement: All personal point gains from the exam will be transferred to Miyamoto Sōshi.
The realization sank in.
"He's serious…" someone muttered.
"He's insane," another whispered.
But in the end, they all knew they had no choice. If they didn't sign, he would make their lives hell. And if they fought him, he'd drag them down with him.
One by one, the pens touched paper.
Katsuragi signed last. His face betrayed nothing.
When it was done, I folded the contract neatly and slipped it into his pocket. "Pleasure doing business with you."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Morishige Takuro glared at him. "Miyamoto Sōshi, right? I'll remember you. Next exam, I won't let you get away this easily."
I tilted his head, smiling faintly. "That's fine. Just make sure there is a next exam for you."
Morishige's teeth clenched. He wanted to punch him, to knock that smug look off his face. But when he looked around—at Katsuragi's calm restraint, at the others' exhaustion—he realized just how powerless he was in that moment.
He muttered under his breath, "Damn it… we look like idiots."
Yes. Idiots who'd just signed away their own points to the laziest guy in the room.
i stood, stretching his arms, the faint metal song still humming softly from my phone then glanced around the room one last time before heading for my bunk.
"Good night," I said casually. "Oh—and don't worry. I'll keep the music down next time."
The room went silent again.
But no one slept well that night.
The next morning, the air in the dorm was thick. The Class A students avoided looking at Miyamoto. Every creak of the floorboard, every cough felt heavier than usual.
Katsuragi, ever the composed one, gathered his group to plan the day's duties. He didn't mention the contract, but his tone carried a weight everyone understood.
Meanwhile, Miyamoto was by the window again, humming quietly, watching the sunlight filter through the trees.
Ibuki's message flashed briefly on his phone screen:
"Are you serious about what you're doing?"
i smiled faintly. mY reply was short.
"Always."
That day, as the groups gathered for morning cleaning, Hashimoto glanced toward Class A's dorm and whispered to Ayanokōji, "Hey, I heard a rumor. Class A's got some… internal drama."
Ayanokōji's gaze shifted subtly toward the distant building. "Drama?"
"Yeah. Word is, that Miyamoto guy kept everyone up all night with some rock concert and then made Katsuragi's group sign a point contract."
Ayanokōji's expression didn't change, but inwardly, he found it… interesting.
Miyamoto Sōshi. You really like playing with fire, huh?