The final night of the camp was quiet.Snow still blanketed the slopes outside, and the wind brushing against the wooden walls carried a chill that reminded everyone what awaited them tomorrow — the true exam.
Inside one of the shared rooms, the dim yellow light of the lantern barely illuminated two girls who could not be more different — yet bound by the same class and the same tension.
Horikita Suzune sat on her bed, legs crossed, a book open on her lap but unread. Her gaze lingered on the girl across from her — Kushida Kikyo, who was brushing her hair with uncharacteristic calmness.
Neither spoke for several minutes. The silence stretched, uncomfortable, thick with unspoken words that had long been buried under smiles and formal politeness.
Finally, it was Kushida who broke the quiet, her voice light but edged with something sharp.
"You're really something, Horikita-san. To think you'd go so far as to group me with you again. Do you enjoy keeping me on a leash?"
Horikita closed her book with a soft thud. "It wasn't about that. I wanted to keep an eye on you. That's all."
Kushida chuckled — the kind of laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "You admit it so easily. You really have no sense of subtlety, do you?"
Horikita didn't respond to the provocation. Her gaze remained steady. "You would have noticed regardless. Hiding it would only make things worse."
Kushida turned to face her fully now, the sweetness in her expression fading, replaced by the faint smirk that hinted at her other side — the real one.
"You talk as if you understand everything, Horikita-san. Always so composed, always so confident. But tell me — are you sure you aren't just using me for your own convenience? For the sake of your little class leader image?"
Horikita's tone didn't change. "Perhaps. I wouldn't deny that my personal feelings are involved."
Kushida blinked, surprised at the blunt honesty. "Oh? So you admit that this is personal?"
"Yes." Horikita's eyes didn't waver. "You irritate me. You frustrate me. But that's exactly why I can't ignore you."
Kushida tilted her head, her expression mocking. "How admirable. And yet, you're still as self-righteous as ever. You talk about unity and teamwork, but deep down, you only care about proving yourself."
Her tone hardened. "You think I don't know? For you, results are secondary. What matters most is you — surpassing others, standing above the rest."
Horikita took a deep breath. "You're right."
Kushida's smirk faltered. "What?"
"You're right," Horikita repeated. "I do care about results. I do care about my own growth, perhaps more than I should. But that doesn't mean I'll ignore my classmates anymore. I can't move forward if I don't face you."
The words hung between them. For the first time, Kushida's usual composure cracked, if only slightly.
Horikita rose from her bed, standing directly in front of her. Her tone was quiet but unwavering.
"Kushida-san, I want to be trusted by you. I know that sounds naïve, but it's the truth. You don't have to forgive me or believe in me right now. But if there's anything I can do to earn your trust, tell me."
Kushida's eyes widened slightly — then immediately narrowed in disdain. "You must be joking."
"I'm not."
Kushida turned away, her voice low. "There's nothing you can do. Because I'll never believe you."
Horikita stood silently, the air between them tense.
Kushida's reflection on the windowpane looked almost ghostly under the weak light. "I don't trust anyone, Horikita-san. Not you, not the class, not anyone. I've learned that trusting others only gives them the chance to betray you."
Horikita frowned. "So you'll just continue doubting everyone forever?"
"That's my nature," Kushida replied flatly. "You of all people should know that by now. I can't stand the idea of someone else holding information that could hurt me. I won't let anyone have that kind of power."
Horikita stayed silent for a moment. Then she spoke softly. "You've built a wall around yourself… but you're suffocating inside it."
Kushida's expression darkened. "Don't act like you understand me."
"I don't claim to understand," Horikita said. "But I know what loneliness feels like."
That struck a nerve. Kushida's hand tightened around her brush. "Don't you dare compare yourself to me. You always think you're above others — calm, logical, untouchable. It's disgusting."
Horikita didn't flinch. "Maybe it is. But even if you hate me, you should know — more people are starting to see who you really are. The mask won't hold forever."
Kushida froze. "What did you say?"
"I'm not threatening you," Horikita replied calmly. "I'm just telling you the truth. Despite that, I still acknowledge your talent — your intelligence, athleticism, and the way you can connect with others. Those are things I lack. You've always been an important part of our class, even if you won't admit it."
For a moment, there was silence. Then —
"Stop it," Kushida snapped. "I hate that tone of yours. That condescending, know-it-all attitude. You talk like you're above me, but you're not."
Her eyes were burning now — not with sadness, but with pure resentment. "Don't pretend to compliment me when all you're doing is reminding me of your leverage. You disgust me."
Horikita sighed softly. "If that's how you feel, I won't argue."
"Good." Kushida stood up, brushing past her. "This conversation is pointless anyway. You'll never get what you want from me. Cooperation? Trust? Forget it."
She turned sharply, her voice dropping to a cold whisper.
"Until one of us disappears, this is how it'll be. Remember that, Horikita-san."
Horikita didn't respond immediately. She watched as Kushida moved toward the door, hand already on the handle.
"…Understood," she said finally. "We'll leave it at that — for now."
Kushida looked over her shoulder with a smirk. "Good. And make this the last time you try something like this."
With that, she left, the door sliding shut with a soft click.
The room fell into silence once more.
Horikita stood there for a moment before exhaling quietly. The cold wind seeped through the cracks of the wooden wall, brushing against her cheek like a ghost of regret.
She sat back on her bed, her hands clasped together.
"I really am powerless…" she murmured to herself.
Kushida's words lingered — sharp and true. She couldn't deny it. No matter how much she tried to change, no matter how much she tried to lead, there were limits to her strength.
Her classmates still saw her as distant. Cold. Even now, she had few she could truly rely on.
Her thoughts drifted, inevitably, to one person.
Ayanokōji-kun…
He was the only one she could depend on — and yet, even he felt further away lately.Maybe it was her fault.
She still remembered that day — forcing him to reveal his opinion about the Student Council in front of Kushida. It had been necessary at the time, but… perhaps it made him wary of her.
A thin sigh escaped her lips. "I can't compromise on everything. Even if it means losing him…"
She tightened her grip on the blanket.
"Even so," she whispered, "I'll still choose Kushida. Because that's what it means to lead."
The lantern flickered once, then dimmed completely, leaving her in darkness.
Outside, the snow continued to fall — quietly, endlessly — as if erasing the tracks of everything that had happened that night.
The morning mist still clung to the mountain air when the final bell of the Forest School rang. Eight days of training, eight days of rivalry and exhaustion — and now, the results would determine everything. The boys gathered in the hall, the air thick with tension and the scent of sweat and nerves. The proctor, a middle-aged teacher with a stiff posture, stepped up to the podium with a clipboard in hand.
"Everyone has worked hard during the eight days at Forest School," he began, his voice echoing across the room. "Although the content of this exam differs from the previous special tests, the spirit remains the same. This is a special exam that will be held only once every few years. Compared to the last one, this year's overall evaluation is very high. The main reason—your excellent teamwork."
A ripple of applause followed, light and uncertain. The students were too anxious to celebrate yet.
I leaned back on the wooden bench, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. My group had done well — not great, not terrible — just enough. Third place. To some, that would be disappointing. To me, it was exactly what I wanted. We'd bought time, drawn attention away, and avoided unnecessary risks. A good delay is better than a bad victory.
"Then, the results will be announced next." The teacher's tone shifted slightly, as though he was about to deliver judgment. "First of all, the boys' group has exceeded the passing standards prepared by the school. It is the best summary—zero dropouts."
A wave of relieved murmurs swept through the crowd.No expulsions. No losses. For the boys, the Forest School was over without casualties.
From where I sat, Horikita Manabu stood calmly, his arms at his sides, the same disciplined composure that had defined him since day one. He had been beaten this time — at least on paper. Across from him, Nagumo Miyabi was smiling. That sly, polished grin of someone who'd already planned every outcome in advance.
Horikita approached him, voice steady."Congratulations, Nagumo," he said quietly. "There is no doubt that you won this time."
Nagumo shook his head, almost theatrically, his eyes narrowing."This time," he said, his tone sweet but sharp, "it's mainly because there was someone in your team who deliberately boycotted the exam. I can understand his approach... but this cannot be said to be your defeat, Horikita-senpai."Then his gaze turned — directly toward me.A few students followed his line of sight. Whispers rose.
I met his eyes with a bored expression. "You talk too much for a winner," I muttered under my breath, not enough for the room to hear.Nagumo smiled wider. He knew exactly what he was doing — baiting, testing, prodding. But not today. I wasn't here to play his game. Not yet.
Horikita didn't respond, but I could see his jaw tighten slightly. He knew there was more coming.
The teacher flipped to another page on his clipboard."Next, the results of the girls' division."
That was when the room's atmosphere changed completely.
"The group that fell below the average score threshold..." The proctor hesitated for a moment, then continued. "It is the group to which Ikari Momoko of Class B, third year, belongs. The group leader herself has also failed to meet the minimum requirements."
A few gasps sounded from the audience. Class B — one of the strongest in the third year. And Ikari Momoko was known to be serious, responsible, and composed. Something was wrong.
"Does this need to be said?" A female voice called out confidently from the group.It was one of the exam staff. "The one who disturbed the stability of our group," she said, "is Akane Tachibana from Class A."
The moment that name was spoken, silence consumed the hall.
Nagumo's grin widened, his arms folded in satisfaction. He'd done it — the trap had sprung.Tachibana Akane — Horikita Manabu's right hand. The one person who had stood by him from the start. The one who had doubted, wept, and yet remained steadfastly loyal.
I glanced at Horikita-senpai. His expression didn't change immediately, but I saw the faint tremor in his hand — the clenched fist against his side.
The teacher continued reading. "According to the report, Tachibana Akane deliberately missed the final class session, causing the group to receive a failing grade. The roll call confirms this—"
"Wait." Horikita's voice cut through the air, firm and unwavering. "The burial mechanism will only take effect when you deliberately fail or boycott the exam. Is that correct?"
The teacher blinked, uncertain. "That's right."
"Then I have one question." Horikita took a step forward, his tone calm but cold. "Will Akane Tachibana be buried with her?"
A rustle went through the third-years. Even the teachers shifted uncomfortably.From the corner, Nagumo's low chuckle echoed. "Senpai," he said softly, "it's better not to do useless work. Or are you reluctant to use twenty million private points to save your precious companion of three years?"
A few of the second-years smirked.The teacher looked up from the notepad, hesitant. "According to the records, Tachibana Akane missed class on her own accord. Therefore—"
"That's not true."Tachibana's voice broke the tension. She stepped forward, trembling slightly but holding her head high. "At that time, Ikari-san wasn't feeling well. No one in the group was willing to take care of her. So I stayed behind to help. That's why I missed the class."
The teacher blinked. "There was no such report."
"I asked the teacher on duty for permission." Tachibana's tone wavered, but she stood firm. "I boiled water for her, stayed beside her until she could stand again. I didn't skip class out of laziness or rebellion. I did it because it was the right thing to do."
Nagumo crossed his arms, smiling faintly. "What's the point of such a clumsy lie?" he said. "Even if what you said is true, this is an exam, Tachibana-senpai. Rules are rules. Isn't it selfish to break them for personal feelings?"
Akane's eyes filled with tears. Her shoulders trembled. "Selfish... maybe," she whispered. "But I asked permission from the teacher in charge. He said it was all right. He told me to take care of her. There are witnesses."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then, slowly, all eyes turned toward the teacher at the edge of the stage — the one who had supervised that day.
He froze. His eyes darted toward another teacher behind the curtain, then back to the crowd. Finally, he sighed deeply, as though carrying the weight of something unspoken.
"Yes," he said, voice soft but clear. "That is correct. I remember that request. Tachibana Akane did ask me for permission to assist Ikari-san. It was granted. The absence was recorded as excused."
The teacher on the podium looked stunned. He turned to the back, seeking confirmation. The senior instructor gave a stiff nod.
"In that case," the proctor said slowly, "the burial mechanism will not take effect. Ikari-san may choose another student to be expelled or withdraw voluntarily."
A collective murmur broke out. Shock, relief, confusion — and anger.Because everyone now realized what this meant.
Nagumo's smile had vanished.
He had planned everything — from the accusation to the psychological collapse, from the manipulation of rules to the public humiliation.But with one small, overlooked variable — a teacher's written permission — the entire structure had crumbled.
I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand, watching his expression darken. This is what happens, I thought silently, when you treat people like chess pieces and forget that even pawns have hearts.
Horikita-senpai exhaled quietly beside me, the tension leaving his shoulders. I didn't say anything — I didn't need to. The plan had worked exactly as I told him it would: shift responsibility onto the school, let them bear the moral weight.
If the school wanted to maintain the illusion of fairness, they had no choice but to protect Tachibana.
Nagumo stood silently for a few seconds. Then, forcing his composure, he clapped his hands lightly."Well then," he said, his voice regaining its calm, "it seems I made a miscalculation. My apologies for the misunderstanding."
"Don't worry, Nagumo," Horikita replied, his voice like steel. "Even the most clever plans can't hide their cracks forever."
The hall was utterly silent.
Finally, Nagumo looked up, his trademark smirk returning just barely."Don't worry, Ikari-senpai," he said, turning to the girl who had been dragged into the mess. "I'll keep my promise. I will provide twenty million private points to Class B and cancel the punishment."
A formal, measured gesture — an act of retreat disguised as grace.
As the teachers began dispersing the students, I caught sight of Tachibana at the corner of the hall. She was wiping her eyes, trying to compose herself. For the first time in days, she smiled — a small, fragile smile, but real.
Horikita Manabu approached her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You did well," he said simply.
I stayed where I was, arms folded, watching them. For all his discipline and composure, even Horikita-senpai had nearly lost this battle. If not for one small loophole — if not for that single moment of foresight — Nagumo might have won.
I rose quietly, stretching my arms."Twenty million points," I murmured to myself. "Guess that's a fair price for me."
Result
Class A: 974-->1001
Class B: 603-->590
Class C: 437-->452 (previous class D)
Class D: 392-->368 (previous class C)