The classroom door opened quietly as Chabashira Sae entered with measured steps, her practical ponytail swaying sharply.
"I am Chabashira Sae," she announced, standing at the podium with a piercing gaze that swept across the room. "Your homeroom teacher and Japanese History instructor."
"The opening ceremony begins in one hour," she stated concisely, her voice as crisp as her tightly-bound hair. "Additionally, our school implements a fixed class system. You will spend the next three years with these classmates."
Chabashira flipped open the orientation handbook, tapping a key clause: "Dormitory management—leaving campus without permission is prohibited. Also..." Her tone shifted meaningfully, "Starting today, you'll use the new 'S Point System'."
At her gesture, students produced their newly issued student IDs. Scanning the QR code with the dedicated app, their screens displayed:
[100,000 Points]
"Deposited automatically on the 1st each month. 1 point equals 1 yen," Chabashira explained impassively. "Within school grounds, nothing is unpurchasable with points. Anything owned by the school can be bought."
The classroom erupted in astonished murmurs. For ordinary high schoolers, receiving ¥100,000 monthly seemed unimaginable.
Shimizu Akira's eyebrow twitched slightly.
This school was truly different—paying students was unprecedented.
What truly caught his attention was Chabashira's loaded phrasing: "nothing is unpurchasable."
*(This wording... sounds suspiciously like certain R-18 game settings.)*
Thud.
Chabashira's knuckles struck the podium sharply, silencing the room.
"Listen carefully," her voice rose an octave as she glared at the excited students, "everything in this school operates on meritocracy."
She paused deliberately, observing the varied reactions—some confused, others indifferent.
"These points," Chabashira raised her teacher's terminal displaying the numbers, "represent the school's evaluation of you. Remember, obtaining points through fraud or coercion is strictly prohibited."
Her tone turned icy on the final words.
Turning to the blackboard, she wrote a string of numbers with crisp chalk strokes, adding a social media account with a flourish:
"My contact information. Include your names when adding me."
A pause. "Message for routine matters, visit my office if needed. Call only for emergencies."
The classroom filled with typing sounds as students entered the number.
Shimizu saved the contact, hesitating over LINE's icon—Japan's preferred messaging app. His friend request sent with a ding.
Glancing up, he noticed Chabashira's bare wrists—her phone remained pocketed.
His gaze darkened as her words echoed: meritocracy... points as evaluation... purchasable anything...
(Evaluation criteria—exam scores? Sports? Club activities?)
The system's cruel logic emerged: points as evaluation meant fluctuation—gain or loss. Could zero points mean expulsion?
This cashless system created fairness—neither impoverished students nor wealthy heirs held inherent advantages.
The school proved more intriguing than expected.
"Then, I wish you a fulfilling campus life."
Chabashira's heels clicked away before the murmurs subsided. Shimizu immediately pursued.
At three paces behind, Chabashira halted without turning: "Q&A time is over."
Shimizu stopped short.
Q&A? He recalled no such session—just her observational silence before dismissal.
(Deliberate omission or oversight?)
Evidently, she wouldn't volunteer information.
"Teacher," he narrowed his eyes slightly, "I'm here to report misconduct."
Only then did Chabashira turn, surprise flickering. "What matter?"
"After the entrance interviews," Shimizu said solemnly, "I overheard two examiners in the restroom. They deliberately downgraded Kōenji Rokusuke's intelligence and judgment scores to C-level due to his arrogant demeanor. One said: 'Such insolent students belong in Class D.'"
"...Why report this now?" Chabashira's sharp gaze scrutinized him.
"Because I only just discovered he's our classmate." Shimizu's reply was airtight—initially just strangers' talk, but now a classmate's concern. Perfectly normal student logic.
"...Understood. I'll inform the administration." Chabashira nodded slightly.
Shimizu seamlessly shifted topics: "Does this school have a student council?"
"It does." Chabashira regained composure. "But first-years face steep entry barriers—requiring the president's approval."
"And the president's name? Which class?" Shimizu pressed casually.
A half-second pause.
"Horikita Manabu... Class 3-A."