The white light was blinding.
A deafening screech of tires, the shrill honk of a horn, and then—nothing.No pain. No sound. Just the sensation of my body being flung into oblivion, and then silence.
When I opened my eyes again, the world had changed.
The ceiling above me was smooth and white, with fluorescent lights humming faintly. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, mingled with the comforting scent of polished wood. I blinked, dazed, half expecting to see hospital staff rushing in, but the room was empty. My body didn't ache. My chest rose and fell easily, as if the weight of age and exhaustion had been lifted off me.
I sat up slowly, staring at my hands.No calluses. No wrinkles. My skin looked younger, smoother. My voice came out as a low whisper."Where… am I?"
When I turned, a mirror caught my reflection—and my breath froze.
A boy of sixteen stared back. His hair was short, black, neatly cut. Sharp brown eyes. Leaner frame. There was a calm, almost sharp precision to his features—like someone still on the cusp of adulthood. I stood, trembling slightly, and took a step closer to the mirror. The reflection followed, perfectly mimicking me.
This wasn't my face.
My memories flickered like broken film reels—flashes of a small apartment, empty instant ramen cups, late-night anime marathons after overtime shifts. A lonely, uneventful life. And then… the accident.
Now, something else crept in. Faint whispers of thoughts that weren't mine, of a name that felt foreign on my tongue.
Miyamoto Soshi.Son of two mid-tier salary workers. Average grades. Ordinary reputation. Quiet. Unremarkable.
And yet—now that was me.
I stumbled back and caught sight of something on the desk nearby. A crisp uniform hung neatly on a hanger: white shirt, dark jacket lined with gold trim, a red tie folded perfectly across it. Beneath it, a pamphlet lay open.
"Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School," the cover read in elegant, embossed print.
My pulse quickened.No way.
I picked it up, scanning the pages, and the realization hit me like a wave. This was the school—that school. The one where merit, manipulation, and hidden power ruled everything. A society disguised as a classroom. I had watched it from afar before, through a cracked phone screen at two in the morning, never imagining I'd stand inside it.
And yet, here I was.
Thrown into the world of Classroom of the Elite.
I exhaled shakily and forced myself to focus. If this was real, then I had to act like it. No one would believe me if I claimed to be someone else. I put on the uniform, tightened the tie, and checked the mirror one last time. Miyamoto Soshi stared back—not the office worker I once was, but a student about to step into a dangerous game.
The Classroom
The hallways gleamed like polished marble, the air humming faintly with the chatter of other students. Everything was new, sleek, high-end—this was more like a small city than a school.
When I reached the door labeled Class 1-D, I hesitated.This was it. The beginning.
I slid the door open. Rows of desks, spotless windows, and bright walls greeted me. A few students were already there, chatting in small groups or scrolling through their phones. I recognized some faces instantly—Hirata's clean-cut charisma, Kushida's radiant smile, Horikita's composed silence near the window.
For a second, I froze. I'd seen these people before. Fictional, once. Now flesh and blood.
I found an empty seat near the back corner and sat down quietly. My heart was pounding too fast, my mind trying to grasp the surreal nature of it all. Play it cool, I told myself. Blend in.
Moments later, the door slid open again.A woman in her late twenties stepped in, sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk. Sae Chabashira. The homeroom teacher.
"Good morning, students," she said curtly. "I'm Sae Chabashira, your homeroom teacher. Congratulations on your admission."
Her voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of authority that silenced the room. She began handing out papers, explaining the school's basic structure—the merit system, the class divisions, the point-based living arrangements. Then she pulled out a stack of cards.
"These are your student ID cards," she continued, holding one up. "They also function as your school bank cards. Each of you has been credited with one hundred thousand points. That's equivalent to one hundred thousand yen. You may use these freely throughout the campus."
Excited murmurs filled the air immediately.One hundred thousand points—for students who had just arrived, it was paradise.
Chabashira went on, her tone unchanging. "Points are distributed monthly, based on performance. The school observes everything. Don't assume anything is free. You may spend your points however you wish, but remember—your actions have consequences."
Her words lingered like smoke after a fire.
Once she dismissed us, the room buzzed with renewed energy. Some students immediately began planning shopping trips, others talked about meeting at the café. I stayed seated, quietly listening.
Then, Yōsuke Hirata stood up, his friendly smile lighting up the room."Hey everyone! Since we're going to be classmates for the next three years, how about we do some introductions?"
A few people nodded enthusiastically, while others groaned or shrugged. Hirata's charisma was genuine—he was the type that drew people in effortlessly. One by one, students began introducing themselves.
"Kokoro Inogashira, nice to meet you!""Haruki Yamauchi, but call me Haruki!""I'm Kikyō Kushida! Let's all be friends, okay?"
The atmosphere softened. Smiles spread. Even I found myself relaxing a little.
Then came tension.
Hirata prompted the next student—a tall, restless-looking boy—who frowned. "Why should we? You're not the class rep or anything."
The energy shifted instantly. A few others muttered in agreement, irritation sparking like static in the air.
Hirata tried to smooth it over, but the friction only deepened. Some students got up and left, muttering complaints about forced friendliness. Among them, Horikita left quietly, her indifference cutting sharper than any argument.
Introductions continued awkwardly after that. Kanji Ike, brash and loud, spoke next. Rokusuke Kōenji followed, exuding arrogance that filled the room like perfume. And finally, Kiyotaka Ayanokoji—his introduction so unremarkable it bordered on nonexistent.
When it was my turn, I stood, forcing a calm smile."Miyamoto Soshi," I said. "Nothing special. I like to read and run. Nice to meet you all."
Short, neutral, forgettable. Exactly as intended.
The rest of homeroom passed in a blur. We were told to attend the opening ceremony in an hour, then dismissed.
The auditorium was enormous—larger than some company halls I'd seen in my past life. Hundreds of students filled the seats, neatly divided by class. The air buzzed with excitement, whispers of luxury, curiosity, and ambition.
Chabashira's words still echoed in my mind.
Points are distributed monthly, based on performance.
Meaning, the school's entire economy was built on merit.The naïve would spend freely. The cautious would save. The cunning would exploit.And those who fell behind… would starve.
When the speeches ended and the ceremony dispersed, I walked the campus grounds, taking in the sheer scale of the place. Cafés, restaurants, arcades, convenience stores—it was a fully functioning micro-society designed to test self-control and intelligence.
Students ran from shop to shop, waving their new ID cards like lottery winners. Laughter filled the air. The smell of fresh bread and sweet crepes drifted from a bakery. I passed by a group of girls trying on expensive shoes, another crowd buying electronics. Their eyes sparkled with naïve confidence.
I bought only the essentials—a notebook, a set of pens, and a modest lunch. My points ticked down slightly. I kept my pace slow, observing the flow of students. A few already looked nervous, their cards failing at cash registers—overspending before realizing limits.
I found a quiet corner in the cafeteria and sat down, unpacking my lunch.As I ate, my thoughts drifted.
What's my role in this world?
I wasn't Ayanokoji—the calculating genius hiding behind mediocrity.I wasn't Kushida—the smiling manipulator.I wasn't Ryuen—the ruthless conqueror.
I was just Miyamoto Soshi. Ordinary. Forgettable.But maybe… that was an advantage.
If everyone ignored me, I could move freely.Observe. Learn. Adapt.
Maybe being invisible was the best starting hand I could have asked for.
The Meeting
"Mind if I sit here?"
The voice pulled me out of my thoughts.I looked up—and my chest tightened.
Ayanokoji Kiyotaka stood there, holding a tray with a simple sandwich and a drink. His face was calm, unreadable, the same mild expression that concealed everything beneath.
"Sure," I said, masking my surprise.
He sat across from me without hesitation. For a while, silence reigned. Only the faint chatter of other students filled the cafeteria. He unwrapped his sandwich, eating slowly, methodically. There was something unsettling about how ordinary he seemed—almost too ordinary.
Then, he spoke.
"You're… careful."
I blinked. "What?"
"You didn't spend much today," he said evenly. "Most of the class went shopping like maniacs. You didn't."
I chuckled lightly, feigning ignorance. "You were watching me?"
He shrugged. "Not just you. Everyone. It's easy to tell who's careless."
His gaze met mine—sharp, analytical, impossible to read. For a moment, I felt exposed, as if he could see through every thought I had.
"Maybe I'm just cheap," I joked, trying to defuse the tension.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe."
We both returned to our food. Silence again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. More like an unspoken acknowledgment—we both understood the rules of this place, even if we played by different philosophies.
Then, a shadow fell over our table.
"Well, well, what do we have here? Fresh meat?"
Three older students stood nearby—clearly upperclassmen. Their uniforms had subtle distinctions, but their confidence made the hierarchy clear. The leader, tall and broad-shouldered, leaned slightly over our table, smirking.
"You two from Class 1-D?" he asked.
"Yes," Ayanokoji replied calmly.
The upperclassman snorted. "Figures. The bottom class. Guess they'll let anyone in these days."
I felt my jaw tighten, but I said nothing.Ayanokoji didn't react either, his face unreadable.
"Relax," the older student said, noticing our silence. "Just messing with you. You newbies always act so stiff."
"Is that all?" I asked quietly.
He raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised at my calmness. For a moment, I thought he'd escalate it—but then he chuckled. "You've got some nerve, kid. I'll give you that."
He straightened, motioning to his friends. "Come on. Let's leave the babies alone."
They walked off, laughing amongst themselves. I exhaled slowly once they were gone. The tension left my shoulders.
"That could've gone worse," I muttered.
"It could've," Ayanokoji agreed. He looked at me again, thoughtful. "Most people would've flinched."
I shrugged. "I've dealt with worse."
He didn't press. Instead, he finished his drink, stood up, and picked up his tray. "See you around, Miyamoto."
He walked away, leaving me sitting there with the faint hum of the cafeteria returning to normal.
See you around.Those words echoed longer than they should have.
That night, back in my dorm room, I collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The faint whir of the air conditioner filled the silence. My mind replayed every event—every word, every expression.
Ayanokoji had noticed me. That was both good and bad.
I didn't want to draw attention, but being acknowledged by someone like him… it meant I wasn't entirely invisible. Maybe, in this new life, that wasn't a curse. Maybe it was an opportunity.
I got up and looked out the window. The campus glowed under the evening lights, students laughing as they carried shopping bags, still drunk on the illusion of wealth. But I could see it clearly now—the invisible trap.
The school wasn't generous. It was testing us. Watching. Measuring.
And most of them would fail.
I turned back to the desk, where my ID card lay beside my notebook.Points: 98,450.Still plenty, but not something I'd waste.
I picked up a pen and started writing—observations, names, behaviors, small notes that might seem meaningless but could later make all the difference.
Hirata: charismatic, natural leader. Trusted by many.
Kushida: friendly façade. Watch carefully.
Horikita: isolated, intelligent, prideful.
Ayanokoji: unreadable. Dangerous.