"Horikita-san, what were your entrance exam scores?" Shimizu Akira pivoted sharply to the main topic.
Horikita Suzune lifted her chin slightly, her tone brimming with absolute confidence: "Conservatively, top five in the grade."
"Oh?" Shimizu's eyebrow arched.
Horikita wasn't the type to lie.
This answer only reinforced his belief—class placements weren't based solely on academics.
By extension, the point distribution system was likely far more complex than it appeared.
"What's your take on the class system?" He tossed out the question casually.
Horikita paused, her fingers tapping the desk lightly. "...Just random assignment."
Her gaze swept the room—by Shimizu's intellect, his grades surely matched hers, and students like Hirata Yōsuke were clearly exceptional.
In her mind, Class D's overall strength was high.
"Horikita-san," Shimizu interjected suddenly, "these past two days, have you actually spoken to anyone besides me and Ayanokōji-kun over there? Like Class B, C... or even A students?"
His eyes flicked meaningfully around before landing on Ayanokōji Kiyotaka.
Surprisingly, the reserved boy offered an awkward nod in their direction.
Shimizu's brow rose—this wasn't the reaction he'd expected from someone so deliberately detached.
Still, he returned the nod politely.
Ayanokōji's voice carried a strange distance: "Horikita-san and I haven't spoken beyond her questioning me yesterday..."
Horikita's reply was crisp and immediate: "...I have no interest in making friends."
Shimizu nearly blurted out the next line for her—"Unless you're an alien, time traveler, or esper, don't bother." The thought amused him; this ice-cold girl was nothing like the exuberant Haruhi Suzumiya.
(Still...)
Even the most socially averse high schooler usually had one or two acquaintances.
Being this isolated was...
"Wait, does that mean I'm the only person you've talked to these two days?" Realization dawned in his voice.
Ayanokōji's eyes shifted between them, deadpan: "Horikita-san seems to enjoy conversing with Shimizu-kun."
Horikita's frown deepened. "Enjoy? Don't misunderstand. We're merely classmates seated together—necessary interaction, nothing more."
Here, Shimizu grasped a critical flaw in Horikita Suzune:
Her near-pathological isolation had severely impaired her judgment.
(I see...)
Horikita was undoubtedly brilliant, but her self-imposed exile left her blind to basic campus intelligence.
Even now, her understanding of the class system stopped at "random assignment"—a conclusion drawn from pure speculation.
(Only talked to me in two days... No wonder.)
He recalled how he'd wrestled the truth from Chabashira.
No one, no matter how smart, could uncover key intel while cut off from all networks.
Horikita was an island of resources, but without bridges to the mainland, she'd starve for information.
"You're wrong. It's not random." His tone left no room for debate.
"Do you have—" Horikita's retort died as she registered his expression.
His eyes held no mockery, only factual certainty.
She realized abruptly—he had no reason to lie.
Silence stretched between them.
Shimizu studied her. He admired her beauty and tenacity, but intel wasn't free.
"If you're truly stuck, you could buy the answer from me." He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'll give you a 20% discount—guaranteed value."
"Unnecessary!" Horikita rebuffed instantly, her voice steely with pride. "I'll deduce it myself."
This girl trusted her intellect absolutely.
But this kind of intel typically required social digging—and with Horikita's glacial demeanor...
Shimizu imagined her interrogating upperclassmen. That frosty attitude alone would scare off most.
Without social tactics, even he couldn't think of alternative avenues.
Morning classes proceeded uneventfully.
Shimizu flipped open his pristine textbook, fingers brushing the pages.
Though his past self had been decent academically, Japan's system was another beast entirely.
Math and English were manageable—formulas and grammar transcended borders.
But when the Classical Japanese lesson began, his brow furrowed.
"This passage from The Pillow Book employs Sei Shōnagon's unique rhetorical device—"
The teacher's voice faded into background noise.
Shimizu stared at the dense annotations, each kanji dancing mockingly.
He rubbed his temple subtly—a motion Horikita didn't miss.
"Heh."
(...Was that a laugh at my expense?)
The lunch bell unleashed a wave of chatter.
"Heading to the cafeteria? Want to go together?" A sunny-haired boy—Hirata Yōsuke, Class D's de facto leader (per Ike's intel)—stood in the aisle, smiling invitingly.
"Sure! Let's go, Hirata-kun!" Several boys responded eagerly.
(Speaking of which, there's also Karuizawa Kei's gal group—hard to miss.)
His gaze drifted toward the other side of the room, scanning for memorable faces.