Part 1
The second day—or rather, the first "useful" day—unfolded as expected: much protocol and few surprises. Introductions were history; now it was time for the exhaustive reading of rules, schedules, and institutional warnings. Kurohana Academy knows how to wrap competence in courtesy. The teachers spoke with smiles that smelled of numbers and calibrations.
The murmur in the classroom ceased when Principal Kazunari Fujimura entered and raised his voice.
"Pay attention, this is not just a school," he said, with such firm calm that it froze the air. "At Kurohana Academy, it's not enough to attend classes. Here, your performance will determine your future. Each group will be evaluated not only on their grades, but on their cooperation, discipline, and collective results."
An invisible line separated those who understood the weight of those words from those who still believed it was a game.
"Every year," the principal continued, "the classes compete with each other to advance." The best are promoted; those who don't meet the standard are held back. There are no exceptions. No second chances are given for free.
The classroom screens lit up, displaying the table: A through G. Seven classes, seven performance levels. Only one would graduate.
Some students gulped; others smiled confidently.
"This system doesn't seek to punish," Fujimura concluded, looking down at his notes. "It seeks to reveal who has the will to improve, even when all seems lost. Here, every point counts. Every mistake counts. And every decision defines their destiny within Kurohana."
I listened and made mental notes. What for many was information, for me was a scoreboard. Class by class, point by point, hierarchies were drawn. I began to imagine the structure: A through G in the first year, and we, by some strange chance, in Class F. That label wasn't an automatic condemnation, but rather a statement of the situation. We started with 10,000 class points. That sounded like a buffer; not to me. To the administration, it was the initial variable of an experiment.
"Remember," Tanaka said, "each month consists of four main activities. Each activity is worth up to 250 points. Individual performance will adjust compensation at Kurei through the CRI. Behavior, cooperation, and results count equally."
As I spoke, my calculations ran. Four activities a month, 1,000 points at stake. If a class drops to zero, it fails. If a class survives but loses points, its access to resources is reduced. If a class ranks high, it receives social and economic advantages within the Inner City. The SPK doesn't just reward academic performance: it rewards adaptation and control.
Beside me, Kaori took notes with a steady hand. She didn't make superfluous comments, but her gaze said, "Let's be vigilant." She was the kind of ally who didn't need warmth to be effective. I liked that.
The bell rang, and like hungry social animals, most of them stampeded toward the cafeteria. The courtyard was dotted with small groups that had already found a place in the campus social network. I stood still, observing patterns: who moved with confidence, who was being dragged, who was hoping to be invited.
Haruto Fujimoto—a simple, straightforward guy—emerged as a social magnet. It didn't take long for a circle of boys and girls to form around him. Within seconds, the classroom's alliance options began to materialize. Kaito Yamamoto, with his calculated smile, was already talking quietly with two classmates; he seemed to be mapping out influences. Natsumi Aoyama was spreading her charm at another table, attracting those who liked the comfort of social media. Ayame Kobayashi, meanwhile, sat at the edge of the group, sizing everyone up with the cold gaze of someone assessing intellectual variables.
Ren Takahashi moved like a calculated nuisance: grand gestures, conspicuous consumption, subtle provocations. A player with physical strength—useful if the game requires muscle—and an unpredictable temperament. It all depended on how he was harnessed.
I spotted Sora Miyazaki in a corner, his back curved, his eyes avoiding prolonged contact. Someone easy to steer; a pawn who could lean either way with the right encouragement. That kind of person is gold if you know how and when to convince them.
Hina Matsuda appeared unexpectedly with her approachable smile, offering me a friendly hand. Her spontaneity contrasted with my calculating calm, but I understood the utility: her social network could serve as a bridge for future maneuvers. I accepted her greeting with neutral courtesy. Nothing emotional. Everything strategic. She perceived it as sincerity; perfect.
During lunch, my silent proposal to join was thwarted: the girls crowded around Natsumi, and my arm remained empty and raised, expectant. The scene was a reminder: it's not enough to think of opportunities; you have to act in the right microsecond. Kaori made a short, sharp observation that brought me back to reality:
"Social spaces fill up quickly. The silent ones lose."
"The silent ones also learn," I replied to myself, although my voice was audible.
Hina approached and asked me about Kaori—she, the other key player. The conversation seemed genuine to her; to me, it was an entrance. I explained just enough: Kaori is reserved, not interested in establishing an army of unnecessary relationships. Hina nodded with that mixture of surprise and tenderness that makes her effective. Having people willing to believe in quick connections can be useful: people who open doors, who share information out of sympathy.
Around noon, the gym's advertisement reminded me of the club fair. I agreed to attend out of tactical curiosity rather than a desire to belong. Clubs are spaces where informal alliances are formed; at Kurohana, even leisure time produces statistics.
Back in the classroom, the conversation turned to the practical mechanics of the classes. I made it clear in my mental log: Class F, 140 students in the first year (approx.), 10,000 starting points. The institutional regulations implied that collective survival depended as much on performance in activities as on Kurei's spending control and social discipline. Poor collective management produces penalties; outstanding management, bonuses. Furthermore, the individual CRI can increase or decrease your personal provision by up to ±10% depending on your average. This asymmetry is a vector of power: if one can manipulate not only the class but also the IRP of individuals, one controls real resources.
As I made mental notes, I noticed a detail I liked: many people spoke superficially about cooperation, but few seemed to understand the true metric. Most people thought of friendship, instant social media, small, harmless favors. They didn't understand that here every gesture could be translated into points, into Kurei, into access. They didn't see the equations behind the smiles.
In that ignorance lay my advantage.
When the final bell signaled the closing of the hour, I stood for a moment staring at the empty chairs. Class F was moving, breathing, competing without knowing exactly why. It was like observing a colony of ants focused on their work pattern: they were performing, yes, but they lacked a common goal.
I, on the other hand, already had a half-drafted plan: learn who looks first, who pays for whom, who's pushover, and who's a rock. With that, I would start weaving.
Because in Kurohana, it wasn't enough to survive. You had to learn to turn life into points, and points into power.
And Class F was my game board for now.