Chapter Text
I’m gently roused from my sleep as my driver’s voice breaks the quietness, informing me that we have reached my destination. The Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School. I’ve always wondered what a normal high – or any type of – school would look like, though, this isn’t a normal school. All my father told me was that it’s only for the elite, hence why he enrolled me.
Before I left, I managed to slip into his office unnoticed and access the computer, where I searched for more information about this school. What stood out to me is the policy of no outside contact. You’d think my father would want to keep a closer eye on how I’m doing, maybe check in once in a while or at least show some interest in what’s going on with his best experiment. Unless it’s set up so the students can’t reach anyone on the outside, but people from the outside can still contact the students — that would definitely make more sense. Father probably has some of the staff to report back to him as well, just to cover all his bases.
I sigh as I exit the car, quietly shutting the door behind me. Not too far away, I can see a bus full of students heading towards me. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, so I decided to start slowly walking towards the school, hoping the other students would catch up. That way, I could slip in with the rest of the group.
It looks like my plan worked, as students have started to pass me on the walk. I pick up the pace, trying not to fall behind, when I suddenly hear someone snicker,
“Ooh! Someone’s rushing to get inside! Hey, gorgeous, why don’t you slow down a bit and walk with us? It’ll be more fun!” Thinking they were talking to me, I spun around and noticed three boys, roughly my age, laughing as they watched a girl speed past them. She had long, flowing black hair and striking eyes that seemed to change colour —a mesmerising blend of purple, orange, and pink— and they were locked onto mine, as if she could see right through me.
“What are you staring at?” she asks, her voice sharp and tinged with irritation, carrying a clear warning.
"Oh, uh—nothing?" I said, more as a question than a statement. I winced before quickly adding, "Do you know them?"
She let out a scoff, "As if.", her voice dripping with disdain. Without another word, she turned and marched off, leaving me there, speechless.
I haven’t even made it through the door yet, and somehow, someone’s already angry with me. Really off to a great start, Kiyotaka.
I sigh. There’s no use worrying about it. Chances are, I won’t see her again.
As instructed by my father, I go to the chairman’s office. Knocking on the door, I wait for a reply before going in.
“Ah. Ayanokouji Kiyotaka-kun. It’s a pleasure to meet you, have a seat.” A man who looks to be in his 40s greeted me.
“Likewise, Chairman Sakayanagi.” I gave the older man a respectful bow before taking a seat, my eyes drawn to the contemplative look on his face. It was clear he was taking his time, carefully measuring each word in his mind before deciding what to say next.
“Your arrival has certainly stirred up quite the commotion, Ayanokouji-kun,” he remarked with a faint, almost insincere smile. “Now, tell me—just how much do you understand about the situation you’re in?”
How much do I know about my predicament? Absolutely nothing. But admitting that outright doesn’t feel like the smartest move. Better to play it safe— let him do most of the talking.
“Not as much as I’d hope to, sir. Perhaps you could provide some clarity on what exactly is expected of me?” Father had mentioned that the Chairman was aware of the White Room’s existence, which suggests that he knows I’ve been sent here with some kind of objective to fulfil. However, whether he knows the specifics of that mission—or if he’s even aware of its true nature—is a different question entirely. Not that I know either.
“Very well, then. Allow me to explain what I can. First-year starts with a total of one hundred and sixty students, divided evenly across four classes—A through D—meaning there are forty students per class.
You can only contact someone outside the school in the case of an emergency, and leaving the campus is strictly prohibited unless you have prior authorization. However, there are several facilities available for you to use on campus, including cafés, karaoke spots, theatres, and boutiques. The campus itself covers more than 600,000 square meters.
One of the unique features we offer here is the S system. With the student ID card I’m about to give you, you’ll have access to all on-campus facilities, the ability to purchase items from the store, and much more. It’s important to monitor how many points you spend, because here, points are your only means of survival.
You can use your points to buy anything available on the school grounds. Points are automatically deposited into your account on the first of each month, and you should already have received 100,000 points. Just remember, one point is equivalent to one yen.
This school operates on a system that evaluates each student’s abilities, skills, and overall potential. The number of points you've been granted is a direct result of how your worth and capabilities have been assessed.”
He took a brief pause, drawing in a deep breath before bringing a cup to his lips and sipping what seemed to be some kind of tea. “You, Ayanokouji-kun, are a unique case,” he said, his tone shifting slightly. I raised an eyebrow as he continued, “You won’t be assigned to any of the regular classes, A through D. Instead, you will be the sole member of class S. Consider it a sort of hierarchy, with class S at the top and class D at the very bottom.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Your objective is clear—stay in class S for the next three years until you graduate. If, by the first of any month, you’ve failed to keep your place, you’ll be expelled. This is the first time a situation like this has occurred, so while the faculty is aware of class S, the students won’t know about it until the first of next month.”
So, that’s how they’re running things here—evaluating students and assigning value in a way that’s both literal and symbolic. Points as currency, rules that restrict freedom, and a controlled environment that fosters competition. It’s a self-contained ecosystem where power dynamics are carefully engineered. Interesting.
But class S… that’s something else entirely. A solitary position, isolated at the top of a fabricated hierarchy, with the constant threat of expulsion looming over me. They’ve set it up so failure isn’t an option, and yet they’ve made sure to dangle it as an ever-present possibility. It’s a test, clearly, but of what? My abilities? My willpower?
The Chairman’s tone was deliberate, almost as if he wanted to provoke a reaction. Does he expect me to panic? To question him? Neither will serve me here. The fact that this ‘class S’ is unprecedented suggests they’re experimenting with me, but to what end? The teachers know, yet the students don’t—at least not yet. That’s another piece of the puzzle.
Knowledge is power, and for now, I hold a fragment of it.
If they think I’ll play by their rules without thought, they’re mistaken. Class S or not, I need to figure out what’s really at play and what my father hopes to gain from this setup. Until then, I’ll observe, adapt, and stay one step ahead.
“Do you have any questions, Ayanokouji-kun?” he asked, his tone measured, as though expecting me to probe further.
“No, sir,” I replied, keeping my voice steady and neutral.
“Very well,” he said with a faint nod of approval. “The entrance ceremony begins in thirty minutes. You should start heading over now.” He handed me my student ID then with a slight wave of his hand, dismissed me, signalling the end of our discussion.
I took the student ID from his outstretched hand, its weight surprisingly little in my palm. Without another word, I turned on my heel and stepped out of his office, the door clicking shut behind me. My mind sifted through the conversation as I walked, dissecting every word, every nuance.
The hallway stretched before me, empty at first, but as I continued onward, the murmur of voices and the occasional shuffle of footsteps grew louder. I soon found myself passing through a corridor lined with classrooms, each door adorned with a single letter—A, B, C, D—marking the division of students the Chairman had described.
As I walked, I quickly noticed something—these students weren’t first-years like me. Their demeanor, the way they carried themselves, was different. They looked older, more self-assured, speaking to each other with an ease that suggested familiarity. They already knew each other, comfortably chatting in groups, their conversations fluid and natural. These weren’t students just entering the system; they had been part of it for years. Third-years, most likely.
Peering inside the classrooms as I walked past, a pattern quickly emerged. Class A was lively, filled with an air of confidence. Students laughed and chatted freely, their conversations lighthearted and carefree. It was clear they had little to worry about. The atmosphere in Class B was much the same—less boisterous, perhaps, but still relaxed. Their smiles were genuine, their energy high.
Class C was different. While most students seemed relatively at ease, there was an underlying tension, a subtle difference in the way they spoke and interacted. Some students looked perfectly content, while others appeared more reserved, exchanging glances that hinted at an awareness of something unspoken.
Then came Class D. The moment I passed the doorway, the contrast was stark. The room was eerily quiet compared to the others, the students inside noticeably subdued. Some sat slouched in their chairs, eyes dull with resignation. Others whispered in hushed tones, their expressions tight with frustration or unease. It was as if the weight of their position had already settled on their shoulders, dragging them down. More noticeably, there were fewer students here than in the other classes. Desks sat empty, gaps forming in what should have been full rows. If each year started with the same number of students, then the missing ones could only mean one thing—they had been expelled.
For a school supposedly designed to nurture the elite, the sheer number of expulsions was surprising. Weren't elites supposed to be the best, the brightest, the most capable? Yet here, in a place that prided itself on cultivating excellence, students were vanishing—erased from the system entirely.
What did that say about the school’s methods? More importantly, what did it say about the students who remained? The missing desks in Class D suggested that failure was not just a possibility but an expectation, a natural part of the process. Survival of the fittest, taken to its most literal form. But if this institution truly sought to produce society’s future leaders, why eliminate so many? Unless, of course, the goal wasn’t simply to nurture talent, but to weed out those deemed unworthy by whatever criteria the school had set.
If expulsion was this common, then what did it actually take to survive here? The students in Class A and B seemed secure, almost untouchable in their confidence. Class C was on edge, straddling the line between success and failure. And Class D… they looked like they were already drowning.
If this school truly functioned as a meritocracy, then those in Class D had either fallen short of expectations or had been set up to fail from the beginning.
Yet, if that were the case, why admit them in the first place? Why give them the illusion of a chance only to strip it away? That was the part that didn’t make sense. Either the admissions process was flawed, or failure was deliberately engineered. Considering the school’s structure, I was inclined to believe the latter.
That led to the next question—what exactly was the school’s criteria for success and failure? How were students evaluated, and how did it all tie into the S-system? If points determined everything here, then it wasn’t just about academic performance. The system had to be measuring something more—something less tangible yet equally significant. Social influence? Leadership? The ability to manipulate and adapt?
Considering the school’s rigid hierarchy, it was likely that students weren’t just judged individually but as a collective, with class standing affecting their overall worth. If that was the case, then students in the lower ranks weren’t just struggling academically—they were actively being positioned to lose. The missing students from Class D weren’t anomalies. They were inevitable casualties of a system designed to break the weak and sharpen the strong
Regardless, there’s no point in dwelling on this any longer—it’s only my first day, after all. I don’t need to have all the answers right away. The more I know, the better, but without enough information, all I have are theories. And theories alone won’t get me anywhere.
Once I’ve made my way past the third-year classrooms, my next point of interest will be the first-year students. Understanding the landscape of this school means understanding my potential enemies.
If the S-system is designed to eventually pit the classes against one another, then gathering intel now will give me the advantage later. Knowing who I might face, their strengths and weaknesses, their dynamics and allegiances—it all matters. Information is power, and in a system like this, power is everything.
The fact that my class—Class S—remains a secret works in my favor. Unlike the others, I have the luxury of anonymity, the ability to move undetected. If the students don’t even know I exist, they won’t see me as a threat. That makes it easier to build connections before the inevitable conflict begins. Right now, they’ll be more inclined to trust me, to see me as an ally rather than a rival. And once the competition truly begins, those connections could be the difference between survival and failure.