Chapter 16 Summary
The fluorescent lights of the classroom flickered in a rhythm that matched the uneasy pulse of the students’ hearts. It was the first day of the second semester, and the air was thick with the scent of fresh paper, the faint hum of the air‑conditioning system, and the unspoken tension that always seemed to settle over Class D whenever a new test loomed on the horizon. The teachers had promised a “comprehensive assessment” that would determine the final rankings for the year, and the whisper of that promise had already begun to stir the strategic minds of the elite.
Kiyotaka Ayanokouji sat at his desk, his posture relaxed, his eyes half‑closed as if he were merely listening to the distant chatter of his classmates. In truth, his mind was a chessboard, each piece moving in a silent, calculated dance. He could feel the subtle shift in the room’s energy, the way the students’ shoulders tightened, the way the faint rustle of notebooks seemed to echo louder than usual. He opened his notebook, not to write anything, but to give his hands something to do while his thoughts turned over the possibilities.
Across the aisle, Suzune Horikita stared at the blackboard, her gaze sharp as a hawk’s. The teacher’s voice droned on about the structure of the upcoming exam: multiple‑choice sections, essay questions, a practical problem‑solving component that would test not only knowledge but also the ability to work under pressure. Horikita’s mind was already mapping out a strategy. She had spent the previous weeks gathering data, noting the strengths and weaknesses of each classmate, and now she was ready to put her plan into motion. She glanced at the empty seat beside her, where Kei Karuizawa usually lingered, and felt a flicker of something she rarely allowed herself to feel—concern.
Kei Karuizawa entered the room with her usual bright smile, her hair bouncing as she walked. She paused at Horikita’s desk, her eyes softening as she took in the serious expression of her friend. “Hey, Horikita‑senpai,” she said, voice gentle, “are you ready for the big test? I heard it’s going to be… intense.”
Horikita’s lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Intense is an understatement, Karuizawa‑chan. We need to be prepared for anything. I’ve already started forming a study group. I think we should meet after school to go over the material together.”
Karuizawa’s smile widened. “Sounds good! I’ll bring the notes I made from last week’s lecture. And maybe we can… get a little extra help from someone who knows the system better.”
Horikita’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of curiosity igniting. “You mean…?”
Karuizawa glanced toward the back of the room, where Ryuuji Kanzaki leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Kanzaki was the quiet, observant type, the kind of student who seemed to drift through the school’s social currents without ever truly sinking in. Yet beneath his laid‑back exterior lay a mind that could dissect a situation with surgical precision. He had a reputation for being a master of manipulation tactics, a skill that had earned him both admiration and wariness among his peers.
“Exactly,” Karuizawa whispered, “Kanzaki‑kun. He’s got a way of seeing the angles that the rest of us miss. If we can get him on board, we might just have a chance to turn the tables.”
Horikita considered this for a moment, her mind already weighing the pros and cons. “Fine. I’ll talk to him after class. But we need to be careful. If we’re too obvious, the teachers will see through us.”
Kanzaki’s eyes flicked up, catching the tail end of their conversation. He pushed off the wall and walked over, his steps measured, his expression unreadable. “You’re talking about the upcoming exam, right?” he asked, his voice low.
Horikita nodded. “We need a plan. The usual study groups won’t cut it. The test is designed to separate the truly strategic from the merely diligent. We need to think beyond the textbook.”
Kanzaki tilted his head, a faint grin forming. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that too. The school’s assessment system is… layered. There’s the obvious part—knowledge recall—and then there’s the hidden part—how you influence the environment around you. If we can manipulate the variables, we can shift the odds in our favor.”
Horikita’s eyes sharpened. “You’re suggesting we…?”
Kanzaki spread his hands, as if presenting a map only he could see. “We create a scenario where the other classes are forced to make mistakes. We can plant subtle hints, misdirect the teachers, even influence the scoring algorithm. It’s not cheating; it’s strategic manipulation. The school rewards those who can think outside the box.”
Horikita considered his words. She had always prided herself on her analytical mind, on her ability to dissect problems and construct solutions. Yet she had never fully embraced the more… morally ambiguous side of strategy. Still, the stakes were high. The final rankings would determine not only scholarships and privileges but also the power dynamics that would shape the rest of their second year.
“Alright,” she said finally, “let’s meet after school. We’ll need to coordinate with Ayanokouji‑kun as well. He… has a unique perspective on these things.”
Kanzaki raised an eyebrow. “Ayanokouji? He’s… quiet. Does he even care about the rankings?”
Horikita’s smile was thin. “You’ll see.”
The bell rang, echoing through the hallway, and the students began to file out, each carrying their own thoughts, fears, and ambitions. As the classroom emptied, Ayanokouji remained seated, his eyes still half‑closed. He sensed the shift in the room’s atmosphere, the subtle undercurrents of scheming that began to surface. He opened his notebook again, this time writing a single line: “Strategy is a game of shadows.”
He heard the door open and turned his head just enough to see Horikita, Karuizawa, and Kanzaki entering. Their faces were set, their eyes sharp. He waited, his expression neutral, as they approached his desk.
“Hey, Ayanokouji‑kun,” Horikita began, her voice steady, “we need your help with the upcoming exam. We’re planning something… a bit unconventional.”
Ayanokouji lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers. “Unconventional, you say?”
Karuizawa smiled, a little nervous now that the conversation was moving forward. “We think we can influence the outcome by… manipulating certain variables. We need someone who can see the bigger picture, someone who can stay calm under pressure.”
Ayanokouji’s lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “I’m listening.”
Kanzaki leaned in, his voice low. “We want to create a scenario where the other classes are forced to make mistakes. We can plant subtle hints, misdirect the teachers, even influence the scoring algorithm. It’s not cheating; it’s strategic manipulation. The school rewards those who can think outside the box.”
Ayanokouji’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in calculation. He had observed the school’s system for years, noting the ways in which the administration used data, peer evaluations, and hidden metrics to shape the hierarchy. He knew that the exam would be more than a simple test of knowledge; it would be a test of influence, of how well each class could navigate the invisible currents that ran beneath the surface.
“Your plan sounds… ambitious,” he said, his voice calm. “But there are risks. If the teachers catch on, the penalties could be severe. We need to ensure that any manipulation is subtle enough to go unnoticed, yet effective enough to shift the balance.”
Horikita nodded. “Exactly. That’s why we need your insight. You have a way of staying under the radar while still pulling the strings.”
Ayanokouji closed his notebook, the thin paper rustling softly. “Very well. Let’s outline the steps. First, we need to identify the key variables we can influence. Second, we need to assign roles. Third, we need to execute with precision.”
Karuizawa pulled out a stack of notes, spreading them across the desk. “I’ve compiled the data from the previous exams—average scores, question types, the weight each section carries. We can see where the biggest impact can be made.”
Kanzaki took a seat, his eyes scanning the notes. “We also need to consider the psychological aspect. The other classes are likely to be nervous. If we can create a small panic—maybe a rumor about a surprise oral component—they’ll waste time and energy preparing for something that doesn’t exist.”
Horikita’s eyes lit up. “A rumor… that could work. We could plant it in the student council’s announcement board, make it look official. The teachers might even pick up on it and adjust the exam accordingly, which would give us an edge.”
Ayanokouji leaned back, his mind already mapping out the chain of events. “We’ll need a conduit—someone who can post the rumor without raising suspicion. Karuizawa, you have access to the board. Kanzaki, you can spread the word in the hallway. Horikita, you’ll coordinate the timing. I’ll handle the data analysis and ensure our own study group is prepared for any eventuality.”
Karuizawa nodded, her smile returning, now tinged with a hint of mischief. “Consider it done.”
The plan was set, and the four of them left the classroom, each carrying a piece of the puzzle. As they walked through the corridors, the school’s architecture seemed to echo with the faint hum of hidden machinations. The walls, lined with trophies and motivational posters, bore silent witness to the countless strategies that had unfolded within these halls over the years.
Later that afternoon, after the final bell had rung and most students had fled to their clubs or homes, the four gathered in the empty library. The soft glow of the reading lamps cast long shadows across the tables, creating an atmosphere that felt both intimate and conspiratorial.
Karuizawa spread out a printed copy of the school’s official announcement template. “We’ll need to mimic the format exactly. The student council’s logo, the official seal—everything must be perfect.”
Kanzaki took a pen, his hand steady. “I’ll draft the notice. Something like: ‘Due to recent curriculum updates, an oral component will be added to the upcoming comprehensive assessment. All classes must prepare accordingly.’”
Horikita watched him, her eyes sharp. “Make sure it looks authentic. The teachers will verify the source. We need to place it where they’ll see it first.”
Ayanokouji leaned over the table, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the notebook. “While you’re doing that, I’ll run a simulation. Based on the data, if the other classes allocate, say, 20% of their study time to oral preparation, their performance in the written sections will drop proportionally. That could be enough to shift the rankings in our favor.”
Karuizawa glanced at the clock. “We have until midnight. The notice must be posted before the teachers do their final checks.”
Kanzaki nodded, his expression focused. “I’ll slip it onto the board during the lunch break tomorrow. It’ll be there before anyone notices.”
Horikita’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “And we’ll need a contingency plan. If the teachers catch on, we’ll have to pivot quickly. Ayanokouji, can you devise a backup?”
Ayanokouji’s eyes flickered with a faint glint. “I have a few ideas. One involves creating a false data set that suggests the oral component was a test run, not an actual part of the exam. Another involves leveraging the peer evaluation system to subtly lower the scores of the classes that might benefit from the rumor. We’ll decide in the moment.”
The night deepened, and the library’s quiet was punctuated only by the soft rustle of pages and the occasional distant footstep of a night‑shift janitor. The four worked in concert, each contributing their strengths. Karuizawa’s meticulous attention to detail ensured the notice looked flawless. Kanzaki’s knack for subtle persuasion allowed him to craft a message that would spread like wildfire without raising alarm. Horikita’s strategic mind kept the plan focused, ensuring every move served the larger objective. Ayanokouji, ever the silent orchestrator, wove the threads together, his mind a lattice of possibilities.
When the final draft of the notice was ready, they printed it on a spare sheet of the school’s official stationery, carefully aligning the logo and seal. The paper felt crisp, the ink sharp. They folded it neatly, ready to be slipped onto the board.
“Tomorrow,” Horikita said, her voice steady, “we’ll execute. Remember, the key is subtlety. No one should suspect that we’re behind this. If we succeed, Class D will finally have a chance to rise above the others.”
Karuizawa smiled, her eyes bright. “I can’t wait to see their faces when they realize they’ve been misled.”
Kanzaki chuckled softly. “It’ll be… entertaining.”
Ayanokouji’s expression remained unchanged, but his mind was already racing ahead, visualizing the cascade of reactions that would follow. He imagined the teachers’ faces as they read the notice, the murmurs that would ripple through the corridors, the frantic scramble of the other classes as they tried to adjust their study plans. He saw the data shifting, the scores bending, the rankings reshaping.
The next morning, the school buzzed with the usual energy. Students hurried to their lockers, teachers prepared their lesson plans, and the student council’s bulletin board stood empty, waiting for the day’s announcements. As the lunch hour approached, Kanzaki slipped into the hallway, his steps deliberate. He paused at the board, his hand hovering over the empty space, then placed the forged notice with a practiced ease. He stepped back, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of suspicion.
Within minutes, the notice was discovered by a passing teacher, who read it aloud to the class. Whispers spread like wildfire. “Oral component?” a student muttered. “I thought we only had written exams.” The teachers exchanged glances, some frowning, others nodding as if confirming a new policy.
By the time the bell rang for the afternoon, the rumor had taken hold. Students from other classes gathered in groups, discussing the sudden change. Some were anxious, others skeptical, but all were now forced to reconsider their study strategies. The teachers, caught off guard, began to adjust their lesson plans, allocating time to prepare students for an oral component that didn’t exist.
In the classroom, Horikita observed the unfolding chaos with a calm, analytical gaze. She noted the subtle shifts in body language, the way some students stared at the notice with disbelief, others with determination. She turned to Ayanokouji, who sat at his desk, his expression unreadable.
“It’s working,” she whispered, barely audible over the hum of the hallway.
Ayanokouji’s eyes flicked to the board, then back to Horikita. “Now we wait.”
The days that followed were a blur of frantic preparation. The other classes, now distracted by the supposed oral component, allocated a portion of their study time to practice speaking, to rehearse answers, to anticipate questions that would never be asked. Their focus on the core written material waned, and their confidence began to erode.
Meanwhile, Class D continued its regular study regimen, undisturbed by the false alarm. Ayanokouji, ever the silent observer, monitored the scores as they came in from practice quizzes, noting the slight dip in performance among the rival classes. He shared his findings with Horikita and Kanzaki, who adjusted their own preparations accordingly.
On the day of the comprehensive assessment, the atmosphere in the exam hall was tense. The students of Class D entered the room with a quiet confidence, their minds clear, their strategies honed. The other classes, however, bore the weight of uncertainty. Their faces were marked with the strain of having divided their focus, their pens trembling slightly as they began the test.
The exam itself was a labyrinth of questions designed to test not only knowledge but also critical thinking, problem‑solving under pressure, and the ability to synthesize information quickly. The written sections demanded precise answers, the essay required a coherent argument, and the practical component forced students to apply concepts in real‑time scenarios.
As the minutes ticked by, Ayanokouji’s mind worked like a well‑oiled machine. He recalled the data he had analyzed, the patterns he had identified, and the subtle cues that could give him an edge. He glanced at the clock, noting the time left, and then at his own paper, where he had already answered the majority of the questions with a calm, methodical approach.
When the exam ended, the students filed out, exhausted but hopeful. The teachers collected the papers, their expressions a mix of satisfaction and curiosity. They had no idea that the entire assessment had been subtly influenced by a rumor, a manipulation that had shifted the playing field.
In the days that followed, the results were posted. Class D’s scores rose dramatically, surpassing several of the higher‑ranked classes. The rankings shifted, and for the first time in months, the students