Chapter 17 Summary
The hallway of the second‑year dormitory hummed with the low murmur of students exchanging plans, the clatter of lockers being slammed, and the occasional burst of laughter that seemed to echo off the plastered walls. It was the first week after the new semester began, and the air was thick with the promise of the upcoming cultural festival—a sprawling event that would turn the school’s austere campus into a kaleidoscope of colors, sounds, and rivalries. For Class D, the festival was more than a showcase; it was a battlefield where every decision could tilt the delicate balance of power that the student council had been fighting over for months.
Kiyotaka Ayanokouji stood at the far end of the common room, his posture relaxed, his eyes half‑closed as if he were listening to a distant radio station. He was a figure that seemed to drift through the chaos, unnoticed yet somehow always present. When the door swung open, a gust of wind carried in the scent of fresh rain, and a group of students entered, their chatter rising in volume. Among them was Suzune Horikita, her expression as sharp as a blade, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that mirrored the discipline she demanded from herself and everyone around her.
“Morning,” Horikita said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. She glanced at the whiteboard where a hastily drawn schedule for the cultural festival was scrawled in uneven ink. “We need to finalize the booth assignments by tomorrow. The student council is already pressing us for a concrete plan.”
Ayanokouji opened his eyes, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I thought we’d discuss that after lunch,” he replied, his tone even, his words carrying no weight beyond the surface.
Horikita’s eyes narrowed. “You always seem to have a plan, Ayanokouji. Even when you pretend not to.” She turned to the rest of the class, her gaze sweeping over the faces of her classmates. “Class D, we have to decide whether we’ll focus on the traditional arts booth or the tech demonstration. Both have merits, but we can’t afford to split our resources.”
Kei Karuizawa, who had been perched on a nearby chair, twirled a strand of her hair and let out a soft giggle. “I think we should do both,” she said, her voice light but her eyes sharp. “We could combine the two—maybe a VR experience that lets people walk through a traditional Japanese garden. It would be unique.”
Ryuuji Kanzaki, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. “You’re always thinking about the flashy stuff, Kei. The student council wants something that looks good on paper, not something that just looks cool.”
Karuizawa’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “It’s not about flash, Kanzaki. It’s about making an impact. If we can draw a crowd, we’ll have the leverage we need for the upcoming exams.”
The mention of exams sent a ripple through the room. The cultural festival was not just a celebration; it was a strategic platform. The student council had been using the festival as a way to gauge each class’s organizational abilities, and those abilities would directly influence the allocation of resources for the upcoming mid‑term exams. The stakes were higher than anyone wanted to admit.
Ayanokouji’s gaze lingered on the whiteboard, where a single line of ink read: “Cultural Festival Planning – Deadline: 5/12.” He seemed to be weighing the words, as if each syllable held a hidden weight. Then he spoke, his voice calm, almost indifferent. “If we want to maximize our influence, we need to consider the student council’s expectations. They’re looking for cohesion, not chaos. A unified front will give us more bargaining power when we negotiate exam strategies later.”
Horikita’s eyes flickered with something that could have been irritation or perhaps a grudging respect. “You’re suggesting we compromise our creativity for the sake of politics?” she asked, her tone edged with sarcasm.
Ayanokouji shrugged lightly. “It’s not about compromising. It’s about aligning our strengths with the council’s criteria. The festival is a stage, and the council is the audience. If we perform well, we’ll have a stronger voice when we discuss the exam schedule.”
Kanzaki pushed off from the wall, his expression turning serious. “You’re right. The council has been pushing for a stricter exam schedule, and they’re using the festival as leverage. If we can prove we’re capable, we might get a more favorable timetable.”
The conversation drifted into a low hum of strategic planning. Horikita pulled out a notebook, her pen moving swiftly across the page as she listed potential booth ideas, resource allocations, and timelines. Ayanokouji watched her, his eyes flickering with a faint curiosity. He had always been the silent observer, the one who seemed to glide through the currents of the school’s social hierarchy without ever making a splash. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, there was a mind that constantly calculated, a mind that could see the hidden threads that bound each student’s actions to the larger tapestry of the school’s power dynamics.
As the discussion progressed, a sudden commotion erupted near the entrance. A group of first‑year students burst in, their faces flushed with excitement. At their head was a lanky boy with a bright red scarf, his eyes alight with the fervor of a newcomer. “Hey, everyone! The student council just announced a surprise—there’s going to be a bonus point system for the class that raises the most funds for the festival!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.
A murmur rippled through the room. The prospect of bonus points added a new layer of urgency to the already tense atmosphere. Horikita’s pen paused mid‑stroke. “Bonus points?” she repeated, her voice low. “That changes everything.”
Ayanokouji’s expression remained unchanged, but his mind raced. The student council’s sudden announcement was not a random act of generosity; it was a calculated move to stir competition, to see which class would bend the most under pressure. He knew that the council’s motives were never purely altruistic. They were testing the students, probing for weaknesses, and using the festival as a crucible to forge alliances and rivalries.
“Let’s not forget,” Ayanokouji said, his voice barely above a whisper, “that the council’s true aim is to see how we handle external pressure. The bonus points are a carrot, but the real reward is the influence we’ll gain over the exam schedule.”
Horikita’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them. “You’re suggesting we use this as a bargaining chip?” she asked, her tone a mixture of curiosity and caution.
Ayanokouji inclined his head slightly. “Exactly. If we can secure the bonus points, we’ll have leverage. The council will have to consider our needs when they draft the exam timetable. It’s a classic case of Ayanokouji manipulation—subtle, indirect, but effective.”
Karuizawa’s eyes widened. “So we should focus on fundraising? But we already have a solid booth concept. How do we balance both?”
Kanzaki leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “We could assign a sub‑team to handle fundraising while the main team perfects the booth. That way, we don’t spread ourselves too thin.”
Horikita tapped her pen against the notebook, the sound sharp and deliberate. “Alright. Sub‑team for fundraising, main team for the booth. Ayanokouji, you’ll lead the fundraising effort. Your… connections could be useful.”
Ayanokouji’s smile widened ever so slightly. “Consider it done.”
The next few days unfolded in a blur of activity. The student council’s office became a hive of frantic energy as each class scrambled to secure sponsorships, sell merchandise, and rally support from alumni. Class D, under Ayanokouji’s quiet leadership, began to move like a well‑oiled machine. He approached the school’s alumni association with a calm confidence that belied his lack of overt charisma. He negotiated with local businesses, offering them exposure during the festival in exchange for modest contributions. He even managed to secure a small grant from the school’s budget by presenting a meticulously crafted proposal that highlighted the educational value of their booth.
Meanwhile, Horikita oversaw the development of the booth itself. She coordinated with the art club to design a traditional garden layout, consulted with the robotics club to integrate interactive elements, and worked closely with the IT department to set up the VR experience. Her meticulous nature ensured that every detail, from the placement of lanterns to the timing of the audio tracks, was perfect.
Karuizawa, despite her usual carefree demeanor, threw herself into the project with unexpected vigor. She recruited volunteers from the literature club to write descriptive narratives that would accompany the VR experience, ensuring that visitors would not only see but also feel the serenity of a Japanese garden. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and soon a small but dedicated team formed around her, each member eager to contribute their unique skills.
Kanzaki, ever the strategist, kept a close eye on the competition. He monitored the progress of other classes, noting their strengths and weaknesses. He whispered suggestions to Horikita, pointing out potential pitfalls and offering tactical advice. His presence was a steadying force, a reminder that the festival was not just about creativity but also about outmaneuvering rivals.
As the day of the festival approached, the atmosphere in the dormitory shifted from frantic to tense. The final rehearsal for the booth was scheduled for the night before the event. The entire class gathered in the empty gymnasium, the space transformed into a makeshift version of their planned exhibit. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a warm amber glow. The VR headsets lay on a table, their lenses reflecting the flickering lights.
Ayanokouji stood at the edge of the room, his eyes scanning the scene. He observed the subtle interactions between his classmates—the way Horikita’s brow furrowed when a technical glitch appeared, the way Karuizawa’s laughter eased the tension when a volunteer stumbled over a cable, the way Kanzaki’s calm voice reassured a nervous freshman. He felt a rare sense of satisfaction; the pieces were falling into place.
“Alright, everyone,” Horikita called, her voice steady. “Let’s run through the sequence one more time. Remember, timing is crucial. We have exactly five minutes per group, and we need to keep the flow smooth.”
The first group stepped forward, their faces a mixture of nerves and excitement. They put on the VR headsets, and the room filled with the soft sounds of a distant waterfall, the rustle of bamboo leaves, and the faint chirping of birds. As the virtual garden unfolded before their eyes, the group moved through the experience, guided by a gentle narration that Karuizawa had recorded. The audience watched, mesmerized, as the virtual world blended seamlessly with the physical lanterns and paper cranes that adorned the real space.
When the demonstration ended, a round of applause erupted. Horikita nodded approvingly, her eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of disapproval. Ayanokouji stepped forward, his voice low but clear. “Excellent work. Let’s make sure the transition between groups is seamless. We don’t want any downtime that could break the immersion.”
The rehearsal continued, each group improving upon the last. Minor adjustments were made—cables were tucked away more neatly, the narration was timed to match the visual cues, and the lighting was fine‑tuned to enhance the atmosphere. By the end of the night, the booth was a polished embodiment of their collective effort.
The morning of the cultural festival dawned bright and clear. The school courtyard was a sea of vibrant stalls, each class showcasing its unique interpretation of tradition and innovation. The student council’s headquarters, a sleek glass building at the center of the campus, buzzed with officials reviewing the progress of each class. The bonus point system loomed over the event like an invisible hand, guiding the actions of every participant.
Class D arrived early, their booth already set up and glowing softly in the early sunlight. The VR headsets were arranged neatly on a polished wooden table, each one labeled with a small card that read “Experience the Garden of Tranquility.” Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows across the floor. The scent of incense wafted through the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed tea that a small group of volunteers served to visitors.
As the first wave of students and teachers approached, Horikita stepped forward, her posture impeccable, her smile measured. “Welcome,” she said, her voice carrying a calm authority. “Please take a moment to step into our garden and experience a blend of tradition and technology.”
The first visitor, a senior from Class A, slipped on the headset and was instantly transported to a serene landscape. The VR experience was seamless, the visuals crisp, the sounds immersive. As the visitor moved through the garden, a gentle voice narrated the history of each element—the stone lanterns, the koi pond, the tea house—tying the virtual world to the physical artifacts displayed around them.
Word spread quickly. By mid‑morning, a steady stream of students, teachers, and even a few parents gathered around the booth, each eager to experience the unique fusion of old and new. The crowd’s enthusiasm was palpable, and the bonus points began to accumulate. Ayanokouji watched from the sidelines, his expression unreadable, yet his mind was already calculating the next move.
In the midst of the bustling festival, a sudden commotion erupted near the student council’s office. A group of students from Class B, known for their aggressive tactics, had set up a rival booth that featured a flashy light show and a series of competitive games. Their approach was loud, their colors bright, their energy overwhelming. The student council members, observing from their glass windows, exchanged glances.
Kanzaki, ever the strategist, slipped away from the booth and made his way toward the council’s office. He paused at the door, listening to the heated discussion inside. “They’re trying to outshine us with spectacle,” one council member muttered. “But they lack substance.”
Kanzaki entered, his presence commanding attention. “If you’re looking for substance, you should consider the impact of Class D’s booth,” he said, his voice steady. “We’ve combined cultural heritage with modern technology, creating an experience that educates as it entertains. That’s the kind of engagement the school needs.”
The council members exchanged glances, their expressions softening. The head councilor, a stern woman with silver hair, nodded. “You make a good point, Kanzaki. We’ll take that into account when allocating the bonus points.”
Kanzaki returned to the booth, his shoulders relaxed. He caught Ayanokouji’s eye and gave a subtle nod. The silent acknowledgment was enough; they both understood the significance of the council’s shift in perspective.
As the afternoon waned, the festival’s atmosphere grew more electric. The student council announced the final tally of bonus points, and the results were displayed on a large screen in the courtyard. The crowd hushed as the numbers flickered, each class’s name appearing in bold letters.
Class D’s name glowed brightly, the highest total of points earned. A collective gasp rippled through the audience, followed by a wave of applause that seemed to reverberate through the entire school. Horikita’s eyes widened for a brief moment before she composed herself, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
The head councilor stepped onto the stage, her voice amplified. “Congratulations to Class D for securing the most bonus points. Your dedication to both cultural preservation and innovative presentation has set a new standard for future festivals.”
She turned to the council members seated beside her. “In recognition of your achievement, Class D will receive priority in the upcoming exam schedule negotiations. You will have the opportunity to propose a more balanced timetable that reflects the needs of your students.”
The announcement sent a ripple of excitement through Class D. The exam strategy they had been quietly crafting for weeks now had a solid foundation. The council’s acknowledgment meant they could influence the timing and format of the mid‑term exams, potentially easing the pressure that had been mounting on all the classes.
Ayanokouji stepped forward, his voice calm and measured. “Thank you,” he said, addressing the council. “We appreciate the recognition and will continue to strive for excellence.”
Horikita approached him, her expression a mixture of admiration and resolve. “You’ve done well, Ayanokouji,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. “Your manipulation of the situation—subtle as it was—has paid off. We’ve secured the leverage we need.”
Ayanokouji inclined his head slightly. “It was a collective effort,” he replied. “Each of us contributed in our own way. The real challenge now is how we use this advantage.”
Karuizawa, still holding a VR headset, grinned. “Now we can finally get that extra time to perfect the garden’s soundscape. And maybe we can add a tea ceremony demonstration next year.”
Kanzaki chuckled, his eyes scanning the crowd. “And we’ll have the council’s ear when we propose a more reasonable exam schedule. No more surprise pop quizzes.”
The three of them laughed, the sound blending with the festival’s music. The moment felt like a brief pause in the relentless march of school life—a chance to breathe, to reflect, and to plan.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the courtyard lights flickered on, casting a warm