Chapter 4 Summary
The morning light slipped through the high windows of the school’s central atrium, casting long, angular shadows across the polished marble floor. The hum of conversation rose and fell like a tide, each wave carrying the distinct timbre of the elite academy’s hierarchy. In the distance, the distant clatter of lockers being slammed shut marked the start of another day for the second‑year students, and somewhere in the midst of that organized chaos, Class D gathered in their usual corner of the courtyard, a place that had become both sanctuary and battlefield.
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka stood at the edge of the group, his posture relaxed, his eyes half‑closed as if he were merely observing a passing cloud. To the casual observer, he seemed indifferent, a quiet presence that blended into the background. Yet those who had taken the time to read Classroom Of The Elite 2nd Year chapter 4 online knew that his silence was a calculated veil, a strategic choice that allowed him to gauge the shifting currents of classroom politics without drawing attention to his own moves. He watched as Horikita Suzune approached, her steps measured, her expression a blend of determination and concealed anxiety.
“Morning, Ayanokouji,” Horikita said, her voice low but firm. “We need to talk about the D‑class test tomorrow. The administration has finally released the parameters, and it looks like they’re trying to force us into a collaborative scenario.”
Ayanokouji’s eyes flickered open, catching the faint reflection of the morning sun on his glasses. “Is that so?” he replied, his tone almost indifferent. “What exactly are they asking for?”
Horikita pulled a thin sheet of paper from her bag, the edges crisp and the ink still fresh. “It’s a multi‑stage problem set. First, we have a logical puzzle that requires us to allocate resources among the five groups in the school. Then, there’s a physical component—an obstacle course that will test our teamwork under pressure. Finally, a written essay where we must argue the merits of the school’s merit‑based system. The catch is that each stage will be scored separately, and the overall ranking will affect the allocation of points for the semester.”
Ayanokouji glanced at the paper, his mind already turning the information over like a chess piece. “Interesting. So they’re trying to force us to cooperate while still maintaining the competitive edge.”
Horikita nodded, her eyes narrowing. “Exactly. And we can’t afford to lose points. If we fall behind, the hierarchy will push us further down, and the other classes will take advantage. I need a strategy that maximizes our strengths without exposing our weaknesses.”
Ayanokouji’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “You’ve always been good at seeing the big picture, Horikita. Let’s start by breaking down each stage. For the logical puzzle, we’ll need the analytical minds of Kushida Kikyo and the quick‑thinking of Karuizawa Kei. For the obstacle course, we’ll need the physical agility of the sports club members, but we also need someone who can keep the group focused under stress. And for the essay, we’ll need a persuasive voice—perhaps you, Suzune, given your experience with the student council.”
Horikita considered his words, the gears in her mind turning. “You think we can pull it off? The other classes are already forming alliances. Class A is pushing a full‑force approach, while Class B is banking on their star athletes. We’re… we’re the underdogs.”
Ayanokouji’s gaze drifted to the far side of the courtyard, where a small group of students from Class C were laughing, their confidence palpable. “Underdogs can become champions if they play the right hand,” he said quietly. “We just need to make sure the hand we play is the one they don’t see coming.”
The conversation was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter from the nearby benches. Kushida Kikyo, her hair tied in a loose ponytail, was animatedly describing a recent incident in the cafeteria. She turned toward the pair, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you hear about the new vending machine? They say it only dispenses snacks if you solve a riddle first. It’s like a mini‑test for the whole school!”
Horikita raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a perfect warm‑up for tomorrow’s logical puzzle. Maybe we should try it out and see how the students react.”
Kushida’s smile widened. “I was thinking the same thing. I’ll gather a few volunteers and we can test it during lunch. It’ll give us a sense of how quickly they can process information under pressure.”
Ayanokouji nodded, his mind already cataloguing the potential data points. “Good. While you’re at it, see if you can get Karuizawa Kei involved. Her social influence could be useful for rallying support without making it look like a coordinated effort.”
Karuizawa, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar, glanced over with a playful grin. “You want me to be the face of the operation? I’m flattered, but you know I’m not exactly the type to get my hands dirty with puzzles.”
Kushida chuckled. “Don’t worry, Kei. We’ll keep it light. Think of it as a game. Plus, you’ll get to see how the other classes react when we solve the vending machine’s riddle. It could be a good way to gauge their strategies.”
Karuizawa’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Alright, I’m in. But only if we get to keep the snacks after we solve it. I’m not doing this for free.”
The group laughed, the tension easing for a moment. Yet beneath the banter, each participant was already mapping out their role in the upcoming test. The D‑class test was more than a simple assessment; it was a microcosm of the school’s hierarchy, a stage where alliances could be forged, broken, and re‑forged in the blink of an eye.
As the bell rang, signaling the start of the first period, the students dispersed to their respective classrooms. Ayanokouji slipped into the back row of his homeroom, his notebook open but empty. He watched the teacher, a stern woman with sharp eyes, begin the lesson on political theory. The lecture was a thin veil over the underlying tension that pulsed through the school’s corridors. Every word about governance, power, and societal structures seemed to echo the very reality the students lived in.
Horikita sat a few rows ahead, her pen moving methodically across the page as she took notes. She was aware of the eyes that occasionally flicked toward her, the whispers that followed her every move. In this elite institution, reputation was a currency, and she was determined to spend it wisely.
During lunch, the courtyard buzzed with activity. Kushida gathered a small group of students—two from Class B, one from Class C, and a shy freshman from Class E—around the new vending machine. The machine’s screen displayed a cryptic message: “Solve the riddle, claim your reward.” The riddle read: “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”
Kushida’s eyes lit up. “It’s an echo,” she said confidently. She pressed the button, and the machine whirred, then dispensed a bag of chips. The small crowd cheered, the sound echoing across the courtyard like a tiny victory.
Karuizawa, leaning against the vending machine, watched the scene with a calculating smile. She turned to Kushida, her voice low. “You see how quickly they respond when there’s a tangible reward? That’s the leverage we need for the logical puzzle. If we can frame the problem as something that offers immediate benefit, they’ll be more inclined to cooperate.”
Kushida nodded, her mind already racing with possibilities. “We could present the resource allocation stage as a series of mini‑rewards. Each group gets a small advantage if they solve a sub‑puzzle. It’ll keep them engaged and mask the larger strategic goal.”
Ayanokouji, who had been observing from a distance, stepped forward. “And we should keep the focus on the collective outcome rather than individual gain. That way, the hierarchy won’t suspect us of trying to manipulate the system.”
Horikita arrived, her expression serious. “We need to decide who will present the proposal to the teacher tomorrow. If we’re too obvious, the administration might see through us and penalize the class.”
Karuizawa raised an eyebrow. “What about using a proxy? Someone who isn’t directly associated with D‑class but can speak on our behalf. Maybe a member of Class C who’s neutral.”
Kushida considered this. “We could ask the freshman from Class E to be the front. He’s relatively unknown, and his enthusiasm could be persuasive.”
Horikita smiled faintly. “That could work. We’ll need to rehearse the presentation tonight. I’ll draft the outline, and Ayanokouji can help refine the logical flow. Kushida, you handle the interactive part with the vending machine analogy. Karuizawa, you’ll manage the social dynamics, ensuring the other classes don’t suspect a coordinated effort.”
The plan fell into place like a well‑engineered machine, each cog turning in sync. As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a golden hue over the school’s stone façade, the members of Class D retreated to their respective rooms, each carrying a piece of the puzzle that would define their fate.
That evening, the classroom lights flickered on one by one as the students settled into their study sessions. Horikita spread a large sheet of paper across the table, the outline of the D‑class test sketched in meticulous detail. She pointed to the first stage, the logical puzzle, and began to speak.
“The resource allocation problem requires us to consider the needs of each group: the academic clubs, the sports teams, the cultural societies, and the general student body. If we present it as a series of small, achievable goals—like the vending machine reward—we can encourage cooperation without revealing our overarching strategy.”
Ayanokouji leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined the diagram. “We should also factor in the hidden variables. The administration will likely monitor the time each group spends on each sub‑task. If we can finish the sub‑puzzles faster than the other classes, we’ll gain a psychological edge.”
Kushida tapped her pen against the paper. “I can design a quick‑fire quiz that mimics the vending machine’s riddle. It’ll be simple, but it will test their ability to think under pressure. If we can get them to solve it in under a minute, we’ll have proof that our group can handle the logical stage efficiently.”
Karuizawa, perched on the edge of her seat, added, “And I’ll spread the word subtly. I’ll mention the vending machine challenge in casual conversation, making it sound like a fun side activity. That way, the other classes won’t suspect we’re using it as a training ground.”
Horikita nodded, her mind already weaving the threads together. “We’ll need to rehearse the presentation for the teacher. The essay portion will be crucial. If we can argue that the merit‑based system benefits from collaborative problem‑solving, we’ll align our argument with the school’s philosophy while subtly highlighting the flaws in the current hierarchy.”
Ayanokouji’s voice was calm, almost detached. “We should also prepare a contingency plan. If the teacher questions our methodology, we can point to the data we gathered from the vending machine experiment. Real‑world evidence will strengthen our case.”
The night deepened, and the group’s discussion grew more intense. They debated the phrasing of the essay, the allocation of roles for the obstacle course, and the timing of each segment. The atmosphere was charged with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, each member aware that a single misstep could send them spiraling down the school’s rigid hierarchy.
When the clock struck midnight, they finally concluded their planning. Horikita folded the paper, her eyes reflecting a rare glimmer of hope. “Tomorrow, we’ll show them that Class D can rise above the expectations placed upon us. Not by brute force, but by intelligence, cooperation, and a little bit of ingenuity.”
Ayanokouji stood, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the hallway. “Remember, the key is to stay invisible while making the biggest impact. Let the others think they’re in control, and we’ll guide the outcome from the shadows.”
Kushida smiled, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “I can’t wait to see the look on their faces when we solve the puzzle in record time.”
Karuizawa chuckled, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “And I’ll make sure we get the snacks after we win. After all, victory tastes better when it’s accompanied by chips.”
The next morning, the school’s corridors buzzed with a nervous energy. Rumors of the upcoming D‑class test spread like wildfire, each student speculating about the possible outcomes. The administration had posted a notice on the bulletin board, outlining the three stages and reminding everyone of the stakes involved. The hierarchy was palpable; Class A students walked with an air of superiority, while Class D members kept their heads down, eyes focused on the task ahead.
In the classroom, the teacher stood at the front, a stern expression on her face. “Today, you will undertake a test designed to evaluate not only your individual abilities but also your capacity to work as a cohesive unit. The first stage will be a logical puzzle involving resource allocation. The second stage will test your physical coordination and teamwork. The final stage will be an essay where you must argue the merits of our merit‑based system. You will be graded separately on each stage, and the combined score will affect your class ranking for the semester.”
She paused, scanning the room. “Remember, this is not merely an academic exercise. It reflects the real‑world challenges you will face after graduation. I expect each of you to give your best effort.”
As the teacher dismissed the class, Horikita gathered her group in a quiet corner. She unfolded the outline they had prepared, her voice low but confident. “We’ll start with the logical puzzle. Remember the vending machine analogy. We’ll present it as a series of small challenges that lead to a larger solution. Ayanokouji, you’ll lead the explanation of the resource allocation model. Kushida, you’ll demonstrate the quick‑fire quiz to illustrate our point. Karuizawa, you’ll handle the social aspect, ensuring the other groups see this as a collaborative effort rather than a D‑class advantage.”
Ayanokouji nodded, his expression unreadable. “We’ll keep the presentation concise. The teacher values efficiency. If we can convey our strategy in under ten minutes, we’ll have more time for the actual problem solving.”
Kushida adjusted her glasses, a determined spark in her eyes. “I’ve prepared a set of riddles similar to the vending machine’s. They’re simple enough to solve quickly, but they’ll demonstrate our ability to think under pressure.”
Karuizawa leaned in, her voice a whisper. “I’ll talk to a few students from Class C during lunch. I’ll mention the vending machine challenge as a fun side activity. If they’re curious, they’ll ask about it, and we can subtly steer the conversation toward cooperation.”
The bell rang, signaling the start of the first stage. The students filed into the large auditorium where the logical puzzle was set up. A massive screen displayed a diagram of the school’s resource network: classrooms, laboratories, sports facilities, and cultural clubs, each represented by a node. The task was to allocate a limited pool of funding and equipment to each node in a way that maximized overall efficiency while satisfying the specific needs of each group.
The teacher explained the rules. “You have thirty minutes to propose a distribution plan. You may discuss among yourselves, but each group must present a single unified proposal. The proposals will be evaluated on feasibility, fairness, and innovation.”
Class A immediately formed a tight circle, their leader speaking with authority. “We’ll allocate the majority of resources to the science labs and sports facilities. Those are the areas that bring the most prestige to the school.”
Class B, confident in their athletic prowess, argued for a heavier emphasis on the gym and training grounds. Class C, the cultural club, pushed for more funding for the art studio and music rooms. The debate grew heated, each class trying to outmaneuver the others.
When it was Class D’s turn, Horikita stepped forward, her posture poised. She began with a calm, measured tone. “Our proposal is built on the principle of balanced growth. We recognize that each node contributes uniquely to the school’s ecosystem. By allocating resources in a way that supports both academic and extracurricular activities, we ensure a sustainable environment for all students.”
She gestured to the screen, where a sleek diagram highlighted a series of interconnected nodes, each receiving a modest but strategic share of the resources. “We have identified three key synergies,” she continued. “First, the science labs and the robotics club can share equipment, reducing redundancy. Second, the sports facilities can be used for both physical education and large‑scale events, maximizing utilization. Third, the cultural clubs can collaborate on interdisciplinary projects, fostering creativity across disciplines.”
Ayanokouji took over, his voice steady. “To illustrate our approach, we conducted a small experiment with the vending machine in the courtyard. By presenting a simple riddle, we observed how quickly students could solve a problem when a tangible reward was at stake. The results showed that when incentives are clear and immediate, cooperation increases dramatically. We applied this principle to our resource allocation model, ensuring that each group