Chapter 1 Summary
The morning sun slipped through the high glass panes of the newly built school, casting a thin lattice of light across the polished marble floor. The building itself seemed to breathe, its sleek steel ribs and glass facades promising a future that was both immaculate and unforgiving. For the students who had just passed the grueling entrance exam, the sight was a silent proclamation: this was no ordinary academy. It was a crucible, a place where talent would be measured against ambition, and where the hierarchy of the classroom would be forged in the fires of competition.
Kiyotaka Ayanokouji stood at the edge of the crowd, his posture relaxed, his eyes hidden behind a pair of unremarkable glasses. He had arrived at the school the night before, his luggage a single, nondescript suitcase. The other students whispered about his calm demeanor, some assuming it was confidence, others suspecting something more calculated. He had never been one to draw attention, and today, as the gates opened, he slipped through the throng like a shadow, unnoticed and unremarkable.
Across the courtyard, a group of students gathered near the main entrance, their chatter a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Among them, Suzune Horikita, with her sharp gaze and immaculate uniform, surveyed the scene with a critical eye. She had spent months preparing for the entrance exam, her mind a steel trap of strategies and contingencies. The moment she stepped onto the campus, she felt the weight of expectation settle on her shoulders. The school’s reputation for a ruthless classroom hierarchy was well known; she intended to climb it, no matter the cost.
Beside her, Kikyo Kushida laughed, her bright smile a stark contrast to the seriousness that seemed to dominate the atmosphere. She was the type of student who could make friends with anyone, her charisma a weapon she wielded with effortless grace. Yet beneath her bubbly exterior lay a keen intellect, one that could dissect a problem with the precision of a surgeon. She glanced at the towering building and whispered, “Can you believe we’re finally here? This is going to be… amazing.”
Ryuuji Kanzaki, the charismatic leader of the popular clique, sauntered over, his confidence radiating like a beacon. He had always been the center of attention, his reputation built on a mixture of charm and a subtle, almost invisible influence over his peers. He clapped a hand on Horikita’s shoulder, his grin widening. “Welcome to the real world, Horikita. Let’s see if you can survive the first day of school here.”
The bell rang, a clear, resonant tone that seemed to echo through the corridors and into the hearts of the students. It was the signal that the first official gathering would begin, the moment when the school would reveal the structure that would govern their lives for the next three years. The students shuffled into the grand auditorium, a cavernous space filled with rows of seats that rose like terraces. At the front, a massive screen flickered to life, displaying the emblem of the academy—a stylized phoenix rising from a sea of stars.
A voice, calm and authoritative, filled the room. “Welcome, new students, to the pinnacle of educational excellence. You have all proven yourselves capable of passing the entrance exam, a test designed not only to assess knowledge but also to gauge your potential for adaptation, resilience, and strategic thinking. This institution is built upon a unique system, one that will challenge you in ways you have never imagined.”
The screen shifted, revealing a diagram of the school’s layout. Four distinct wings, each housing a different class: A, B, C, and D. The colors were stark—gold for Class A, silver for Class B, bronze for Class C, and a muted gray for Class D. The voice continued, “Your placement will be determined by your performance in the upcoming orientation test. This test will not be a simple academic assessment; it will be a survival game, a series of challenges designed to evaluate your ability to cooperate, compete, and, most importantly, to think beyond the obvious.”
A murmur rippled through the auditorium. The students exchanged glances, some excited, others apprehensive. Horikita’s eyes narrowed. She had always believed that intelligence alone could secure a top position, but the notion of a survival game hinted at variables beyond pure intellect. She turned her gaze toward Ayanokouji, who seemed to be listening with a detached curiosity, his expression unreadable.
Kanzaki leaned in, his voice low. “Looks like we’re going to have to prove ourselves right away. I hope you’re ready, Horikita. This isn’t a classroom; it’s a battlefield.”
Kushida giggled, “Oh, come on, Ryuuji. It’ll be fun! Think of it as a game. We’ll all get to know each other better.”
The voice on the screen announced the first challenge: a timed puzzle that required teams to solve a series of riddles while navigating a maze of corridors. The students would be divided into groups, each group assigned a color corresponding to a class. The outcome would determine their initial placement. The stakes were clear—perform well, and you could secure a spot in Class A; falter, and you might find yourself relegated to Class D, the lowest tier.
The auditorium doors swung open, and the students poured out into the sprawling hallway. The walls were lined with digital displays, each flashing the names of the upcoming challenges. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of polished wood and fresh paint mingling with the nervous sweat of the newcomers.
Ayanokouji found himself standing near a group of students who were already forming a line. He observed them with a detached interest, noting the dynamics at play. A tall boy with a scar across his cheek, who introduced himself as Haruki, took charge, his voice booming. “Alright, let’s split into teams. We need to be efficient. Who’s good at puzzles?”
A few hands rose, including Kushida’s, who beamed with enthusiasm. Horikita, standing a few steps away, crossed her arms and stared at the group, her mind already cataloguing each participant’s potential value. Kanzaki, ever the charismatic leader, stepped forward, his smile disarming. “I think we should all stick together. Strength in numbers, right?”
Haruki glanced at Kanzaki, then at Horikita, and finally at Ayanokouji, who had remained silent. “You, quiet one. What’s your name?”
“Ayanokouji,” he replied, his voice low. “Kiyotaka Ayanokouji.”
Haruki nodded. “Alright, Kiyotaka, you’re with us. Let’s move.”
The group was assigned the color gray, indicating that they would be competing for a spot in Class D. The realization hit them like a cold wave; they were already at the bottom of the hierarchy before the first challenge even began. Yet, for Ayanokouji, the label was irrelevant. He had learned early on that the most powerful position was often the one no one expected.
The first puzzle was set up in a large, open atrium. A massive digital board displayed a series of symbols, each representing a clue. The participants were given a set of metal plates, each etched with a different pattern. Their task was to arrange the plates in a specific order to unlock the next stage. The clock ticked down from ten minutes, the sound echoing off the marble floor.
Kushida immediately began arranging the plates, her eyes darting between the symbols and the pieces. “I think this one goes here,” she said, placing a plate with a spiral pattern next to a symbol of a sun. “And this one matches the moon.”
Horikita watched, her mind racing. She noted the speed at which Kushida worked, the confidence in her movements. Yet she also observed the subtle hesitations, the moments when Kushida’s smile faltered. Horikita whispered to herself, “Speed is not enough. Precision matters.”
Ayanokouji stood back, his gaze fixed on the board. He didn’t touch the plates, but his mind was already mapping the relationships between the symbols. He noticed that the spiral and sun formed a pattern that mirrored the arrangement of the moon and a star. He stepped forward, his hand moving with deliberate calm, and placed a plate with a star pattern opposite the moon. The board emitted a soft chime, indicating a correct placement.
Kanzaki, eager to prove his leadership, tried to take charge. “Let’s keep moving. We need to finish this fast.” He grabbed a plate with a lightning bolt and placed it near a symbol of a cloud. The board remained silent, indicating a mistake.
Haruki frowned. “No, that’s not right.” He turned to Ayanokouji. “What do you think?”
Ayanokouji glanced at the board, his eyes flickering over the remaining symbols. He saw a pattern of elements—fire, water, earth, air—each represented by a different symbol. He realized the puzzle was not about random placement but about aligning the elements in a natural order. He placed a plate with a water droplet next to a symbol of a wave, and the board emitted a bright tone, confirming the correct sequence.
The remaining plates fell into place with a rhythm that seemed almost musical. Within minutes, the board displayed a green light, signaling the completion of the puzzle. The group breathed a collective sigh of relief, their hearts pounding with adrenaline.
The digital display flashed the results: the gray team had secured a spot in Class D. The other teams, colored gold, silver, and bronze, had earned placements in Classes A, B, and C respectively. The hierarchy was now set, at least for the first semester. The students were ushered back to the auditorium, where the voice on the screen continued, “Congratulations to those who have earned their positions. Remember, this is only the beginning. The true test of your abilities will unfold over the coming months.”
As the crowd dispersed, Horikita lingered, her eyes fixed on Ayanokouji. She had seen his calm composure, his ability to solve the puzzle without the frantic energy that had driven the others. She approached him, her voice low. “You were… efficient. I’m Suzune Horikita. I expect… results.”
Ayanokouji inclined his head slightly. “Kiyotaka Ayanokouji. I’m… here to learn.”
She studied his face, trying to read any hint of ambition. “Class D is… the lowest tier. It’s a place where you’re expected to… survive. If you want to rise, you’ll need to understand the system. And perhaps… find allies.”
Ayanokouji’s eyes flickered, a faint smile touching his lips. “Allies are… useful.”
Kushida, still buzzing with excitement, joined them. “That was fun! I can’t wait for the next challenge. Do you think we’ll get a chance to move up?”
Horikita glanced at the digital board displaying the upcoming schedule. “There will be opportunities. The school’s design is… a survival game. Every decision counts.”
Kanzaki, who had been chatting with Haruki, walked over, his grin still wide. “Well, we’ve got a long road ahead. Let’s make sure we’re ready for whatever they throw at us.”
The four of them stood together, a tentative alliance forming in the shadows of the grand auditorium. The school’s hierarchy loomed like a towering wall, but within its structure lay cracks, hidden passages, and opportunities for those who could read between the lines. The first day of school had ended, but the real game was just beginning.
Over the next few weeks, the students settled into their respective classes. Class A, bathed in golden light, was a hive of high achievers, their desks arranged in neat rows, each student equipped with the latest technology. The teachers, impeccably dressed, delivered lectures with a precision that left little room for error. The atmosphere was one of polished excellence, where every answer was expected to be correct, and every mistake was a blemish on a perfect record.
Class B, silver and slightly less ostentatious, housed students who were competent but not quite at the pinnacle. Their lessons were rigorous, yet there was a subtle undercurrent of competition, as each student vied for the chance to ascend to the coveted gold tier. The teachers here were more approachable, offering guidance that felt almost personal, but always with an eye on the ultimate goal.
Class C, bronze, was a mix of average performers and those who had just missed the cut for higher tiers. Their classrooms were spacious, the walls adorned with motivational posters. The teachers encouraged collaboration, fostering an environment where teamwork was praised as much as individual brilliance. Yet, beneath the camaraderie, there was a quiet tension, a sense that any misstep could push them further down the hierarchy.
Class D, the gray zone where Ayanokouji, Horikita, Kushida, and Kanzaki found themselves, was a stark contrast. The rooms were dimmer, the furniture more utilitarian. The students were a diverse mix—some were quiet and observant, others were loud and desperate to prove themselves. The teachers, though still professional, seemed to keep a careful distance, as if wary of the potential chaos that could erupt in a class where survival was the primary objective.
The first semester’s curriculum was a blend of traditional subjects—mathematics, literature, science—and unconventional modules designed to test adaptability. One such module was the “Resource Allocation Exercise,” a simulation where each class received a limited amount of virtual currency to manage a fictional city’s development. The outcomes would affect the class’s standing in the school’s internal ranking system.
In Class D, the exercise began with a palpable sense of urgency. The students gathered around a large holographic table that projected a sprawling cityscape. The teacher, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, explained the rules. “You have 10,000 credits to allocate across infrastructure, education, health, and security. Your decisions will impact the city’s growth and, consequently, your class’s rating.”
Kushida, ever enthusiastic, raised her hand. “Can we discuss strategies as a group?”
The teacher nodded. “Collaboration is encouraged, but remember, the final decision rests with the class representative.”
Horikita stepped forward, her voice steady. “We need a clear plan. I propose we allocate 40% to education, 30% to health, 20% to infrastructure, and 10% to security. Education will boost our long-term potential, while health ensures stability.”
Kanzaki, with his natural charisma, countered. “I think we should prioritize security. If we don’t protect the city, everything else falls apart. Let’s do 30% security, 30% health, 20% education, and 20% infrastructure.”
Ayanokouji observed the debate, his eyes flickering between the holographic city and his classmates. He noted the strengths and weaknesses of each proposal. He remained silent, his mind already calculating the optimal distribution based on the simulation’s hidden parameters.
After a heated discussion, the class voted. The result was a compromise: 30% education, 30% health, 20% infrastructure, and 20% security. The holographic city responded, its lights flickering as the allocated resources took effect. The simulation ran its course, and the final report displayed a modest increase in the city’s overall well-being, but the class’s rating remained low compared to the higher tiers.
The teacher smiled faintly. “Your performance will be recorded. Remember, every action you take contributes to the larger picture of the school’s hierarchy.”
The exercise ended, but its impact lingered. The students of Class D felt the weight of their decisions, the realization that even small choices could ripple through the system. Horikita, ever analytical, began to keep a notebook, documenting every rule, every nuance of the school’s structure. She wrote, “The hierarchy is not static; it is a living organism that responds to input. To ascend, we must understand the variables that influence the system.”
Kushida, meanwhile, formed a small study group, inviting anyone who wanted to discuss the exercise. She believed that shared knowledge could be a catalyst for improvement. “If we all understand the mechanics, we can help each other,” she told the group, her voice warm and inviting.
Kanzaki, with his natural leadership, organized a series of extracurricular activities—sports, debates, and cultural events—to boost morale. He understood that confidence could be a powerful tool in a survival game. “We need to show the school that we’re not just surviving; we’re thriving,” he declared, rallying his classmates.
Ayanokouji, however, kept to the periphery. He attended the study sessions, listened to the debates, and observed the dynamics. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight. During a discussion about the resource allocation, he suggested, “What if we consider the hidden variables—like the city’s population growth rate? If we allocate more to education, we might see a delayed but larger impact.”
His suggestion sparked a new line of thought among the students. They began to consider not just the immediate outcomes but the long-term effects of their decisions. The class’s performance in subsequent simulations improved modestly, but the hierarchy remained unforgiving.
Outside the classroom, rumors swirled about the school’s deeper purpose. Some whispered that the institution was a social experiment, a microcosm designed to test human behavior under pressure. Others believed it was a training ground for future leaders, a place where only the most adaptable would survive. The students, especially those in Class D, found themselves caught between curiosity and caution.
One evening, after a long day of lectures and group activities, Horikita stayed behind in the empty hallway, her notebook open on a bench. She was deep in thought, her pen moving across the page as she tried to map the connections between the various challenges. A soft voice interrupted her concentration.
“Studying the system, I see.”
She looked up to find Ayanokouji standing a few steps away, his expression neutral. “You’re… quiet,” she said, a hint of surprise in her tone.
He shrugged. “I find it… efficient to observe.”
She closed her notebook, her eyes narrowing. “You seem to understand more than you let on. This school… it’s a game, but the rules aren’t all written down.”
Ayanokouji’s gaze lingered on the hallway’s dim lights. “Sometimes