Chapter 17 Summary
The fluorescent lights of the classroom flickered in a rhythm that seemed to echo the restless pulse of the students inside. It was the first day after the announcement of the Test Battle, and the air was thick with a mixture of anticipation, dread, and the faint, metallic scent of freshly sharpened pencils. In the far corner, where the shadows clung to the wall like a second skin, Kiyotaka Ayanokoji sat with his hands folded neatly on the desk, his expression as unreadable as ever. He watched the room with a detached curiosity, his mind already turning the pieces of the upcoming confrontation over like a chess player contemplating an opening move.
Across the aisle, Suzune Horikita stood at the blackboard, her posture rigid, her eyes scanning the list of rules that had been posted for the Test Battle. The words were simple: each class would be paired against another in a series of challenges designed to test not only academic prowess but also teamwork, strategy, and the ability to adapt under pressure. Class D would face Class C, a pairing that sent a ripple of murmurs through the room. Class C, known for its disciplined approach and higher average scores, had always been a thorn in the side of the underdog Class D. Horikita’s lips pressed into a thin line as she considered the implications. She had spent weeks crafting a plan, a lattice of contingencies that she hoped would give her class a fighting chance.
“Everyone, listen up,” Horikita’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation. “The Test Battle will begin tomorrow at 0900. We will be matched against Class C. Their strengths lie in coordination and raw intellect. We must leverage our flexibility and the unique abilities each of us brings. I expect full cooperation and absolute focus.”
A few heads nodded, while others exchanged uneasy glances. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next word that might set the tone for the days to come. It was then that a soft, melodic voice rose from the back of the room, drawing the attention of every student.
“Excuse me, Horikita‑sensei,” Kikyo Kushida said, stepping forward with a calm confidence that belied the nervous flutter in her stomach. Her eyes, bright and inquisitive, met Horikita’s with a steady gaze. “I think there’s an aspect of the battle we haven’t considered yet.”
Horikita turned, her eyebrows arching in mild surprise. “And what would that be, Kushida‑senpai?”
Kushida smiled, a faint, almost shy smile that seemed to carry a hidden depth. “The psychological component. The way we present ourselves, the narratives we create for the other class, can be just as decisive as any physical or intellectual advantage. If we can sow doubt, or at least make them second‑guess their own strategies, we could tilt the balance in our favor.”
Horikita’s eyes narrowed, not out of disdain but out of a rapid calculation. “You’re suggesting a form of information warfare?”
“Exactly,” Kushida replied, her tone gaining a subtle edge. “We can use the limited communication channels we have—notes, the occasional whispered conversation—to feed them misinformation. Even a small seed of uncertainty can grow into a forest of hesitation.”
Ayanokoji’s gaze lingered on Kushida for a moment longer than necessary. He noted the way her words, though gentle, carried an undercurrent of strategic insight. He had always observed the dynamics of Class D from a distance, rarely intervening unless the situation demanded it. Yet something about Kushida’s suggestion sparked a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his internal calculus.
“Horikita‑sensei,” Ayanokoji said, his voice low and even, “if we are to employ deception, we must ensure that our own team remains cohesive. Any misstep could backfire, causing internal discord rather than external confusion.”
Horikita turned to him, her expression softening just enough to acknowledge his input. “You’re right, Ayanokoji‑kun. We’ll need a clear chain of command for the misinformation campaign, and strict protocols to prevent leaks. Kushida‑senpai, can you coordinate that?”
Kushida nodded, her eyes brightening. “I can. I’ll draft a set of guidelines and assign roles. We’ll need a few trusted members to act as the ‘voice’ that reaches Class C, perhaps through the shared bulletin board or the occasional group chat.”
The discussion continued, each student contributing ideas that ranged from the practical—assigning specific tasks for each challenge—to the more abstract, like leveraging the class’s reputation for unpredictability. As the meeting drew to a close, Horikita stood once more, her voice resonating with a newfound resolve.
“Remember, the Test Battle is not just a test of knowledge. It is a test of who we are as a collective. We will not be defined by the numbers on a scoreboard, but by how we respond when the odds are stacked against us. Class D will show that we are more than the sum of our parts.”
Applause erupted, tentative at first, then swelling into a genuine surge of encouragement. The students began to file out, each carrying with them a piece of the plan, a fragment of hope, and the weight of expectation.
The night before the battle, the dormitory buzzed with a low, steady hum of activity. Some students pored over textbooks, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of desk lamps. Others, like Kushida, gathered in small groups, whispering strategies that would later be transmitted to the opposing class. Ayanokoji, however, sat alone on the balcony, the night sky a canvas of stars that seemed indifferent to the human dramas unfolding below.
He stared at the constellations, his mind replaying the day’s events. The Horikita plan was meticulous, but it relied heavily on the assumption that Class C would react predictably to psychological pressure. Kushida’s insight added a layer of subtlety, but it also introduced a variable that could spiral out of control. He considered his own role—always the silent observer, the hidden hand that nudged events in a direction only he could foresee.
A soft rustle behind him made him turn. A figure emerged from the shadows, her silhouette familiar yet somehow different in the moonlight. It was Suzune Horikita, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her eyes reflecting the same determination that had driven her throughout the semester.
“Did you think I’d let you have the night to yourself?” she asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Ayanokoji inclined his head slightly. “I was contemplating the variables.”
Horikita stepped closer, the night air cool against her skin. “You always think three steps ahead. But sometimes, the most crucial move is the one you don’t make.”
He regarded her for a moment, then spoke. “The Test Battle will be a crucible. If we succeed, it will be because we embraced the chaos, not because we tried to control it.”
She laughed softly, a sound that seemed to blend with the distant chirping of crickets. “You always have a way of turning everything into a philosophical exercise. But you’re right. We need to be adaptable. That’s why I’m glad Kushida is on board. Her perspective could be the edge we need.”
Ayanokoji’s eyes flickered to the horizon, where the first hints of dawn began to bleed into the darkness. “Adaptability is a double‑edged sword. It can cut both ways.”
Horikita placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie. “Then let’s make sure it cuts the right side.”
The two stood in silence for a few moments, the world around them holding its breath as the night gave way to day. When the first rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, they both turned back toward the dormitory, ready to face the day that would define their class’s fate.
Morning arrived with a crisp, clean clarity that seemed to sharpen every sense. The courtyard of the school was already bustling with students from various classes, each group forming clusters that resembled tiny nations preparing for war. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the anticipation of the unknown. At the center of the courtyard, a large digital board displayed the schedule for the Test Battle, its bright letters flashing: “Class D vs Class C – 0900 – Begin.”
Ayanokoji arrived at the designated meeting point early, his steps silent on the polished stone. He observed the other participants—students from Class C, their uniforms immaculate, their faces set in expressions of quiet confidence. Their leader, a tall boy named Takumi, exuded an aura of authority that seemed to command the attention of his peers without a word.
Horikita entered shortly after, her presence commanding as always. She moved with purpose, her eyes scanning the surroundings, taking in every detail. Beside her, Kushida walked with a calm poise, her notebook clutched tightly, ready to record any observations that might prove useful later.
The two classes faced each other across the courtyard, the distance between them a symbolic chasm that would soon be bridged by the challenges set before them. A hush fell over the crowd as the school’s principal, a stern figure with silver hair, stepped onto the platform and raised his hand.
“Welcome, students, to the Test Battle,” he announced, his voice resonating across the courtyard. “This competition will test not only your academic abilities but also your teamwork, strategic thinking, and resilience. The first challenge will be a collaborative problem‑solving exercise. Each class will receive a set of puzzles that must be solved within thirty minutes. The class that completes the most puzzles correctly will earn a significant advantage for the next round.”
He gestured toward a table where a stack of sealed envelopes lay, each containing a different puzzle. The tension in the air was palpable, the kind that makes muscles tighten and breath shorten. Horikita stepped forward, her gaze locking onto the principal’s.
“We’re ready,” she said, her voice steady.
The principal nodded, then turned to the students of Class C. “And you?”
Takumi gave a brief, confident nod. “Ready.”
With a swift motion, the principal lifted a lever, and the envelopes were distributed to each class. The students gathered around the tables, their hands moving quickly as they opened the first envelope. Inside, a complex logic grid awaited, its rows and columns filled with cryptic symbols and numbers.
Kushida’s eyes lit up as she examined the puzzle. “This is a classic nonogram,” she whispered to Horikita, who leaned in to listen. “If we can identify the pattern, we’ll solve it faster than they can.”
Horikita nodded, her mind already mapping out a strategy. “Divide and conquer,” she said quietly. “Two of us focus on the rows, two on the columns. The rest will verify each step.”
Ayanokoji, meanwhile, slipped away from the main group, his movements almost invisible. He positioned himself near the edge of the courtyard, where a small group of Class C students were huddled over a different puzzle—a series of riddles that required lateral thinking. He listened, his ears attuned to the cadence of their discussion.
“…the answer has to be something that’s both a weapon and a tool,” one of the Class C students muttered, frustration evident in his tone.
Ayanokoji’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He stepped forward, his presence barely registering. “May I suggest a perspective?” he asked, his voice calm and unassuming.
The student looked up, surprised. “Who are you?”
“Ayanokoji,” he replied simply. “I’m from Class D.”
The boy hesitated, then nodded. “Alright, what do you think?”
Ayanokoji glanced at the riddle, then at the surrounding clues. “Consider the dual nature of the object. It can be used to create as well as to destroy. Think of something that can both build and break.”
The student’s eyes widened as the realization struck him. “A hammer! It can build a house, but it can also be used as a weapon.”
Ayanokoji smiled faintly. “Exactly.”
The boy turned to his teammates, excitement replacing frustration. “It’s a hammer! Let’s write that down.”
Within moments, the Class C group solved the riddle, their confidence bolstered. Ayanokoji slipped back into the shadows, his brief intervention unnoticed by most, but the ripple effect of his suggestion would soon become evident.
Back at the Class D table, Horikita’s plan unfolded with precision. Kushida, with her keen eye for patterns, quickly identified the nonogram’s hidden image—a stylized phoenix rising from flames. The team worked in synchronized harmony, each member confirming the other's deductions, eliminating errors before they could propagate.
“Four more rows,” Kushida announced, her voice steady. “We’re almost there.”
Horikita glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes remained. She felt a surge of adrenaline, not from fear, but from the thrill of seeing her plan in motion. She caught Ayanokoji’s eye across the courtyard; he gave a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging the progress.
Meanwhile, Takumi’s team in Class C was equally diligent. Their leader’s natural charisma kept the group focused, and they solved their puzzles with a methodical efficiency that reflected their disciplined training. Yet, as the minutes ticked away, a subtle tension began to surface. One of the Class C students, a quiet girl named Mei, whispered to Takumi, “I think we’re missing something in the logic grid. The numbers don’t add up.”
Takumi frowned, his confidence wavering for the first time. “Let’s double‑check.”
He turned to his teammates, and together they re‑examined the puzzle. Their meticulous approach uncovered a hidden inconsistency—a misplacement of a single digit that, once corrected, unlocked the solution. The class breathed a collective sigh of relief, their resolve renewed.
When the thirty‑minute timer finally rang, both classes stepped back from their tables, their faces flushed with effort. The principal approached, his silver hair glinting in the morning sun, and began tallying the results.
“Class D solved fifteen puzzles,” he announced, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. “Class C solved fourteen.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Horikita’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of triumph crossing her features. Kushida let out a quiet, satisfied sigh. Takumi, however, clenched his jaw, his pride bruised but not broken.
“The advantage for the next round will be awarded to Class D,” the principal continued. “You will receive a clue that will aid you in the upcoming strategic challenge.”
He handed a sealed envelope to Horikita, who opened it with deliberate care. Inside lay a single sheet of paper, its contents cryptic yet powerful: “The key lies not in the strength of your weapons, but in the unity of your purpose. Seek the hidden passage beneath the library’s west wing.”
Horikita read the note aloud, her voice resonating across the courtyard. “A hidden passage beneath the library’s west wing. That could give us a strategic edge in the next phase.”
Kushida’s eyes widened. “The library is heavily monitored. If there’s a secret route, it could allow us to move undetected.”
Ayanokoji, who had been listening from his perch, felt a subtle shift in the balance of power. The information he had subtly fed to Class C earlier had not altered the outcome dramatically, but it had demonstrated his capacity to influence the flow of the battle without overt involvement. He stepped forward, his presence now more noticeable.
“Horikita‑sensei,” he said, his tone even, “if we are to use the passage, we must consider the risk of being discovered. The surveillance system in the library is sophisticated. We’ll need a diversion.”
Horikita turned to him, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You always think ahead, Ayanokoji‑kun. What do you propose?”
Ayanokoji glanced at the crowd, noting the positions of the teachers and the students. “We can stage a minor incident in the courtyard—perhaps a small fire alarm—just enough to draw attention away from the library. While the staff are occupied, a small team can slip into the west wing and locate the passage.”
Kushida nodded, already formulating a plan. “I can handle the alarm. I have access to the maintenance panel. It won’t cause any real danger, just enough to trigger the response.”
Horikita’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Very well. Ayanokoji, you’ll coordinate the team that enters the library. Kushida, you’ll set the alarm at precisely 0930. The rest of us will ensure the distraction is convincing.”
The plan was set in motion with the precision of a well‑rehearsed performance. As the clock struck 0930, Kushida slipped away from the group, her steps silent as a cat’s. She reached the maintenance panel near the courtyard’s entrance, her fingers deftly manipulating the controls. A soft beeping filled the air, followed by a shrill alarm that echoed through the school’s corridors.
Students and teachers alike rushed toward the source of the sound, their attention diverted from the library. The principal’s voice crackled over the intercom, ordering an evacuation of the immediate area. In the chaos, Horikita and a small contingent of trusted classmates slipped toward the west wing of the library, their movements swift and purposeful.
Ayanokoji led the infiltration team—himself, a quiet boy named Haruki, and a lanky girl named Rina—through a side door that opened onto a dimly lit hallway. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, the scent of old paper thick in the air. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet, and the only sound was the distant wail of the alarm.
They reached the west wing, where a massive stone wall stood, its surface etched with ancient symbols. Ayanokoji examined the markings, his mind racing through possibilities. “These symbols correspond to a lock mechanism,” he murmured. “If we apply pressure to the right points, the wall should shift.”
Haruki, who had a knack for mechanical puzzles, placed his hands on the stone, feeling for subtle give. With a coordinated push, the wall trembled, then slowly slid aside, revealing