Chapter 26 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 new “test of the class,” a challenge that would determine not only the ranking of Class 1‑D but also the future allocation of resources that could make the difference between a comfortable dormitory and a cramped, cold one. The notice, posted on the bulletin board in bold black characters, read simply: “Class 1‑D – Test of the Class. Prepare accordingly.” No further details were given, and the ambiguity was exactly what the administration thrived on.
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka leaned against the back wall, his eyes half‑closed, as if the words on the paper were a distant murmur. He was the kind of student who could disappear into the background, a quiet presence that seemed to absorb the room’s tension without ever adding to it. Yet beneath his calm exterior, a mind was already turning the gears of analysis, mapping out possibilities, weighing probabilities. He knew that the test would not be a straightforward exam; it would be a social experiment, a psychological battlefield where the strongest would emerge not just through knowledge but through manipulation, alliances, and the ability to read people like open books.
Across the aisle, Horikita Suzune stood with her arms crossed, her posture rigid, her gaze fixed on the same notice. She was the embodiment of determination, the type of student who believed that hard work and strategic planning could overcome any obstacle. Her mind was already racing through potential strategies, calculating the most efficient allocation of the class’s limited talents. She had already begun drafting a list of candidates for each role: the leader, the researcher, the negotiator, the executor. Her eyes flicked to the empty seat beside her, where Kushida Kikyo usually sat, her smile a rare but bright spot in the otherwise austere atmosphere of Class 1‑D.
Kushida entered the room with a soft click of her shoes, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail, a notebook clutched to her chest. She was known for her keen observational skills and her ability to pick up on the smallest details that others missed. As she took her seat, she glanced at the notice and then at the faces around her, noting the subtle shifts in posture, the nervous tapping of fingers, the way some students seemed to be already forming silent pacts. She smiled faintly, as if she could already see the threads of the upcoming test weaving together.
“Did anyone get any more information?” A voice called from the front of the room. It was Kiyomi, the class’s unofficial gossip hub, her eyes bright with curiosity.
Horikita’s response was measured. “Nothing beyond what’s on the board. The administration likes to keep us guessing. That’s part of the test, I suppose.”
Ayanokouji opened his eyes, his gaze lingering on Horikita for a moment before drifting to the rest of the class. “If it’s a test of the class, then it’s a test of us as a unit,” he said softly, his voice barely rising above the hum of the air conditioner. “We need to think about how we can leverage each member’s strengths.”
Kushida’s notebook flipped open, a pen poised above the page. “I think we should start by identifying the core objectives,” she suggested. “Is it purely academic? Or does it involve teamwork, resource management, perhaps even a bit of deception?”
Horikita nodded, her eyes narrowing. “The administration has a history of incorporating multiple layers into these assessments. Remember the previous semester’s ‘survival simulation’? It wasn’t just about physical endurance; it was about who could negotiate alliances and who could betray them without losing credibility.”
A murmur rippled through the class. The memory of that simulation was still fresh, a vivid reminder of how quickly trust could dissolve under pressure. Ayanokouji’s mind catalogued the recollection, noting the patterns of behavior that had emerged. He had observed how certain students, like Chabashira, had risen to prominence through sheer charisma, while others, like Igarashi, had slipped into obscurity despite their intelligence.
“Let’s break this down,” Ayanokouji continued, his tone calm but authoritative. “First, we need a clear hierarchy. Someone has to take charge, but that person must also be flexible enough to adapt when the situation changes. Second, we need specialists for each segment of the test—research, execution, negotiation, and contingency planning. Third, we need a communication protocol that can survive potential sabotage.”
Horikita’s eyes lit up. “I can take the lead on the research and planning side. I’ve already started compiling data on past tests, analyzing patterns, and predicting possible scenarios. We’ll need someone to handle the logistics—who will gather materials, who will keep track of time, who will monitor the morale of the group.”
Kushida raised a finger. “Don’t forget the human factor. We need someone who can read the room, detect subtle shifts in attitude, and anticipate moves before they happen. That’s where I can contribute—by observing and reporting on the emotional climate.”
Ayanokouji smiled faintly, a rare expression that hinted at approval. “And I can handle the… more delicate aspects. If there’s a need for subtle influence, for planting ideas, for ensuring that certain information reaches the right ears at the right time, I can manage that.”
The class fell into a brief silence, each student processing the emerging plan. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation, as if the very walls were waiting for the next move.
“Alright,” Horikita said, standing up and addressing the entire class. “We’ll form three sub‑teams. Team Alpha will focus on research and data analysis. Team Beta will handle logistics and execution. Team Gamma will be responsible for communication and morale. Each team will have a leader, and we’ll meet every hour to synchronize our efforts. Any objections?”
A few hands rose tentatively, but none voiced strong opposition. The atmosphere was one of reluctant cooperation, a fragile alliance forged out of necessity rather than genuine camaraderie.
“Good,” Horikita concluded. “We’ll start now. Ayanokouji, you’ll lead Team Gamma. Kushida, you’ll assist me with Team Alpha. I’ll take charge of Team Beta. Let’s make this test work for us, not against us.”
The first hour passed in a flurry of activity. Horikita’s team pored over old exam papers, dissecting each question, noting the subtle hints that the teachers often embedded. Kushida moved between groups, her notebook filling with observations about how each student reacted to stress, how quickly they adapted to new information. Ayanokouji, meanwhile, slipped into the background, his presence barely noticeable as he whispered suggestions to his teammates, nudging them toward certain decisions without overtly directing them.
As the clock ticked toward the end of the second hour, a sudden announcement crackled over the intercom. “Attention, Class 1‑D. The test will commence in ten minutes. Proceed to the designated area on the third floor. Follow the instructions provided. Good luck.”
A collective gasp rose from the room. The test was not a written exam; it was a physical relocation, a movement to an unknown location where the real challenge would unfold. The students scrambled to gather their belongings, the tension palpable.
Ayanokouji slipped his notebook into his bag, his mind already calculating the optimal route to the third floor, the best way to avoid bottlenecks, the most efficient method to keep the team together without drawing attention. He caught Horikita’s eye as she stood, her expression a mask of resolve. She gave a barely perceptible nod, a signal that they were ready.
The hallway outside the classroom was a blur of hurried footsteps and whispered speculations. The students formed a loose line, each trying to stay close to their assigned sub‑team. The doors to the third floor opened onto a spacious, dimly lit hall, its walls lined with whiteboards, tables, and a large digital screen that flickered to life as they entered.
The screen displayed a single line of text: “Welcome to the Test of the Class. Your objective: retrieve the hidden artifact within the allotted time. The artifact is concealed somewhere in this room. You may use any resources at your disposal, but be aware that the environment will react to your actions. Cooperation will be essential, but so will individual initiative. Good luck.”
A murmur spread through the crowd. The artifact—what could it be? A symbolic trophy? A key to a better dorm? The ambiguity was intentional, a test of how the class would interpret and respond to vague directives.
Horikita stepped forward, her voice clear. “Alright, Team Alpha, start mapping the room. Identify any clues, any patterns. Team Beta, set up stations for resource gathering—paper, pens, anything that might help us record observations. Team Gamma, maintain communication. If anyone finds something, report it immediately. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes to share findings.”
The teams dispersed. Horikita’s group moved methodically, scanning the whiteboards for hidden messages, checking the tables for concealed compartments. Kushida, with her keen eye, noticed a faint outline on one of the whiteboards—a faint grid that seemed out of place. She traced it with her finger, feeling a slight indentation. “There’s something here,” she whispered to Horikita, who leaned in to examine the board.
Ayanokouji, meanwhile, slipped into the shadows near the digital screen. He observed the room’s layout, noting the placement of cameras, the angle of the lights, the subtle hum of the ventilation system. He realized that the environment could be manipulated—perhaps the lights could be dimmed, the cameras could be temporarily blinded, the ventilation could be used to carry whispers. He thought of the previous test’s hidden vents that had allowed a student to eavesdrop on the teachers. He smiled inwardly, recognizing the opportunity to use the room’s infrastructure to his advantage.
Team Beta, led by a diligent student named Takahashi, began gathering supplies. They collected stacks of paper, markers, and a set of colored stickers. “We’ll need a way to mark areas we’ve already searched,” Takahashi said, arranging the stickers on a nearby table. “And we should keep a log of everything we find, in case the artifact is something abstract like a pattern or a code.”
Ayanokouji approached Takahashi quietly. “If you could spare a few extra markers, I have an idea for a quick visual system that might help us track movement without drawing too much attention,” he suggested. Takahashi, unaware of Ayanokouji’s deeper motives, handed him a handful of markers, trusting his calm demeanor.
The minutes ticked by as each team worked in parallel. Kushida’s discovery on the whiteboard turned out to be a hidden compartment, a small metal box that clicked open when she pressed the right spot. Inside lay a single sheet of paper with a cryptic phrase: “The heart of the maze beats where the shadows converge.”
Horikita read the phrase aloud, her voice echoing in the empty hall. “The heart of the maze… beats where the shadows converge.” She turned to the group, her eyes scanning the room. “We need to find the area where the shadows intersect. That must be where the artifact is hidden.”
Ayanokouji, who had been watching the ceiling lights, noted that the overhead fluorescents created a pattern of light and shadow that shifted as the students moved. He realized that by positioning themselves strategically, they could create a convergence point of shadows. He whispered to his teammates in Team Gamma, “If we all stand near the far wall, the lights will cast longer shadows that intersect near the center of the room. That could be the spot.”
The class moved as instructed, forming a semi‑circle near the far wall. The lights dimmed slightly, and the shadows elongated, meeting in a faint, darkened area near the center of the floor. The digital screen flickered again, displaying a new line: “Congratulations. You have identified the convergence point. Now, retrieve the artifact.”
A collective breath was held as the students approached the darkened spot. The floor tiles there were slightly raised, a subtle difference that could be missed by an untrained eye. Ayanokouji knelt, feeling the tile with his fingertips. He pressed down gently, and a small compartment opened, revealing a polished wooden box. Inside lay a single, unassuming key.
The key was small, ornate, and bore the emblem of the school—a stylized phoenix. Ayanokouji lifted it, his expression unreadable. “This must be the artifact,” he said, his voice low. “It likely unlocks something important—perhaps a storage locker, a safe, or even a door to a restricted area.”
Horikita took the key, her eyes narrowing as she considered the implications. “We need to find what this opens. The test isn’t over yet. The administration will likely have a second phase, something that tests our ability to use this key responsibly.”
Kushida, ever observant, noted a faint inscription on the box’s lid: “Only those who work together may claim the reward.” She smiled, a rare glint of optimism crossing her face. “Looks like they want us to stay united.”
Ayanokouji placed the key back into the box, then closed it gently. “Let’s keep this together. If we split up now, we risk losing the advantage we’ve earned.” His words carried weight, and the class, though still wary of each other, nodded in agreement.
The digital screen changed once more, this time displaying a countdown timer: 30 minutes remaining. Below it, a new instruction appeared: “Use the key to unlock the final door. The door leads to the next stage of the test. Cooperation is mandatory. Failure to cooperate will result in penalties.”
The students exchanged glances, the reality of the situation sinking in. The final door was located at the far end of the hall, a massive steel door with a keyhole that matched the key’s shape. It stood imposingly, a barrier that seemed both literal and symbolic.
Horikita stepped forward, key in hand. “We’ll need to coordinate our approach. Ayanokouji, can you handle the technical side? Perhaps you can ensure the door’s lock mechanism isn’t tampered with.” She looked at him, trusting his quiet competence.
Ayanokouji nodded. “I’ll examine the lock. If there’s any hidden trap, I’ll try to neutralize it.” He approached the door, his fingers brushing the cold metal. He could feel the faint vibration of the lock’s inner workings, a subtle click that hinted at a secondary mechanism—perhaps a pressure sensor or a timed lock.
He placed the key into the lock, turned it slowly, and listened. The lock clicked, then a soft whirring sound filled the air as the door began to open. A faint light spilled out from the other side, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with glass cases, each containing a small, glowing object.
The class stepped through, the door closing behind them with a resonant thud. The corridor stretched ahead, the glass cases casting a soft, ethereal glow that illuminated their faces. At the far end, a large, circular platform stood, its surface covered in a mosaic of tiles, each bearing a different symbol—books, swords, scales, and a stylized eye.
A voice, disembodied and calm, resonated through the corridor. “Welcome to the final stage. The platform represents the balance of intellect, strength, strategy, and perception. To complete the test, you must arrange the tiles in a sequence that reflects the harmony of these elements. You have fifteen minutes. Work together, and you will succeed. Work alone, and you will fail.”
The class gathered around the platform, the tiles clinking as they were lifted. Horikita immediately began sorting them, her analytical mind seeking patterns. Kushida observed the reactions of her peers, noting who hesitated, who acted decisively. Ayanokouji, ever the silent orchestrator, moved among them, subtly guiding their hands, offering quiet suggestions that seemed to arise from their own thoughts.
Takahashi, who had taken charge of logistics earlier, found himself arranging the tiles with surprising speed. He placed the book tile next to the sword, then the scale, then the eye, forming a sequence that felt intuitively balanced. The platform emitted a low hum, as if acknowledging the arrangement.
“Is that it?” A voice asked from the back. It was Chabashira, his usual confidence tempered by the seriousness of the moment.
Horikita glanced at the platform, then at the tiles. “It feels right, but we need to be sure. Let’s double‑check the order.” She turned to Kushida. “What do you think?”
Kushida examined the arrangement, her eyes flicking over each symbol. “The order seems to follow a logical progression: knowledge leads to action, action is measured by fairness, and fairness is guided by insight. It aligns with the school’s philosophy.” She smiled faintly. “I think we’ve got it.”
Ayanokouji stepped forward, his hand hovering over the final tile—a small, unadorned stone that seemed out of place among the ornate symbols