Class D is about to start reminiscing about the days of Zhou Yu

Linmu Fujimiya's seat was located in the "chosen land" at the very center of the back row.

He had a lollipop in his mouth (the flavor changed daily), one hand propping up his chin in a casual manner, his eyes half-closed, his gaze sweeping lazily across the entire classroom.

Like an outsider observing the scene, he was appreciating a dynamic ukiyo-e painting titled Raising a Bunch of Losers.

(Happy education, truly too happy, the daily life of a vocational school.)

He had long since reached the state of turning a deaf ear to the surrounding clamor; his heart was filled with tranquility, and he even felt a bit like laughing.

What he saw clearly was that this group of peers was still drowning in the false prosperity and comfortable illusions brought about by the hundred thousand points they received upon enrollment.

They likely felt that this elite high school was nothing more than this—loose management, generous benefits, simply a paradise.

They had never imagined that the school's "meritocracy" rules were far more complex and cruel than they appeared on the surface, nor could they have anticipated what was to come.

On the first day of May, when the notification sound for the deposit of personal points failed to ring as expected, a thunderbolt would strike them, catching them off guard and shattering all their fantasies.

Class D's class points would be a glaring "0," which meant the school would not distribute a single personal point to them.

At that time, they would have to rely on the free salad sets and the most basic supplies provided on campus to barely sustain their lives.

The snacks, drinks, and entertainment they had once squandered points on would all become unattainable luxuries; their good days were slowly packing their bags to leave.

Perhaps someone might ask, since Linmu knew everything, why not give his classmates a heads-up? Even a subtle hint?

The answer was actually quite simple: he was just one of the forty-some ordinary members of Class D, a good-for-nothing student who was frequently absent, looked lazy and casual, and had nothing going for him besides his looks.

He had neither the leisure nor the obligation to be a "savior" or a "prophet," and he knew full well that in this environment, "words are useless."

Even if he laid out the school's hidden rules, the secret of class points, and the potential crises they would face, how many would actually believe him?

In the eyes of those classmates immersed in pleasure and slackness, he, Linmu Fujimiya, would likely just be seen as a weirdo who liked to mystify things, spread alarmist talk, or was a failure himself trying to drag others down with him.

Building trust required a foundation, and in Class D, aside from the title of "Divination Immortal"—which had some fame among students in other classes but would likely be sneered at as a "scam" by his own classmates—he possessed no capital to win anyone's confidence.

Furthermore, the collective of Class D was "composed of complex elements" to begin with.

There were those like Kanji Ike and Haruki Yamauchi who were muddled, knew only how to play, and had no ambition.

There were "ticking time bombs" like Ken Sudo, whose volatile temper could lead to fights and cause the class to lose points at any moment.

There were also eccentric brothers like Rokusuke Koenji, who were mavericks and completely unbound by any rules.

Even with students like Yosuke Hirata, who tried to unite everyone, Kei Karuizawa, who had influence among the girls, or Suzune Horikita, who possessed impressive individual ability, their efforts were often a drop in the bucket, unable to reverse the decline in such a generally crumbling environment.

Since that was the case, why waste his breath and add to his own troubles?

Linmu's choice was to watch quietly and let things take their natural course.

He had no need to stop anyone from "courting death," and he was too lazy to expend his own precious energy and emotions on life choices that others would likely ignore anyway.

The ancestors said it well: experience teaches a person once and they learn, but people teaching people usually doesn't work.

Some lessons must be experienced firsthand, with heart-wrenching pain, before they can be remembered.

(After blowing through their living expenses at the start of the month and performing a survival stunt at the end, they probably won't be like this again.)

Throughout the month of April, the only thing that made Linmu's time in the classroom slightly less monotonous—or rather, something that required him to divert a sliver of attention—was Kikyo Kushida.

This girl, whom he had met on the very first day of school and whose personality was so cheerful and enthusiastic that she seemed permanently fully charged, appeared to have a special sense of closeness toward him.

She had clearly heard of Linmu's reputation as the "Divination Immortal" outside of class; while she might not have believed it entirely, curiosity was always there.

Occasionally, when Linmu made a rare appearance in the classroom, she would naturally sidle over, sit in the empty seat next to him, and wear that signature sweet smile.

She would chatter away about new gossip in the class or which club was holding a fun event, and sometimes she would share the cookies she had baked or candies she had bought.

Kikyo Kushida's motive for approaching him didn't seem complicated.

She wasn't necessarily obsessed with probing the truth of his divination; although a flicker of curiosity would occasionally cross her eyes, even if she had doubts, she didn't seem to intend to get to the bottom of them.

It was more like she simply felt that the time spent with Linmu made her feel exceptionally relaxed and comfortable.

This "comfort" was different from the liveliness and adoration she received when surrounded by numerous classmates, which required her to maintain a perfect smile and thoughtful responses at all times.

It was also different from the intimacy she shared when chatting with her best friends, which required a certain amount of common ground and emotional resonance.

When she was with Linmu, her words could be many or few, and the topics could be whimsical or trivial and boring.

Linmu was always the same: chewing on a candy, listening lazily, occasionally responding with an "uh-huh" or "oh," never interrupting or interjecting at will.

He certainly wouldn't be like some boys who approached her with ulterior motives to pry into her privacy or preferences.

He was like a quiet tree hole that belonged only to her, allowing her to temporarily take off the perfect mask she wore every moment of the day.

She could confide in him about trivial, even silly little worries without fear of being judged or having them spread.

Every time Kikyo Kushida leaned in with a smile and started a conversation in her crisp voice, Linmu couldn't help but mutter to himself:

She really has boundless energy... Doesn't the nervous system of a natural social butterfly, who treats "becoming friends with everyone" as a life goal, ever overload?

Looking at her, she always seemed enthusiastic on the surface, smiling at everyone as if there were no shadows in her heart, but given Linmu's understanding of human nature—

And his ability to read minds, which he suppressed and chose not to use—he found it hard to believe that a girl who could navigate complex interpersonal relationships so effortlessly would have no hidden thoughts, pressures, or even schemes in her heart.

He did occasionally have a fleeting impulse to use his superpower to "hear" her true inner voice for a moment.

After all, Kikyo Kushida was the first person he had actively met at this school—though it was passive and he maintained contact—so in a sense, could she be considered a "friend"?

But the thought was just a flash, and he extinguished it himself.

He still chose to let things take their natural course. It wasn't that he had some moral hang-up; he simply felt... there was no need.