Entering the School

At 7:10 in the morning, the clamor of Tokyo had yet to fully awaken. The air still held the damp chill of the night's rain, mingled with the city's distinctive blend of vehicle exhaust and dust. Kazama In stood beneath a slightly worn bus stop sign, his deep blue Advanced Nurturing High School uniform neatly outlining his tall, straight figure, a simple black backpack slung over one shoulder. Beside him stood a few other youths in fresh uniforms, their faces marked by the restraint, excitement, or lingering drowsiness of entering a new environment, chatting in low voices, their gazes occasionally drifting toward the end of the road.

Kazama In's gaze, however, was calm, like a windless lake. He looked toward the flow of traffic at the road's end, but his eyes seemed to pierce through those moving metal shells, landing on something farther, more unknowable. Advanced Nurturing High School... a completely unfamiliar domain. His fingertips unconsciously brushed the strap of his backpack, the rough fabric texture grounding him in reality.

A slightly aged bus, belching faint diesel exhaust, swayed its bulky frame to a halt before the stop with a hiss, its doors struggling open.

The crowd began to surge toward the doors. Kazama In moved with the flow, his actions fluid and natural, without a trace of jostling awkwardness. He dropped in his fare, turned, and swept his gaze quickly across the interior. Most seats were already taken by early-rising students and office workers, leaving only a few scattered spots in the back half, including an empty window seat near the rear door.

Without a moment's hesitation, he walked straight to that empty window seat. He sat down, placed his backpack on his lap, his movements crisp and efficient. A thin layer of morning mist and water stains clung to the window glass, blurring and distorting the rapidly receding street scene outside. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling on the flowing light and shadows beyond the pane, isolating himself from the subtle noise within the bus. The stiff, crisp collar of his uniform rubbed against the skin of his neck, bringing a strange, subtle sense of constraint.

The bus engine roared, carrying its load of passengers through the city's veins. The cabin swayed gently with the road's undulations. Passengers either dozed with eyes closed, scrolled through their phones, or stared blankly out the windows. The air was thick with a faint leather smell, the morning's chill, and the warm breath of human bodies.

Two more stops passed, and the doors opened again. A gust of cold morning air poured into the cabin. A figure tottered up the steps.

It was a very elderly woman. Her sparse silver hair was barely held in place by a worn black hairnet. She wore a faded, slightly bulky dark cotton coat, her back hunched severely, nearly bent at a ninety-degree angle.

Her withered, age-spotted hands were knotted with bulging veins, now gripping the metal handrail by the door with white-knuckled force, like struggling branches in a winter wind. Her breathing was labored, and her clouded eyes strained to lift, searching the crowded cabin for any possible gap.

The old woman steadied herself not far from where Kazama In sat. Her stooped frame seemed especially unsteady in the moving bus, swaying slightly with every turn and jolt.

Almost simultaneously, two voices rang out in the cabin.

One was a crisp, pleasant female voice, carrying an unfeigned sweetness and concern, coming from a seat diagonally ahead of Kazama In by the aisle. A girl with soft chestnut short hair and an extremely cute face—Kushida Kikyo—was quickly unbuckling her seatbelt, leaning forward, her face blooming with a warm, approachable smile. Her red lips parted, and the words "Grandma, please take my seat!" had already clearly formed on her lips.

But before her voice had fully faded, and her body had barely lifted a few centimeters from the seat—

Kazama In moved.

No warning, no hesitation. His motion was as swift as a pre-programmed command instantly triggered. In the moment Kushida Kikyo's offer of a seat still hung in the air, and her body had just begun its motion, Kazama In had already sprung up from his window seat like a silent shadow!

His rise was utterly crisp and efficient, without a single superfluous movement, not even stirring the air with his clothes. One moment he sat there quietly, like a frozen sculpture; the next, he stood steadily in the aisle, precisely blocking the path of the old woman, who was stumbling from the bus's sway, forming a silent barrier.

"Please, sit." Kazama In's voice was not loud, even somewhat low, carrying a strange penetrating quality that clearly cut through the cabin's noise and the abruptly cut-off, slightly awkward tail of Kushida Kikyo's words. His tone was flat, devoid of any deliberate warmth or humility, as if merely stating a simple fact. He didn't look at anyone; his gaze rested only on the old woman's wrinkled, bewildered, and slightly grateful face, while he stepped aside, clearing the shortest path to his window seat.

The entire cabin seemed to freeze for a moment in the wake of this lightning-fast shift. The air felt solidified.

Kushida Kikyo's hand, mid-motion in unbuckling her seatbelt, froze in place. A minuscule pause flickered across her flawlessly sweet smile. In her round, perpetually kind almond eyes, a clear flash of surprise appeared, quickly transforming into a brighter, more sincere light of admiration. She looked at Kazama In's tall, silent profile and let out an earnest exclamation: "Ah! That classmate, you're so fast! That's amazing!"

The old woman's clouded eyes first showed confusion, then comprehension. A grateful smile creased her wrinkled face as she repeatedly thanked him: "Thank you... thank you, young man... such a good child..." She trembled, leaning on Kazama In's promptly extended, steady, and strong arm, slowly shuffling to the window seat and sitting down. Her hunched body finally found support, and she let out a long sigh of relief.

Kazama In merely gave a slight nod, acknowledging the old woman's thanks. He glanced at the blond-haired youth sitting next to the old woman, but neither spoke. Kazama In simply looked at him quietly, patted his shoulder, and murmured, "I hope your beauty can also be used in places like this."

He then turned, facing the front of the bus, one hand casually gripping the overhead rail, his body maintaining perfect stability with the vehicle's sway. His gaze returned to the blurry street scene outside the window, as if the swift act of offering his seat had never happened, his face still bearing that calm, almost indifferent expression.

Yet, in the periphery of his vision, through the shifting figures in the cabin, he caught a gaze.

That gaze came from further back in the bus. Another male student in the same Advanced Nurturing High School uniform. He had slightly disheveled hair, a refined face, and eyes as calm as two deep, unfathomable ancient wells, without a ripple or trace of emotion. He sat quietly, as if all the surrounding noise had nothing to do with him.

—Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.

Kazama In had no impression of that name. But just a moment ago, when Kazama In had risen to offer his seat like a conditioned reflex, that calm gaze had, for an extremely brief instant, like the most precise probe, swept across Kazama In's unusually swift motion and his current stance, gripping the rail with rock-solid stability. There was no surprise or admiration like Kushida Kikyo's, nor the indifference or approval of other passengers—only a pure, almost mechanical observation and recording.

Extremely brief, a flash in the pan. So fast it could be mistaken for an illusion.

Kazama In's gaze lingered on the flowing light and shadows outside the window for a moment, then he withdrew it imperceptibly. He maintained his silent posture, like a silent pillar in the cabin. Only his fingers, gripping the cold metal rail, felt the subtle vibration of the vehicle, reminding him of his current situation. This small, kind act in an ordinary bus seemed to bring him a more indescribable... discomfort than the "judgment" he had carried out in the neon-lit rain the night before.

The bus stopped at the stop marked "In front of Advanced Nurturing High School."

Kazama In got off with the crowd. His feet landed on the solid pavement, and the cool morning air filled his lungs, dispelling the slightly stuffy atmosphere of the cabin. Before him, a massive, heavy, oppressive metal gate stretched to either side, like a cold Great Wall separating inside from out. Above the gate hung a huge metal plaque, reflecting a cold, hard luster in the faint morning sunlight.

Advanced Nurturing High School.

Seven characters, strokes strong and forceful, exuding an unquestionable authority and weight. Beyond the gate lay a surprisingly wide, tree-lined avenue, flanked by ancient trees trimmed with meticulous precision, standing solemn like guards. At the end of the avenue, the modern teaching buildings, uniform in style and cold in line, were faintly visible, like silent steel beasts crouching deep within the vast campus. An intangible, strictly ordered atmosphere rushed forth.

This was the "battlefield" he would face for the next three years.

Kazama In's gaze lingered on the cold school plaque for a few seconds. In the depths of his ink-black pupils, there was no ripple, only an almost instinctive scrutiny. Then, he withdrew his gaze. Unlike the new students around him who stopped to take photos or excitedly look around, he simply stepped forward, following the signs, merging into the flow of people heading toward the dormitory area.

The dormitory area was deep within the campus, maintaining a proper distance from the academic zone. Rows of modern apartment buildings, uniform in appearance and color, stood neatly arranged. Kazama In quickly found his building and the corresponding room number.

The key slid into the lock with a crisp click. The door swung open.

The room inside was simple to the point of being bare. A standard single-person setup. A single bed with a fresh white sheet against the wall. A desk, a chair. A built-in wardrobe. A small, separate bathroom. Nothing else. The walls were clean off-white, the floor light-colored composite wood. The entire space smelled of new furniture, a slightly stiff, unfamiliar scent.

Kazama In closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise of new students in the hallway. He casually placed his black backpack on the desk and quickly swept his gaze across the room. Like a hawk surveying its territory, every corner, every inch of space was instantly scanned, analyzed, and cataloged under his calm eyes.

Safe. No surveillance blind spots. Ventilation openings normal size. Window lock structure is a common inward-opening type, strength acceptable. Escape route clear.

The initial assessment was completed in an instant. This was an instinct carved into his bones.

His gaze finally settled on the clean desktop. There, a brand-new, unopened hard cardboard box lay quietly.

He opened the box. Inside was a brand-new smartphone, simple and elegant in design, its screen pitch black. Beside it lay a thin instruction manual and a card with the dormitory's Wi-Fi network name and password.

Kazama In picked up the phone. The cold metal frame felt smooth to the touch. He pressed the power button on the side. The screen lit up, a faint blue glow illuminating his calm face. After the startup animation, a highly simplified, customized operating system interface appeared. Pre-installed apps were few: only basic contacts, calendar, notes, and a prominent app bearing the Advanced Nurturing High School emblem—the Student Handbook.

He slid his finger across the screen, opened the contacts—empty. He opened the dialer and tried entering an extremely familiar encrypted number belonging to an external security contact point of the Kazama family.

A prompt box appeared on the screen:

[Warning: The current device is in campus intranet mode. Access to external public communication networks is prohibited. For special communication permissions, please contact the Student Guidance Office.]

A line of cold red text, like an invisible chain.

The corner of Kazama In's mouth twitched downward almost imperceptibly, forming an extremely subtle, cold arc. Prohibited from external communication? An exquisite cage. It seemed this school, which prided itself on elite education, had a far greater desire to control its students than he had anticipated.

He placed the phone on the desk and turned to the door. There, leaning against the wall, was a medium-sized black hard-shell suitcase, delivered this morning by the Kazama family's driver. He pulled the suitcase over, laid it flat on the floor, deftly unlocked the combination lock, and flipped open the lid.

The contents inside were arranged with meticulous order, as if packed by the strictest military standards. Several changes of clothes were neatly folded, taking up most of the space. Beneath the clothes, near the edge of the case, lay an inconspicuous, flat black waterproof hard case.

Kazama In took out the hard case and opened it. Inside, there were no weapons, no contraband—only a few seemingly ordinary electronic devices: an extremely compact multi-protocol wireless network card about the size of a standard USB drive, an equally miniaturized Bluetooth signal transceiver, and a specially made data cable.

He carried these small items back to the desk. He connected one end of the special data cable to the charging port of the school-issued phone, and plugged the other end into the miniature wireless network card. Then, he picked up the Bluetooth signal transceiver and pressed his fingertip lightly against a nearly invisible indentation on its side.

A faint, barely audible hum sounded, and an indicator light on the top of the transceiver glowed a dim blue.

Kazama In picked up the school phone, his fingertip sliding and tapping across the screen with lightning speed. The screen's glow reflected in his focused pupils like flowing streams of data. He didn't enter any standard settings menu; instead, through a series of complex and hidden key combinations and gesture operations, he directly accessed the phone's underlying engineering debug mode.

Instantly, the screen was filled with densely packed, rapidly scrolling lines of command code. Green characters cascaded down like a waterfall.

His fingers danced across the virtual keyboard, moving so fast they nearly left afterimages. Each tap was precise, carrying a cold, rhythmic cadence. He was rewriting the underlying communication protocols, bypassing the physical isolation restrictions of the campus intranet, using the special wireless network card as a springboard, capturing nearby available external public Wi-Fi signals (even extremely weak ones) through the Bluetooth transceiver, and simulating the construction of a virtual gateway channel.

Line after line of commands was input, cutting through the system's preset firewall with surgical precision. A virtual path was forcibly carved out through the ocean of code.

Time passed in the silent room, broken only by the faint "tap tap" sound of his fingertip striking the screen.

About three minutes later.

Kazama In typed the final line of commands and swiped his fingertip lightly across the edge of the screen.

The green waterfall of code vanished instantly, and the screen returned to its clean, customized system desktop.

He opened the dialer again and entered the encrypted number.

This time, no red warning box popped up on the screen. From the earpiece came the steady, rhythmic "beep... beep..." of a call waiting to connect.

The walls of the cage silently collapsed.

Kazama In hung up the call before it connected, his expression blank. He unplugged the data cable and the small devices, put them back into the black hard case, and returned it to the hidden compartment in his suitcase. The entire process was fluid and seamless, as if he had just completed a routine maintenance task.

He casually placed the now-"liberated" phone on the desk. The screen was still on, the main interface clearly displaying a system notification:

Class Assignment Result: Year 1, Class D. Classroom Location: Main Teaching Building, Block A, 3rd Floor, Room D-301.

Class D.

Kazama In's gaze paused on that letter for a moment. According to Advanced Nurturing High School's public propaganda, class rankings from A to D seemed to represent some kind of evaluation sequence. Class D certainly didn't sound like a gathering place for top students. He didn't care about the so-called rankings, but this assignment result carried a hint of subtle irony. The Arbiter, assigned to the "bottom tier"?

Just as his fingertip was about to touch the phone screen to check the more detailed student handbook—

At the very top of the phone screen, a new message notification appeared without warning.

Sender: [Unknown Number]

Message Content: [The steps must be climbed in person.]

Only seven words. Concise to the extreme, no salutation, no superfluous punctuation.

Kazama In's movements froze instantly. He stared at the message, his jet-black pupils contracting sharply, like a stone thrown into a cold pool. His fingertip hovered a few millimeters above the screen.

Unknown number. But to send a message so precisely at the moment he had just cracked the phone and seen the class assignment, with content so... pointed...

Kazama Ryunosuke.

Only him.

An extremely complex emotion, like an undercurrent surging beneath the ripples of the thrown stone, instantly swept through Kazama In's heart. There was the discomfort of being constantly "watched" by his father, the understanding of this veiled reminder, and a subtle sting of having his inner confusion seen through.

"The steps must be climbed in person..."

He repeated the seven words in a low voice, so quietly that only he himself could hear. His father knew he had been assigned to Class D. This message was both a tacit approval—a permission to temporarily set aside the identity of "The Arbiter" and experience all of this—and an unequivocal declaration: the rules of this school, he must face, understand, and conquer on his own. Like climbing steps, there were no shortcuts.

No anger, no resentment. The momentary fluctuation in Kazama In's eyes quickly subsided, returning to the deep, still calm of a pool. But beneath that stillness, something seemed to have been ignited—an extremely restrained yet undeniable sharpness.

He no longer looked at the message, nor did he delete it. His finger fell, turning off the phone screen. The blue light died out, leaving only the cold, clear morning light filtering in through the window.

Time to go to the classroom.

Kazama In turned around, not glancing back at the room. He pulled open the door and walked out. The black suitcase stood silently by the door, like a silent period, marking the beginning of a new chapter.

The noise of new students still echoed from the hallway, carrying the restlessness of youth and the anticipation of the unknown. Kazama In's footsteps were steady and silent, the silhouette of his dark blue uniform blending into the light and shadow of the corridor as he headed toward Block A of the main teaching building. The path beneath his feet was a new set of steps. And the gaze of The Arbiter had already turned toward his first "battlefield"—Year 1, Class D.