During the first week of school, the first-year classes had already begun to show starkly different patterns.
Some classes had been dazzled by their 100,000 points. The convenience stores' pricey snacks were swept off the shelves, the smell of takeout drifted through the dormitory corridors, and by the third day of school, someone had bought the latest game console and stayed up all night playing online in the common room. Others started treating people, using points to win over little groups and turning money into social currency.
Some classes were growing uneasy and suspicious of one another. No one knew what rules lay behind those 100,000 points, but everyone had a vague sense that something was off. That unease didn't become rational analysis. Instead, it turned into suspicion—who was spending recklessly? Who was deliberately saving? Who was getting too close to the homeroom teacher? Small cliques quietly took shape, and their members watched one another more than they talked.
Amid all the restlessness, Class B was like a quiet corner set apart from the others.
There were no heated arguments, no obvious divisions, no wanton spending, and no excessive anxiety. The students kept a comfortable distance from one another, reminded each other of things, spent their points sensibly, and paid attention in class. Even cleaning duties and classroom discipline stayed at a level that gave their teacher little to worry about.
The one holding it all together was Honami Ichinose.
She wasn't the class representative, had no title, and never gave orders. But she always knew when to lend a hand—when someone forgot a textbook, she quietly slid hers halfway across the desk; when someone felt unsure about how to spend their points, she gently said, "Think it over before you spend. There's no rush"; when someone was left alone, she carried her tray over, sat down, and chatted about the most ordinary things.
None of these gestures were grand. In another class, they might not have drawn anyone's attention at all. But in Class B, they accumulated one by one, like a fine network of roots buried in loose sand. The mesh was close-knit enough to catch the anxieties and friction that might otherwise have scattered.
Kira watched it all.
He still sat in the last seat by the window, the most inconspicuous spot in the room, yet one that let him take in the entire class. His daily routine was as precise as a calibrated clock—he got up on time, washed up on time, folded his uniform cuffs to the same exact position, and tied his necktie with not a millimeter out of place. In class, he maintained grades slightly above average. He listened attentively, never jumped in to answer, never made mistakes, and never stood out. During breaks, he either organized his notes or looked out the window. He didn't join the commotion, chat in group messages, or form unnecessary relationships.
He kept his presence to a minimum. Unnoticed, unneeded, uninvolved—maintaining his own quiet routine in a corner where no one would bother him. That was the approach he had settled on before coming here.
But even though he deliberately kept his distance, he couldn't completely ignore Honami Ichinose.
He watched her bend down during a break to pick up a fallen chalk box, moving as naturally as if she were tidying up at home. He watched her lend her notes to someone who had been absent, her handwriting neat, with annotations beside the key points. He watched her say "See you tomorrow" to everyone after school, sincere rather than merely polite.
There was no performance, no pretense, no ulterior motive. Everything came as naturally as breathing.
"To bring a group together through character, without coercion, and let order take shape on its own." The judgment surfaced in his mind, accompanied by a complex kind of approval—not of any one person, but of the phenomenon itself. In a school built around competition, this kind of cohesion was rare. Someone in another class might be able to keep everyone in line through sheer ability, but Ichinose was different. She didn't keep them in line; she brought them together.
He had to admit that it was precisely because Honami Ichinose was there that Class B had become the best place for him to "live in seclusion." There were no conflicts, no chaos, no sudden upheavals. Everything was steady and orderly.
This was the everyday life he wanted. And the guarantee of that life was the kindness a pink-haired girl offered, little by little, every day.
Just before school let out one day, Ichinose came to his desk carrying a stack of materials she had just picked up from the staff room. She set them down so gently, as if afraid of disturbing something.
"Here's your copy, Kira. I picked it up for you too."
"Thanks."
"I've given serious thought to what you said before." Ichinose's voice was quiet and earnest. "I won't force myself to take on too much, and I'll do my best to help the class stay the way it is now."
She was referring to the understanding they had reached during their brief exchange at the class meeting on the first day of school: this school wasn't as simple as it seemed, and they shouldn't be fooled by the 100,000 points. A few days had passed, and students in other classes were already regretting their extravagant spending at the start of the month. Thanks to Ichinose's guidance, Class B had kept its overall spending quite sensible. But she wasn't saying this to take credit. It sounded more like she was seeking confirmation—that she hadn't taken the wrong path.
Kira looked at her. Her gaze was firm, but not tense. Unlike the black-haired girl on the bus on the first day of school, Ichinose's resolve was soft, like water: able to flow around obstacles and bear weight. The black-haired girl—he now knew her name was Suzune Horikita, and that she was in Class D—used sharp edges to fight the world, while Ichinose embraced it with gentle curves. Two utterly different ways of surviving.
He still held fast to the principles he had lived by for more than a decade: don't interfere with others, don't invest your feelings, don't get caught up in conflict. But in that moment, he still gave a slight nod.
"Yeah. That's good."
Ichinose's eyes brightened, like a patch of water touched by sunlight.
"Thank you, Kira. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
He watched the girl leave with a light step, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds.
He was simply enjoying the convenience of this environment objectively. He was simply enjoying Class B's stability, quiet, and predictability. He wasn't developing any unnecessary concern for a particular person. He was only maintaining the rhythm of his own life, not starting to care about anyone else.
But deep in his heart, a tiny thorn pricked softly. It didn't hurt if he left it alone, but it was there all the same.
During the second week of school, the school still hadn't announced the specific rules for Class Points. The silence was making the other classes grow subtly restless—some students were asking around about how the other classes were doing, others were guessing whether there was some hidden assessment system, and some had begun to regret their extravagant spending at the start of the month. They tried to borrow money from classmates but were turned down. Class B was the only class unaffected. Under Ichinose's gentle guidance, almost everyone had developed sensible spending habits and learned to be disciplined and self-reliant, keeping their everyday expenses within reasonable bounds. Classroom discipline was orderly, study periods were quiet, and cleaning duties were clearly divided.
Even Hoshinomiya couldn't help smiling whenever she came to the classroom. "Class B is the easiest class in the whole year to look after."
Kira was the greatest beneficiary of all this. Every day was regular, secure, and peaceful—almost exactly what he had dreamed of.
But he knew who had brought about that peace. It wasn't the teachers or the school rules. It was the girl who said "See you tomorrow" every afternoon.
The dismissal bell rang, and the students gradually packed up and left. Kira stood and headed back to the dormitory along his usual route. At a corner in the hallway, he ran into Ichinose again.
It wasn't that she had been waiting for him; they just happened to be heading the same way. When she saw him, the girl smiled naturally.
"Kira, do you usually shop at the convenience store? I sometimes go there to pick up a few essentials. They have a pretty good selection."
"I do. I only buy what I need. I don't spend more than I have to."
"Me too." Ichinose nodded. "I feel like points shouldn't be wasted. The more stable this school seems, the more careful we need to be."
"That's a sound judgment." Kira paused, then, unusually, added, "You've done a good job with Class B's current situation."
Ichinose froze for a moment. She probably hadn't expected her usually taciturn seatmate to offer a compliment. The faintest blush rose in her cheeks, but her smile didn't turn shy. Instead, it grew brighter.
"Thank you, Kira. I'll keep doing my best."
There was something comforting in her tone—not the polite humility of a stock response, nor the smugness of someone who had been praised. She simply accepted his words sincerely and made her promise just as sincerely.
Kira looked away and headed toward the dormitory. Beyond the windows at the end of the hallway, the ginkgo trees glowed gold in the setting sun. The trees were still almost unnaturally neat, but in that moment, he found their order a little easier to bear.
He was just stating a fact.
But the faint stir in his heart had become unmistakably real. He wanted absolute peace, yet enjoyed the peace someone else had created. He wanted complete isolation, yet had, without realizing it, begun to share a faint connection with the person who had created that peace.
At least for now, everything was still under control. His principles hadn't crumbled, and his daily life hadn't been disrupted.
He was still Yoshikage Kira, who wanted nothing more than to live a peaceful life.
But he also knew full well that how long this peace could last depended neither on him nor on Ichinose. It depended on how many unspoken rules this school was still hiding. And rules like that would show their fangs sooner or later.
Before you continue