Before the Final Verdict

During the final week before the cross-class group project's final review, the entire first-year grade was shrouded in an eerie silence. The hallways were less boisterous, the cafeteria was filled with students flipping through documents while they ate, and even Sudo had begun reciting presentation points while lifting weights in the gym. When Ike Kanji remarked that he had gone off the deep end, Sudo didn't even look up: "I can't be the one to drag the team down."

Kanzaki Toru stood by the third-floor library window, watching the scattered students on the playground below. The late May sun already possessed the scorching intensity of early summer, shrinking the figures on the field into tiny black dots. In his hand, he held the cross-class group report ready for submission, the names of all five members printed on the cover. Sakura Airi's photo layout made the report look like a formally published work; Shiina Hiyori's citations of old regulations were precise down to the page number; Yukimura Teruhiko's logical framework had finally taken shape after three complete rewrites; and Hamaguchi Tetsuya had unearthed a long-forgotten original memorandum of cooperation from the old Class B student council archives. The logical thread he was responsible for organizing now lay quietly in a footnote on the seventeenth page of the appendix—a complete chain of evidence regarding how Ryuen Kakeru, acting as a temporary disciplinary committee assistant, had fabricated testimony that directly led to the expulsion of one Class D student and the long-term suspension of another Class C student (Sato Kenichi) due to psychological trauma. Ryuen's name did not appear in the main text, but every citation number pointed to the same conclusion.

Shiina said this report was an iceberg. The main text floated above the water, while the appendix was buried beneath. If the reviewing teachers only read the main text, they would see a rigorous academic study and grant them an excellent rating. If they flipped down to the appendix, they would see how one student used the rules themselves to destroy another. He told Shiina that the iceberg was enough; the iceberg would not take the initiative to strike a ship, but if the ship crashed into it of its own accord, every edge of the iceberg would be real.

"Kanzaki-kun." Sakura Airi emerged from behind a bookshelf, clutching her camera. She wasn't wearing a hat today, and her thick red-rimmed glasses sat firmly on the bridge of her nose. "I've finished processing that photo from the rooftop. The image clarity of Ishizaki climbing the wall is sufficient to submit to the disciplinary committee, but someone needs to apply for an image authentication in an official capacity."

"I've already written the letter for the authentication." Shiina Hiyori's voice drifted from behind another row of shelves as she walked past, carrying a stack of newly returned books, her light chestnut hair tied back with a plain ribbon. "We'll use the library's inter-departmental investigation channel, bypassing the student council. The reason will be that the cross-class group report appendix requires an assessment of the old school building's exterior wall structure, and the photo will be submitted as supplementary evidence."

Kanzaki Toru took the authentication application form Shiina handed him; the library's seal was already stamped at the bottom. The photo of Ishizaki's back as he climbed the wall and the dust from Kushida's shoe soles would be sent out in the same batch of group attachments—one set like silent thorns, the other like a soundless net. They would pass through different hands and different channels, arriving quietly on the disciplinary committee's desk just as the judges began their deliberations. Until then, everything would still look like an ordinary cross-class report.

After school, he ran into Karuizawa Kei in the hallway. She was leaning against a vending machine with a can of red bean soup in her hand. Seeing him approach, she slapped what she was holding in her other hand against his chest—another strawberry candy. "I heard your group's report is finished. So fast. People used to say you were just meddling, but now it looks like you've turned every bit of meddling into serious business."

"Just a matter of convenience." He peeled the candy and popped it into his mouth. As the sweetness dissolved, his Perception Resonance picked up Karuizawa's current mood—not worry, not pride, but a remarkably calm sense of certainty. She was confirming that she was standing in the right position.

"Convenience." She pressed the red bean soup can against her cheek, using the coldness of the aluminum to dampen the summer heat. "Then you should also know, as a matter of convenience, that Ryuen went to see Chabashira-sensei this afternoon. No one heard exactly what was said, but his expression was terrible when he came out. Not angry, but that look—how should I put it—like someone on a gambling table who suddenly realizes their opponent has an extra card they hadn't accounted for."

Ryuen went to see Chabashira. When this information came from Karuizawa, it carried a hint of schadenfreude, but Kanzaki Toru cross-referenced it with another event—the message Horikita had sent that morning. Horikita said that Chabashira-sensei had called Sudo to her office that morning, not for a lecture, but for a casual chat, asking how his training was going and if he had bought his wrist guards yet. Sudo's expression had been strange when he came out, muttering, "I can't believe Chabashira-sensei actually cares about people." Chabashira wouldn't care about Sudo's wrist guards for no reason. She must have learned from some channel that Sudo had nearly lost control and hit someone in Ryuen's trap but had held back, and the source of that channel was now clear—it was the very person who had compiled Kanzaki Toru's behavioral patterns into a schedule.

"Chabashira-sensei—" he began, but was interrupted by Karuizawa.

"Don't worry about Chabashira-sensei for now." She finished the red bean soup and crushed the can into the recycling bin. "There's something I think you should know. Kushida asked me to go to a karaoke booth with her this weekend, just the two of us, saying we haven't had a good chat in a while. She's asked me before, but this time it's different—after she finished, she added, 'You seem to be getting pretty close to Sakura-san and the others lately, that's great.' She was complimenting me, but I feel like she's confirming something."

Kanzaki Toru looked at Karuizawa. There was not a hint of a smile in her blue eyes, only calm judgment and a sliver of patience waiting for a reply. A queen bee who once armed herself only with pride was now using her own antennae to test the boundaries of another pretender.

"Be careful. If she's inviting you to karaoke, she might be recording."

"I know. That's why I agreed, but I'm bringing that signal jammer you gave me." She smiled slightly, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and stood up straight. "Don't worry, I won't let her catch any leverage. If she wants to confirm how far I've gone with you guys, I'll make sure she can't even count how many steps I've taken. But Kanzaki, we need to agree on one thing in advance—if one day Kushida is truly pushed into a corner and confronts me, I want to stand in front of her and ask her why myself. Not just for you, not just for the team, but for that anonymous text message I received last semester when I was at my lowest, the one that said 'come to me if you need anything'—a message only she could have known about. I won't forgive her, but I need to confirm for myself how much of that kindness was real." After saying this, she didn't wait for his reply, simply waving her hand and turning to walk into the sunset. The arc of her ponytail was as certain as the tone of her voice.

On Wednesday night, the final draft of the cross-class report was formatted, and all evidence chains were moved into the encrypted appendix partition. Sakura's monitor was frozen on a newly captured image from a surveillance blind spot—amidst the flickering light signals on the rooftop, a figure was sliding silently through the dark corner of the old school building's outer wall. It wasn't Ishizaki; the figure was wearing a school jacket that clung to their frame in the wind, with thin shoulders. They didn't vault over; they simply moved slowly along the base of the wall in the surveillance dead zone. After zooming in on the detail, one could see the person holding a flat paper bag in one hand, while the other hand stopped twice to send messages in a flash.

Sakura placed two sequence images side by side. At the moment of the second message, the sensor light of the vending machine at the end of the hallway flickered—the interval was less than half a second, indicating that the person was using an infrared signal interrupter. Being able to cut the vending machine's sensor current without triggering surveillance wasn't the crude style of Ryuen's subordinates; it looked more like someone was synchronizing with another invisible action schedule.

At the same time, Horikita sent a message with only two words: "Approved." Her request regarding the old archives and the evidence of perjury had officially entered the disciplinary committee's internal review process. Her stated reason was "Student council members may request to review complete historical files involving school discipline"—the very door Kushida had opened for her.

The images of the paper bag and the signal interrupter merged in his consciousness. Kushida hadn't gone to the old school building that night to retrieve documents. She had gone to deliver shoes—those indoor shoes stained with brick-red dust—which were no longer in her possession. She had put those shoes in a paper bag, pushed them to the edge of the shadows cast by the high wall, and left them as unclaimed lost property. If this chain of evidence were broken, the disciplinary committee would only find an empty spot in the shoe locker and would never be able to link it to her.

But she didn't know that Sakura's camera, mounted on the rooftop, didn't need to capture a face. It only needed to capture the paper bag and the sensor light that flickered off and on in that half-second synchronization.

The midnight library was so quiet that only the sound of the air conditioning remained. He organized all his notes into a row, the document on his screen shrinking to the final line of causal statements waiting to be filled. Then he turned off the monitor, letting the darkness fill the entire floor. In the darkness, he closed his eyes and opened the handbook deep within his consciousness. The Goddess Illustrated Handbook glowed, and a row of names on the spine flickered gently—Sakura Airi, Shiina Hiyori, Karuizawa Kei, Horikita Suzune. Their pages shone with different lights, but at this moment, a faint golden connection was emerging between those glows. A new prompt appeared from the bottom of the spine: "A minimal closed loop has been formed based on the trust bonds of multiple associates—unlocked strategic passive ability: 'Asymmetric Insight.' When core members of your side are at a critical juncture in an information game, you can perceive hidden attack vectors one decision cycle earlier than your opponent. Cooldown duration is directly proportional to the sum of trust within the closed loop."

He withdrew his consciousness and opened his eyes again. Ryuen was a man who knew how to calculate. Those who could calculate every step of their opponent often assumed there were only two sides on the board. But Kushida was not his ally; Kushida's board had herself, Ryuen, and him—but that didn't matter. He told himself. The edges of the iceberg were real, and the ship that crashed into it had no idea how many silent rock layers the iceberg was connected to beneath the surface of the water.