There was an extra sheet of paper on the classroom wall.
It was not a new roster, nor anyone's calligraphy practice, but an ordinary sheet of rules, almost like something copied down in a hurry. The corners had not been pressed flat, and there were only a few short lines on it, each separated by a modest gap. It did not look important, but precisely because it had no embellishments, every child noticed it the moment they came in.
Kiyo read the fastest. "Listen first. Watch their feet first. Report your position first. Don't..."
He stopped at the last line, his face showing the look of someone wondering whether the teacher had come after somebody today.
The last line read:
`Don't prove it yet.`
Che stood at the back of the classroom. When he saw those four words, it felt as though an extremely thin thread had gently tightened around his chest.
The lines before it were easy to understand. Listen through, watch their feet, report your position—those were all action rules they had drilled repeatedly these past days. But "Don't prove it yet" was different. It was not an action, nor was it a technique anyone could immediately tie to a particular lesson. It felt more like all those lessons had been pressed inward, until they finally touched that point in a person's heart.
When Yamashiro Takuma entered the classroom, he did not rush to begin a new lesson. Instead, he had everyone read those lines aloud once. The voices in the room were quiet, but when they reached the last line, they noticeably softened. It was as though many of the children might not fully understand it, yet instinctively knew that this line lay closer than "watch their feet" or "report your position" to places that could not