The physical-fitness trial drew to a quiet close under those awkward, miserable conditions. Naturally, Yukio's class posted the best time, while every other class needed more—ten, even twenty—extra minutes in the relay compared with practice.
They were nowhere near the pace they'd shown over the previous seven days of training. Everyone was groaning, desperate to rush back to the school building and swap their soaked outdoor shoes for warm, dry indoor ones.
Because time was tight, the school gave them almost no break. A broadcast ordered them inside for the cohesion assessment.
This test, again, took place in each class's temporary room, but unlike the whole-class exam that morning, only the homeroom teacher sat inside, a Buddhist sutra in hand, with a stack of blank paper and pens on the desk.
Students had to wait in the corridor, entering one by one to copy the text; after each page the teacher checked it and logged the score.
When the very last student finished, the total was announced. In effect the entire class had cooperated to transcribe a complete sutra—crude but still a measure of class cohesion.
Packed together in the hallway, tempers frayed.
"What do we do? I'm starving—spent lunch blow-drying my shoes in the dorm, never ate, then ran eight hundred meters. My brain's fried. What if I botch the lines?"
"D-don't overthink it. Staying calm's what matters. The more you fret, the less you'll remember the sutra. Dammit—like it wasn't hard enough already, and Yukio's class pulls this stunt!"
That one petty trick of soaking everyone's outdoor shoes had sabotaged two straight special exams.
Reciting and copying a sutra was obscure and difficult enough; add the slightest irritation and mistakes became almost inevitable.
Everyone knew they ought to stay calm, yet knowing and doing are different beasts.
It's like any sudden crisis—people say, "Keep cool," but come the moment, how many really can? Anyone can spout lofty principles, but living them is another matter; true unity of word and deed has always been rare.
Just as their agitation peaked, the final phase began. According to the page numbers each student had chosen, they filed in to start writing.
The teacher merely watched. Surveillance cameras were rolling, so even one's own homeroom teacher couldn't hint at right or wrong—not even clear a throat. Every teacher wore a stern expression, radiating pressure.
The student who finished the first page emerged, trembling. "I'm doomed—I don't even know if I got it right. They kicked me out without letting me check!"
"Stop. You'll just rattle the rest of us. Trust yourself!"
Each student came out flustered, unsure of their transcription, and classmates hurried to soothe them: don't psyche yourself out. Seven days to memorize a single page—however abstruse—meant rote memorization was possible. On that basis they were worried but not panicking.
Even so, Ibuki was starting to feel tense. She glanced at Yukio, then at Shiina, her fists unconsciously clenching. Damn it—Shiina's bound to ace something like this. If I mess up, will Yukio think less of me?
Just then a weight settled on her head. Looking back, she saw Yukio's hand gently rubbing her hair. "Don't overthink it. You'll be fine."
Ibuki's heart fluttered, her cheeks flushing. Wh-what the heck? How could he read me so easily?
"It's okay, Mio." Shiina stepped closer, cupping Ibuki's clenched fists. "You've stayed up so late every night memorizing the sutra. Everyone's seen that. With effort like that, you'll be fine!"
Their comfort swept her tension away. Embarrassed, she shifted her gaze, unable to meet Yukio's or Shiina's eyes.
"D-don't get me wrong! I'm not nervous. It's just one page—who couldn't memorize that? I'm worried the others will mess up, that's all!"
"B-but… thanks for caring," she murmured, head lowered so Yukio could keep patting it, face burning.
Her sudden girlishness made Yukio and Shiina trade a glance and smile. In perfect sync they thought, She really is a tsundere.
Soon it was Ibuki's turn. When she returned she looked completely relaxed, flashing a big V-sign at Yukio, baring her pearly teeth in an exuberant grin that said: Perfect transcription—zero mistakes!
Yukio rubbed his chin. Ibuki likes the victory sign, huh? I'll have to find chances to pose together with her.
At last, after everyone had finished, Sakagami stepped out, his face unusually grave. The once-relaxed members of Yukio's class felt their hearts clench.
Ishizaki, gutsy as ever, called, "M-Mr. Sakagami, please don't give us that sour face. How did we do?"
"A sour face?" Normally all smiles, Sakagami now wore a long horse-face. "With a performance like that, how could I not look sour? Do you know how many of you made mistakes? After tallying everything, you scored only forty-two points!"
"Hmph!" He brushed off the protests that followed, as if to say the fault lay not in his math but in their copying.
"Damn it! Did another class mess with us—the hunter trapped by his own prey?" One student glared at the other classes, but his anger froze.
Mashima and Chabashira wore expressions just like Sakagami's—heavy, extremely heavy. Even the usually affable Hoshinomiya could only manage a wry smile. She wasn't stern, but she certainly wasn't happy.
Clearly every class's transcription scores were rock-bottom. It wasn't just their class.
It was as if the morning's average score had been duplicated—only this time even Yukio's class had sunk to the same dismal tier.
...
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