That winter, Ayanokouji Atsuomi took his own life. What drove him to despair wasn't the end of his political career, but the future—one that now stretched before him in bleak, predictable certainty.
He had spent forty-four years turning his life from a single-choice question into a multiple-choice one, only to arrive at a dead-end with no options left.
In truth, Atsuomi had waited three months. Not a single person from the Naoe faction, the Kijima faction, or even the opposition parties dared speak a word in his defense.
Every day, on the news, those same people—once his drinking companions, whom he had secretly looked down on—still appeared in sharp suits, smiling brightly for the cameras. And every time, Atsuomi felt as though he were a fish being slowly grilled alive, his pride roasting with him.
His complete collapse wasn't due solely to the recent scandal. The instant Naoe Jinnosuke smiled as he discarded him, Atsuomi knew he could never stand at the pinnacle of this nation again.
The very core that had sustained him all these years crumbled from within.
When he submerged his head into the filled sink, he already imagined the headline that would follow: a corrupt politician taking his own life in shame. But by then, no one would care.
His only remaining blood relative was Ayanokouji Kiyotaka, who had been sent to a welfare facility. Atsuomi had never considered himself a father, nor expected Kiyotaka to consider him a parent.
In the final hazy moment of consciousness, Atsuomi suddenly smiled.
He remembered that to facilitate adoptions for bereaved families, orphanage children often had no surnames—just like in the White Room.
Ayanokouji Kiyotaka likely had no surname at all.
Just "Kiyotaka"—the name chosen by the woman who was legally once his wife, and who had favored a host far more than she had ever loved him.
A name that had nothing to do with him.
-------------------------------------
Another rainy day.
The lingering autumn rain felt like it had lasted a century, making the small courtyard seem weary and ill. Surrounding the courtyard were tall, dense trees of unknown species, their branches reaching skyward as if lifting the gray sky itself. From above, the courtyard resembled a deep well, with raindrops endlessly falling into its center.
Sakayanagi Arisu held an umbrella, her tone tinged with nostalgia as she turned and smiled at Kitagawa Ryo.
"About eleven or twelve years ago, I lived here for quite a while. This used to be a children's ward. I used to come here for walks and rehabilitation training."
Ryo held his own umbrella. He actually knew this place better than Arisu did—his view in the last simulation had been limited to this very courtyard.
Ten years had passed since Ayanokouji Atsuomi's death, and just as Ryo had expected, his passing stirred no great waves—just like his birth.
The White Room still existed, but it had shifted closer to the model of Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School. Its public messaging now aligned itself with that school. The original White Room had vanished without a trace. Outside of the people directly involved, the only thing that remained in the public's memory was a famous training institution—one that produced a genius like Kitagawa Ryo and claimed to unlock the full potential of ordinary individuals.
As for Ryo himself, perhaps influenced by the similarly ranked Kouenji conglomerate, the Kitagawa family had long begun grooming him as heir. He hadn't rebelled like Kouenji Rokosuke but instead quietly and precisely fulfilled his responsibilities, presenting the image of a model successor.
However, one thing troubled him: ever since he reached legal marriage age this year, marriage inquiries and subtle pressure from the family had grown increasingly frequent. Maybe it was concern about the trauma he suffered in the White Room, or perhaps it was fear that without finding their illegitimate son, the Kitagawa line would have died out.
Although Ryo and Arisu had vanished from public view after the end of that year's show, and "Genius Duel" was completely scrubbed from the internet due to Atsuomi's scandal, the internet never truly forgets. A few years ago, a nostalgic fan edit of the childhood CP rekindled the old romance content, stirring up buzz once more.
At first, Ryo thought it might be a covert attempt by his family to push him toward marriage. But after tracing the IP address, he discovered the video was made by an ordinary fan.
That fan? None other than Matsushita Chiaki from real-life Class D.
So even in real life and in the simulation, she had been a matchmaker for Arisu?
Chiaki probably never expected the video to go viral. While packing to move for college, she had stumbled upon old posters, support signs, and a hand-knitted child-sized sweater. Those items brought her back to ten years ago—watching the show every week with her parents.
Her father's tea was still strong, but he now went to the bathroom more often. Her mother still knitted sweaters, but needed to hold the needle closer to her eyes to see the thread.
With a mix of sentiment and nostalgia, Chiaki pieced together old footage and reflected humorously on the story of two children her age.
At the end of the video, she said:
"Even today, people still argue whether the White Room or Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High School offers the superior education. But ten years ago, it was simply about which genius child you supported."
"I remember my mom really liked the boy named Ryo. She said she wanted to knit a sweater for him, but never found a way to send it."
"As for me? I probably remembered him because of the mental breakdown during their first duel."
"If I recall correctly, that day was a snowy one."
Though Ryo confirmed there was no malicious intent behind the video, he was certain someone had fueled the renewed popularity behind the scenes. With Ryo's identity still somewhat mysterious at the time, journalists instead turned to the readily available head of Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High—Sakayanagi Narimori.
The kind-faced man responded with a simple, smiling statement: "They're still the same as before."
Thinking of that, Ryo sighed and tilted his umbrella. Rain landed on his face—cool and sobering.
"Did you also find the USB drive here?"
"Yes, right under that tree."
Arisu walked lightly. In this life, she had chosen not to attend Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High. She said it was because she had once observed one of Chabashira Sae's infamous special exams.
She didn't believe such exams had anything meaningful to teach her.
In fact, she had never quite agreed with either the original White Room or Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High.
Ryo followed her to the familiar tree. On his shoulder perched the white cat, Hotaru, who raised her tiny head as if begging for praise.
After teasing Hotaru for a while, Ryo found himself harboring a subtle suspicion about her—but that would have to wait until the simulation ended.
Arisu recounted the same story once more, never tiring of it. After all, it was the moment that changed her life.
"Are you planning to become the next chairperson of Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High?" Ryo asked, recalling a recent conversation with Chairman Sakayanagi.
"I'm considering it," Arisu replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you know how Ayanokouji Atsuomi persuaded my father to join the White Room project?"
Without waiting, she answered herself:
"He said it was a charitable program to save children—to provide a proper education to those born by accident and rejected by their families."
"Words like children, education, and life were irresistible to my father. That's just the kind of man he is."
She smiled helplessly.
"Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High was also founded with that spirit."
"Do you know the D-Class that just graduated? They stayed as D-Class all the way through."
Ryo nodded.
That class was originally his own. But in this altered timeline, neither he, Kiyotaka, Arisu, nor Chiaki had enrolled. It made sense the D-Class never rose—he never expected the likes of immature Horikita Suzune and Karuizawa Kei to pull off a promotion anyway.
But then Arisu rattled off a string of statistics:
"Among the 40 D-Class students: some came from single-parent families and had their high school acceptance rescinded due to violent incidents; some were bottom-ranked braggarts in middle school; some had poor health but talent in electronics; some were unremarkable in every way."
"Ryo, what do you think a high school student should prepare for their future?"
"Academics, clubs, and social skills," he answered without hesitation.
"Exactly." Arisu smiled. Now an adult, every gesture she made had more grace and allure. She was also taller than he remembered.
"Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High gave them all of that—the chance to enroll, and the chance to develop those three areas."
"The school's admissions process is often criticized, but it follows the original rule left by my grandfather."
"Education is a platform. That was his belief."
"Only two kinds of people aren't bothered by the A-Class graduation system: those like Kouenji who look down on it, and those who focus only on themselves."
She repeated herself:
"Education is a platform. Many applicants never get the opportunity to access the resources that Tokyo Advanced offers—its top-tier faculty, elite clubs, and A-Class talent. Not to mention the dormitories."
"Once inside, students fall into two categories: those who only care about A-Class, and those who only care about themselves."
She sighed.
"What disappoints me is that the school's atmosphere continues to breed more of the former."
Ryo looked intrigued.
"So that's why you're thinking about taking over as chairperson?"
"Maybe. It's just an idea."
She turned the question on him:
"What about you, Ryo? What are your plans? What will you choose?"
It sounded like a casual life question, but under the circumstances, it felt anything but ordinary.
Once, he had said children talking about engagement was too premature. Yet that future had arrived.
Before he could answer, his phone buzzed—a message from Yuki:
[Classes are done for today! Let's have dinner together tonight!]
Unlike Arisu, Yuki had chosen to return to the White Room—not as a student, but as a teacher.
Not an instructor. A true teacher.
"I hate instructors. I hate the White Room. But I'm scared too."
"I'm scared of more kids turning out like Ryo."
Thanks to Ryo's help, she had recently been hired to teach toddlers aged three to four—offering them a new beginning.
No combat training. Children could play freely after class.
No VR simulations. They could see the world with their own eyes—sky, land, sea, and snow.
No cloth mother figures. A teacher's warm smile was all the encouragement they needed.
Ryo put away his phone.
Now he understood why Arisu had suddenly considered the role of chairperson.
It seemed the White Room vs. Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High debate would rage for another ten years.
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