Obtaining past midterm and monthly exam papers didn't necessarily have to be limited to second-year students.
Buying them from third-years was also an option.
As long as they were old exam papers from upperclassmen, they should be useful—after all, they were all recycled questions.
The current second-years had likely gotten their hands on them from third-years back in their first year.
This realization broadened his perspective, while also reminding him that the second-year cohort was currently under the thumb of Nagumo Miyabi.
The discovery sparked a new question.
"Satō-senpai," Shimizu seized the moment to ask, "do all four third-year classes follow the student council president's unified directives?"
Satō-senpai paused, quietly impressed by his kōhai's sharp observation.
As a third-year Class A senior, he felt it was his duty to properly educate this new student about the school's power dynamics.
"Pretty much, Shimizu." Satō organized his thoughts. "Since you've been here a month now, I'll give you the rundown on how things work between second and third years."
From Satō's explanation, Shimizu confirmed what he'd already suspected: the second-years were indeed entirely under Nagumo Miyabi's control.
Every class paid him a monthly "protection fee," and since Nagumo's rise to power in his second year, his influence had begun seeping into the third-year stratum as well.
Faced with this situation, the third-years had no choice but to band together, naturally coalescing around student council president Horikita Manabu as their central figure, adhering to the student council's unified leadership in daily affairs.
Satō-senpai clapped Shimizu on the shoulder, his tone light. "Don't worry too much! You're just a first-year—Nagumo won't target you yet. As long as the president's around, he'll protect the first-years and other vulnerable groups."
His expression then turned slightly complicated. "That said… it's because the president is so mild-mannered, disliking conflict and power struggles, that Nagumo's faction has grown so strong."
"Not a single person in our Class A has been forced to drop out since the term started—all thanks to the president's protection. So, everyone in our class respects him deeply."
"I see." Shimizu nodded silently.
So it wasn't just Horikita Manabu's position that earned him Class A's respect—it was his character and strength.
Shimizu found it quietly amusing.
These third-years might be tight-lipped around underclassmen, but they still treated first-years like children in need of protection.
In hindsight, it made sense. The first-years had only been here a little over a month, barely any points to their names, completely unseasoned.
That said, he sensed that the upcoming midterms could be another golden opportunity to earn points—and this time, the target might extend beyond just the first-years.
Shimizu pondered. Even if he sold the exam papers, he could only sell to one class, and the price likely wouldn't be high.
(Given Classes A and B's academic strength, they probably don't need these. Class D's already broke, so that leaves… Class C?)
(But the second and third-years… There might be opportunities there.)
(The key lies in Nagumo Miyabi and Horikita Manabu.)
...
Her phone screen lit up, the notification tone piercing the library's quiet.
Ryūen Kakeru:How's the investigation going? It's been half a month—don't tell me you've been slacking off?
Shiina Hiyori's slender fingers glided across the screen.
Shiina Hiyori:Please give me a little more time. All clues have been organized—only the final interviews remain.
The reply came instantly.
Ryūen Kōhei:So you're short-handed? Want me to send Ishizaki to help?
The name "Ishizaki Daichi" made Shiina's brow furrow slightly.
Her mind flashed back to last month: Ishizaki Daichi, without hesitation, swinging a chair at a surveillance camera.
She unconsciously raised a hand to massage her temple.
(Ishizaki-kun is certainly reliable… but as an investigative assistant… he falls far short of my requirements.)
After a brief hesitation, her fingertips tapped out a reply.
Shiina Hiyori:That won't be necessary. Thank you for the offer.
With that sent, she switched her phone to silent mode.
She adored mystery novels—not so much for the moment of truth, but for the process of unraveling the threads.
Like in Sherlock Holmes, what made her heart race wasn't the climax where the culprit was caught, but every detail of the detective and his doctor friend working side by side—Watson recording clues, Holmes deducing, the two exchanging theories by the fireplace at 221B Baker Street.
(That… that bond…)
Whenever she read such scenes, she'd unconsciously hold her breath, as if hearing her own heartbeat accelerate.
Sometimes, she'd even set the book down, raising an imaginary teacup to the air:
"A toast to their friendship."
In truth, every time she opened a new mystery novel, she'd instinctively adopt the detective's perspective.
Scouring the text for clues, outwitting fictional culprits in the author's labyrinth.
Occasionally, while walking through campus, spotting suspicious litter or unusual footprints would make her pause, weaving tiny theaters in her mind.
(If it were Holmes… If it were Poirot…)
This was why Hyouka's gray "energy-saving" protagonist had captivated her so.
But reality wasn't fiction. She hadn't met a noble young lady who'd say "I'm curious," nor had a rose-tinted school life suddenly descended upon her.
Not until—Ryūen Kōhei's request.
"Find out who rented the surveillance cameras."
Her first brush with a real case.
Yet after half a month, the mountain of clues only made one thing clear: a solo detective had their limits.
"I need a partner… just like Holmes needed Watson."
Shiina didn't consider herself dull—hundreds of mystery novels had honed her ability to see through most authors' tricks, sometimes pinpointing the culprit by Chapter 3.
But between the page and reality lay an impassable gap.
Books neatly presented clues to readers.
Reality demanded detectives take initiative, asking strangers questions, sifting truth from trembling voices and evasive eyes.
For someone who broke into a sweat during casual conversations, this was like asking a nightingale to sing in a storm.