The April wind swept through the carriage. The bus swayed as it headed towards Koudo Ikusei High School.
I, Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, sat by the window, my gaze habitually sweeping through the carriage. On the first day of the new semester, the surrounding "peculiarities" were already beginning to emerge.
Next to me was a girl with long, straight black hair, a thin braid tied with a white ribbon hanging on her left side. She was looking down at a book, her demeanor cold. When my gaze passed over her and looked elsewhere, she spoke without raising her head, her voice cold and hard:
"Your gaze looking elsewhere makes me feel like I'm being watched, and it's disgusting."
I apologized and withdrew my gaze. Sharp, that was my first impression of her.
Across the aisle, by the window, sat another boy, also wearing a wine-red school uniform. He was eye-catching. Under his black-rimmed glasses, a dark brown tear mole was clearly visible at the outer corner of his left eye. His face was handsome, and his posture was tall and straight.
He sat quietly, yet his posture itself seemed to represent a serene elegance.
At this moment, he was playing with a silver fountain pen. The pen body flipped, jumped, and hovered between his slender fingers, his movements fluid and natural, without the slightest hint of deliberate effort, exuding only a quiet aesthetic. This unique display attracted many gazes, including mine.
He himself, however, was only focused on the streetscape passing by outside the window, as if his surroundings had nothing to do with him.
I didn't have any expectations for the so-called "paradise" life of the next three years.
Just looking at this carriage: the indifferent girl with long black hair, the handsome boy with the tear mole who displayed his finger dexterity as if no one else was present, yet with a hint of cold elegance, and the guy in the front row admiring his dazzling blonde hair in a mirror with a self-satisfied smile. Both the environment and the people exuded a strange aura.
The sound of brakes screeched, and the bus arrived at the stop.
The bus door slid open, and a silver-haired old lady with a cane tottered in. She scanned the full carriage, sighed, and gripped the handrail pillar in the aisle tightly with her withered hand. Her figure looked particularly frail as she swayed with the movement of the bus.
The air solidified for a few seconds. Some people turned their faces away, some scrolled on their phones, and the blonde guy in the priority seat continued to admire himself in the mirror. Indifference spread silently.
"Everyone?"
A clear voice, tinged with worry, broke the silence. It was a girl with short blonde hair, a pretty face, and a full, prominent chest. She looked around, her gaze locking onto the blonde guy, her tone earnest:
"This old lady is very uncomfortable, student, could you please give up your seat?"
The blonde guy snapped his small mirror shut with a "clack," his voice lazy but firm:
"There's no reason for me to do that."
A flicker of almost imperceptible stiffness crossed the girl's face, but soon, deeper worry replaced it. She clasped her hands together:
"Although the law doesn't mandate giving up priority seats, it's also a social contribution, helping others."
"Social contribution?"
The blonde guy chuckled and snapped his fingers,
"Unfortunately, I'm not interested."
He leaned slightly, his playful gaze sweeping over the passengers,
"Why are you only staring at me in the priority seat? Shouldn't the people sitting over there also give up their seats? If you truly respect the elderly, just give up a seat."
His words pierced through the hypocrisy, and the atmosphere in the carriage suddenly became awkward.
The girl seemed to have been thrown off balance by the counterattack, and quickly adjusted her strategy, looking at everyone:
"Please everyone! Is there anyone willing to give up a seat for this old lady?"
Her voice carried urgency and pressure.
Just as a lady next to the old woman was about to get up —
A very light cough broke the tension.
It was the boy with the tear mole.
He had put away his fountain pen at some point and stood up gracefully.
Without looking at anyone, his gaze fixed on the handrail pillar that the old lady was gripping tightly.
Then came a dazzling series of movements: his right hand precisely inserted the silver fountain pen into a gap above the pillar; his left hand magically produced two small, sturdy umbrellas; with a few soft "clicks," the umbrella handles and ribs were already constructed into a stable triangular mechanical support, cleverly fixed beside the pillar. The whole process took no more than three seconds.
He calmly took off his wine-red uniform jacket, folded it, and spread it on the temporary "seat" like a cushion.
Only after he finished did he turn to the astonished old lady and bowed slightly:
"Madam, please sit. Although this seat is not elegant, it is sturdy and can solve an immediate problem."
His voice was calm, without any hint of condescension, only the pure composure of solving a problem.
The entire carriage instantly fell silent, shocked by this incredible yet precise and practical operation.
The old lady was stunned for a moment, then carefully sat down. The support did not budge. She sighed in relief and repeatedly thanked him.
The expression on the short-haired blonde girl's face was truly something. Shock, a hint of being upstaged, and annoyance at her plan being disrupted quickly flashed in her eyes. She tried to maintain a sweet smile as she looked at the boy who had helped:
"Ah... student, you... you're amazing! Thank you for your help! My name is Kushida Kikyo, and I'm a First Year student this year!"
Her self-introduction was enthusiastic, attempting to regain the initiative in the social interaction.
The boy with the tear mole simply nodded slightly, offering no response. He stood upright again, his gaze directed out the window, returning to his calm state.
"Hmph."
A cold query came from beside me, from the girl who was reading. She had closed her book, her gaze like a blade piercing the boy with the tear mole:
"Isn't such a 'performance' in a public place too deliberate? Or are you simply fond of such attention-grabbing tricks?"
She unreservedly attacked the "performative" nature of his actions.
The focus shifted again.
The boy with the tear mole slowly turned, pushing up his black-rimmed glasses. The lenses precisely reflected a cold light.
His movements showed no anger, but rather a sense of ritual. A nearly imperceptible curve appeared at the corner of his mouth, as if he was certain of some existing truth.
Facing the girl's sharp, knife-like questioning, his eyes were calm, and his voice was as smooth and clear as ever:
"I just wanted to make the old lady as comfortable as possible. If it caused a misunderstanding, I apologize."
His words contained no rebuttal, no self-aggrandizement, only a statement of his goal and an apology for possibly affecting others' feelings.
He pushed up his glasses again, as if to confirm the finality of his words, then bowed slightly:
"I'm Sakamoto, may I help you?"
"..."
The entire carriage fell into a deeper, almost stunned silence.
I looked at the bespectacled boy with the tear mole who had just solved the seating problem in an incredible way and introduced himself as Sakamoto. Then I glanced at the long-haired black-haired girl beside me, whose face had grown even colder after being choked by his words. Finally, I scanned the short-haired blonde girl, Kushida Kikyo, whose smile was frozen on her face and whose eyes held a complex, unreadable expression, and the blonde man who was still admiring his own reflection.
The scenery outside the window was moving.
I observed impassively.
Koudo Ikusei High School, it seems, gathers extraordinary individuals.
Sakamoto's appearance made the original "weirdness" even more elusive. This school might be more interesting than expected. I wouldn't say I liked this potentially chaotic situation, but I wasn't averse to it either.
first year o enrollment: Chapter 002: Sakamoto's Lateness
The echoes of the opening ceremony still lingered in the hallway, but First Year Class A's classroom had already accumulated a distinctly different atmosphere. A sharp sense of elitism silently permeated the air.
Thirty-nine students were in their assigned seats, but the window seat, with its clear name tag, was conspicuously empty, abruptly announcing an absence amidst the order.
With a few minutes left until the first class bell, whispers flowed between desks, and gazes repeatedly swept over the empty seat, curiosity and speculation quietly growing.
"Absent on the first day, quite the arrogance."
A deep, serious voice came from the front row. The speaker was a burly, bald boy, sitting like a rock, with the words "discipline" etched between his brows. His sharp eyes were fixed on the empty seat, clearly displeased by this disorder.
"Perhaps he got lost?"
A smiling voice responded. The speaker was a boy with dazzling blonde hair, leaning back in his chair in a relaxed posture, his smile sunny. He was conversing with his neighbor, his peripheral vision also glued to the empty seat.
On the other side of the classroom, in a back-row seat, a slender, fair-skinned girl sat quietly. A dark wooden cane leaned beside her desk, her posture serene. Her uniquely textured silver hair flowed like moonlight, accentuating her delicate and lovely face. She did not participate in the discussion, merely glancing indifferently at the empty seat with her insightful eyes, a subtle, unreadable curve at the corner of her mouth, as if intrigued by this unexpected little interlude.
The girl with waist-length purple hair next to her rested her chin on one hand, looking out the window, completely uninterested in the subtle undercurrents and the empty seat in the classroom. Her purple hair fell, almost obscuring her delicate profile, silently exuding an aura of "do not approach."
Homeroom teacher Mashima Tomoya walked into the classroom with steady steps.
He was well-built, his teacher's uniform immaculate, and his hawk-like gaze swept over this territory that held the highest expectations — order and strictness were his creed. The classroom instantly fell silent.
Mashima nodded, preparing to begin his opening remarks. His movements suddenly froze as his gaze swept over the last row.
The window seat was empty. The name "Sakamoto" on the name tag pierced his eyes.
Class A? First lesson of the first year o enrollment? Late?
A hint of displeasure broke Mashima's calm.
Class A represented the highest standards, and being late was not only a breach of etiquette but also a slight to collective honor. He quickly recalled Sakamoto's file in his mind — unremarkable. Yet, this act of lateness now left a not-so-flattering first impression of that file in his mind.
Mashima frowned slightly, his authoritative gaze sweeping the class:
"Students..."
He was about to call out the absentee.
"Thump, thump."
Two clear, steady knocks on the door, precisely timed in the pause of his words.
All eyes instantly focused on the doorway.
The door opened.
A tall figure stood silhouetted against the light, his outline blurred. He took a step forward, entering the classroom's light — black-rimmed glasses, a clear dark brown tear mole below his left eye, a handsome and serene face, and a wine-red school uniform that perfectly outlined his tall physique.
He subtly adjusted his breathing; there seemed to be fine beads of sweat on his forehead, yet his breathing was steady, completely unhurried, instead carrying a peculiar composure. His gaze met Mashima's frankly.
"I apologize deeply, teacher,"
His voice was clear and sincere, without evasion,
"On my way back, I encountered a teacher with limited mobility who accidentally scattered some important documents. I assisted in organizing them, which took a little time, preventing me from taking my seat sooner. I earnestly request your understanding, teacher."
He bowed slightly, his posture respectful but not subservient.
Helping to organize documents? This reason seemed somewhat plausible.
However, to Mashima, who emphasized that "punctuality is a basic quality of elites," this was still a "misjudgment" of Class A's priority.