’ Chapter 15: Today’s Intel Has Been Refreshed: Karuizawa Kei is Searching for a ‘Fake Boyfriend’ After finishing his lunch, Shimizu Akira made his way back to the campus supermarket.
The observation he had made on the bus that morning finally clicked into place.
Every student around him had traveled light, carrying little more than a standard shoulder bag.
Not a single person had dragged a bulky suitcase through the school gates.
The official notice had casually mentioned that daily necessities could be purchased on-site, but the reality of outfitting an empty dorm room required far more logistical planning than a simple brochure implied.
He spent the entire afternoon handling the crowded aisles.
His cart steadily filled with the mundane requirements of independent living: slippers, toothpaste, a toothbrush, crisp bed sheets, a thick quilt, a water heater, power strips, and bulk packs of toilet paper.
While browsing, Akira paused by a dedicated electronics section.
Behind gleaming glass displays sat an array of high-priced luxury goods.
The latest handheld consoles and high-spec gaming laptops were arranged in pristine rows.
The numbers on the digital price tags, however, were staggering.
The absolute cheapest model started at 50,000 Private Points.
He brushed his thumb against the school-issued phone in his pocket.
For a brief second, he considered it, but ultimately walked away without scanning his terminal.
He had a considerable fortune of Private Points sitting in his account, but recklessly splurging on the very first day of the semester was a fool’s game.
A single miscalculation could leave him financially stranded by the end of the month.
More, the label of ‘Class D’ hung over his head like the Sword of Damocles.
The school’s underlying mechanics were still a black box.
Who could guarantee they would even receive a standard allowance next month?
If his worst theories proved true, he might have to stretch his current funds across three entire years.
He stuck to budget brands, but the sheer volume of small expenses inevitably added up.
At the checkout counter, Akira still felt a dull ache watching the terminal deduct the total.
A flat 5,000 Private Points for the dorm supplies, combined with the 1,000 he had spent on lunch, dropped his comfortable balance from 235,000 down to 229,000.
The night passed without incident.
At exactly 5:30 a.m.
the next morning, Akira’s eyes snapped open.
No grogginess, no hesitation.
He rolled out of bed, changed into a set of loose athletic wear, and began his daily regimen.
He started with fifteen minutes of systematic stretching.
Each movement was deliberate and precise, drawing faint, satisfying cracks from his stiff joints.
Once his muscles were thoroughly warmed up, the real conditioning began.
One hundred push-ups.
One hundred sit-ups.
One hundred squats.
The brutal routine was as natural to him as breathing.
By the time heavy drops of sweat gathered at his jawline and splattered against the floorboards, he had already cycled through three full sets.
At 6:30 a.m., Akira pushed open the doors to the dorm building and jogged toward the school’s sprawling sports field.
The crisp morning air filled his lungs as he settled into a steady, punishing pace on the track.
He maintained a robotic consistency for the first eight laps, his breathing perfectly measured.
On the ninth lap, he shifted gears, accelerating sharply.
By the final lap, he was in a full, explosive sprint.
His time for the ten-kilometer run clocked in at exactly 39 minutes and 34 seconds.
By the time Akira walked into the Class 1-D classroom and slid into his seat, the digital clock on the wall struck 8:00 a.m.
Right on cue, the familiar, mechanical chime echoed in his mind.
[Ding…
Today’s intel has been updated.] [Intel 1: A student named Yamamura from Second Year Class D urgently needs a large amount of Private Points.
They are willing to exchange hidden rules of the S-System for 30,000 Points from incoming freshmen.
(The absolute bottom line for negotiation is 10,000 Points).] [Intel 2: Ichinose Honami of Class 1-B has already exceeded three digits in her phone’s contact list in just one day, successfully networking with numerous upperclassmen.] [Intel 3: Karuizawa Kei of Class 1-D is actively searching for a ‘fake boyfriend’ to serve as a protective umbrella.] Akira stared at the holographic text floating in his vision.
This system was more punctual than a military alarm clock.
The first piece of intel immediately hijacked his attention.
A second-year senior from Class D was desperate enough to sell the school’s operational secrets for currency?
The transaction itself was a massive red flag, but the value of the information was immense.
Over the past twenty-four hours, Akira had already deduced two fundamental truths about this academy: the existence of a strict class hierarchy and the unequal distribution of Private Points.
Yet, the core evaluation criteria of the S-System remained entirely obscured.
handling this school felt like playing a high-stakes chess match blindfolded.
‘Criteria…’Akira mused, resting his chin on his hand.’For a high school, the most intuitive metric for evaluation has to be academic performance.’ If that was the case, the girl sitting next to him was a massive asset.
Horikita Suzune’s academic foundation was practically flawless.
He shifted his gaze toward his neighbor.
As usual, Horikita was thoroughly isolated from the morning chatter of the classroom, her attention buried in a thick copy of Crime and Punishment.
Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulder, casting a slight shadow over the yellowed pages.
“I recall telling you not to stare at me…
Raskolnikov.” The sharp snap of the book closing broke Akira’s train of thought.
Horikita turned her head, fixing him with a pair of cold, piercing eyes.
Raskolnikov?
Akira blinked, mildly surprised.
The sudden literary ambush caught him off guard.
She was comparing him to Dostoevsky’s protagonist—a man who justified murder through a twisted sense of superiority.
The memory of his past life suddenly flared up.
He remembered late nights in college, desperately cramming classic Russian literature just to impress a girl majoring in the subject.
Those exhausting hours spent dissecting Dostoevsky were finally paying off in the most absurd way possible.
“I’m fairly certain I haven’t committed an axe murder yet,” Akira replied, his tone perfectly flat.
Horikita’s eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch.
The subtle shift in her expression confirmed it—she realized he had effortlessly caught her obscure literary insult.
“…Almost,” Horikita corrected, her voice dropping a few degrees.
“Though I suppose the victim in your case would be Yamauchi Haruki.” Akira understood immediately.
She was bringing up the altercation from yesterday’s entrance ceremony, where he had physically restrained the loudmouthed idiot.
Labeling a classmate a ‘victim’ with such a straight face proved just how venomous this girl’s tongue could be.
“Speaking of Yamauchi,” Akira said, leaning back in his chair as if casually recalling a minor detail.
“He mentioned that you looked frail.” Horikita’s posture instantly went rigid.
A faint, furious flush crept up her pale neck, and the usual icy composure in her eyes shattered, replaced by a dangerous, burning glare.
She stood up abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the floor.
Without a word to Akira, she marched directly over to where Yamauchi Haruki was chatting with his friends.
She stopped in front of his desk, looking down at him with an aura cold enough to freeze the ambient moisture in the room.
“Yamauchi-kun,” she began, her voice a terrifyingly calm whisper.
“Watch your mouth from now on.
Otherwise, I will not hesitate to use physical force against you.” She leaned in slightly, enunciating every single syllable like a judge delivering a sentence.
“Next time, I will make sure you cannot pick up a pair of chopsticks with your left hand for three months.” Yamauchi froze.
The color drained from his face, and his lips parted as if trying to formulate a defense.
But the moment he met Horikita’s absolute, murderous glare, the words died in his throat.
He shrank back into his seat, pulling his head down like a beaten dog caught in the rain.
From his desk, Akira watched the scene unfold with dry amusement.
Wait a minute.
Wasn’t that the exact same threat he had used on Yamauchi yesterday?
He had to admit, they shared a certain pragmatic cooperation.
When dealing with brainless provocateurs, neither of them had the patience for diplomacy.
Violence—or the absolute promise of it—was simply more efficient.
When Horikita returned to her seat, smoothing her skirt as if nothing had happened, Akira spoke up.
“Horikita-san, if Yamauchi Haruki ever turns up dead in a ditch, you are definitely going to be the prime suspect.” She didn’t even look at him, simply opening her novel back to her bookmarked page.
“Incorrect.
Given Shimizu-kun’s brilliant display of aggression yesterday, the authorities would undoubtedly arrest you first.” [Inorin’s Note: Hey guys, hope you’re enjoying the novel!
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