Shimizu Akira considered himself an honest man, but he was no saint.
He certainly didn’t object to the idea of intimacy with women, yet he drew a hard line at the “easy” ones.
The mere thought of the associated health risks was enough to kill any mood.
It wasn’t that he was repressed or incapable of finding a girlfriend; he simply had standards.
Then there was the intel regarding Hoshinomiya Chie.
He still couldn’t quite place her.
Was she a beautiful student from another class?
Was she really that loose?
The possibility of her being a faculty member hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Even in Japan, the worst educators wouldn’t dare cross that particular line with a student.
Basic professional ethics had to mean something.
As for the second piece of intel—the one concerning Horikita Suzune—it seemed utterly useless on the surface.
Yet, for a certain breed of degenerate, knowing the color of a classmate’s underwear would be very useful, premium information.
If nothing else, it deepened his understanding of the girl sitting next to him.
The Daily Intel System apparently had a habit of pushing seemingly trivial trivia that carried subtle psychological weight.
Still, only the first piece of intel held any real tactical value.
He hadn’t come into this transmigration completely blind.
Just yesterday, a mysterious email had materialized in his inbox.
The sender was simply listed as “System.” The message was brief, informing him that he had been selected for enrollment at the Advanced Nurturing High School, and prompted him to configure his background and special abilities.
Assuming it was an elaborate prank, Akira had filled out the form with casual indifference.
For his background, he lazily typed in “orphan.” For his abilities, he shamelessly ripped off the template from a popular manga—a grueling, exaggerated regimen of one hundred push-ups, one hundred sit-ups, one hundred squats, and a ten-kilometer run every single day for eight years.
Reflecting on it now, he noticed the distinct gaps in his memory.
Aside from the visceral, muscle-deep recollection of those eight years of hellish training and the brief flashes of his entrance exam, his past was a blur.
Thankfully, his identification documents were perfectly in order.
He wasn’t a ghost in this world.
The physical results, however, were terrifying.
Akira felt an ocean of raw, coiled strength resting beneath his skin.
But as he walked through the pristine campus, a cynical thought crossed his mind.
How much of an advantage did a monstrous physique actually provide in a modern, elite high school?
At best, it guaranteed a permanent perfect score in physical education.
This wasn’t Suzuran High School; the law of the jungle here wasn’t dictated by who had the hardest fists.
Watching the polite, immaculately dressed students filtering into the school building, Akira let out a quiet breath, shaking his head at his own absurd train of thought.
According to his entrance notification, he belonged to Class 1-D.
Stepping into the classroom, he found neatly engraved nameplates resting on every desk.
Following the markers, Akira located his assigned spot at the very back—the center seat in the last row.
The window seat to his left was already occupied by an inconspicuous, brown-haired student who seemed perfectly content blending into the background.
Directly to Akira’s left, Horikita Suzune was in the process of unpacking.
She placed her shoulder bag on the desk, her movements sharp and efficient as she arranged her stationery.
Akira slung his own bag onto the hook at the side of his desk.
“One hundred and sixty new students, four classes…” he murmured, tapping a steady rhythm against the wooden surface.
“A clean split of forty students per class.
The numbers line up perfectly.” “The classroom uses a five-column, eight-row layout,” Horikita replied, not bothering to look up from her desk.
“We were assigned to Class D, which naturally implies the existence of Classes A, B, and C ahead of us.
Based on those two variables, a minimum of one hundred and sixty students is the only logical conclusion.” “Your mind is as sharp as ever, Horikita-san,” Akira said, genuinely amused.
Horikita finally cast a cold, sidelong glance his way.
“You had already deduced that yourself.
Otherwise, you wouldn’t have muttered the exact numbers out loud.” “You misunderstand.
That wasn’t a deduction.” Akira paused, reaching into his bag.
He pulled out the official entrance handbook and slid it across the desk toward her.
The text was printed in clear, obvious black and white: each grade consists of 160 students, divided equally into four classes: A, B, C, and D.
Horikita’s expression froze.
For a fraction of a second, the icy facade cracked.
She recovered with commendable speed, sliding the handbook back to him as if the exchange had never happened.
“It appears the School Administration provided the exact figures from the very beginning,” she said.
Her tone remained frosty, though her words spilled out just a fraction faster than usual.
“Regardless of the method, my conclusion was entirely correct.” Without missing a beat, she retrieved a copy of Crime and Punishment from her bag, lowering her head and projecting an impenetrable aura of absolute isolation.
“Horikita-san,” Akira pressed, leaning slightly closer.
“I recall you reading that exact book on the bus this morning.
Why are you back on the first page?” Her fingers stalled against the paper.
“It is my habit to read every book at least three times,” she answered, her voice perfectly level.
Yet, when she turned the page, the paper snapped with a crisp, aggressive force.
‘I see…’Akira thought, a dry smile touching his lips.’She’s just using the book as a shield to hide her embarrassment.’ He studied her from the corner of his eye.
Her long, dark eyelashes fluttered in time with her supposed reading.
Even when caught off guard, she maintained a rigid, elegant posture.
It was, in a strange way, undeniably cute.
What intrigued him more was the fact that she had engaged him first.
For someone who projected such a venomous anti-social aura, she was surprisingly quick to jump into a conversation.
Deciding not to push his luck, Akira withdrew his gaze.
Annoying his arrogant neighbor on the first day wouldn’t serve any purpose.
They had three years ahead of them; there would be plenty of time to dismantle those walls.
Shifting his attention, Akira looked to the neighbor on his right.
A petite girl with vibrant red hair sat hunched over her desk.
She wore thick, round-rimmed glasses and kept her head bowed, allowing her fiery hair to cascade down like a curtain, desperately trying to obscure her face.
Her slender fingers twisted the fabric of her skirt in a white-knuckled grip, and the fleeting, nervous glances she shot around the room betrayed her intense anxiety.
‘A hidden beauty, huh?’ Akira noted, taking a second look.
Her fair skin stood out sharply against the vivid red of her hair.
She chewed nervously on her bottom lip.
Despite the heavy aura of avoidance she was broadcasting, her underlying features were far too striking to remain unnoticed for long.
Leaning back in his chair, Akira took advantage of his prime vantage point to map out the rest of the classroom’s dynamics.
His eyes naturally drifted to the center of the room, where Kushida Kikyo was already holding court.
The energetic girl leaned casually against a classmate’s desk, chatting animatedly with a growing circle of admirers.
It hadn’t even been ten minutes, and she was already the undisputed social hub of the class.
Sweeping his gaze further right, he spotted Kouenji Rokusuke.
The eccentric blonde from the bus was currently sprawled in his chair, his heavy boots propped disrespectfully on his desk as he carefully filed his nails.
Even relaxed, the sheer mass of Kouenji’s explosive musculature was impossible to ignore.
Akira narrowed his eyes.
Beneath that arrogant, preening exterior, Kouenji possessed a physical foundation that might actually rival his own.