Utaha Kasumigaoka stood flanking the entrance of the International Culture Class, her gaze sweeping across the room, failing to locate the target she was scouting for.
”Where is Hiroto Tachibana?”
”I am entirely unacquainted with his itinerary,” Yukinoshita Yukino’s voice emerged thoroughly cold and detached.
“Furthermore, Kasumigaoka-san, I believe I made the parameters sufficiently transparent yesterday.”
Utaha paid zero heed to the latter half of her sentence, extracting a document folder from her bag and placing it firmly onto an adjacent student desk.
This specific folder was an asset Utaha had manufactured by pulling an absolute all-nighter, the residual toll manifesting as a pair of faint dark circles beneath her eyes.
The overarching framework conformed strictly to the standard operating procedures of the commercial market; as for the alternative dimensions, Tomoya Aki would have to manually populate the metrics himself.
She wasn’t executing this for anyone else’s benefit; she was doing it strictly for her own sake.
Utaha simply couldn’t swallow her boiling resentment—what exactly did he mean by branding her work a mere product of self-gratification?
She routinely poured absolute, serious commitment into her literary craftsmanship.
”Everything that requires preparation has been fully completed by my hand, Yukinoshita.”
Yukinoshita retrieved the folder, methodically reviewing the contents.
“Unexpectedly, it is structured remarkably well.”
Yukinoshita’s vocal cadence carried zero emotional waves, her facial features similarly pristine.
Yet the subtle curve blooming at the absolute corner of her lips exuded a distinctly playful, mocking undertone no matter how one analyzed it.
Before Utaha could formulate a tactical response, Yukinoshita opened her mouth once more.
She tilted her head a fraction.
“Shouldn’t an announcement of this nature ideally be tabled until the entire roster has successfully assembled?”
”Conducting yourself in this frantic manner makes it appear precisely as though you are desperately rushing to validate something to Tachibana-kun.”
Standing rooted to her spot, Utaha locked eyes with Yukinoshita, her internal emotional spectrum remarkably stable.
Exactly—she was no longer the identical individual she had been previously.
Even if the factual reality conformed precisely to Yukinoshita’s clinical assessment, she harbored zero dread.
So what if she was?
Last night, she had systematically refreshed the social media feed of “The Blade That Strikingly Swift.” That particular author historically updated his status with extreme scarcity; since this rare transmission had coincided perfectly with her timeline, Utaha had promptly tapped into the interface.
The update logged nothing more than a solitary line of text:
[What do you guys say is the absolute meaning of a human being remaining alive?]
The commentary section beneath was already a raging hive of several thousand logged entries.
[Stop executing these cryptic, terminal monologues, old thief, push out the manuscript updates right this second!]
[Waaaaah, why does it intuitively feel like the author is gearing up to execute an absolute final conclusion to his career?]
Utaha had systematically swiped down through the ranks until her eyes locked onto the entry occupying the absolute highest upvote metric.
[I have officially achieved enlightenment.
Author, your underlying implication is explicitly: to navigate through the parameters of this solitary lifetime utilizing the precise methodology that maximizes your personal comfort, remaining entirely lucid, autonomous, and completely unburdened by a guilty conscience is more than sufficient.]
”Could the underlying reality truly manifest along those lines?” Utaha felt as though she had progressively unlocked a profound truth.
He dispatched this block of text explicitly to communicate to us fellow creators that we must pay zero heed to the external optics of the crowd, and simply master our own operations.
That exact millisecond, Utaha perceived a massive block of psychological deadlock loosening within her soul.
It wasn’t a sudden burst of cosmic enlightenment or a grand spiritual ascension; it was merely an indefinable, soothing wave of absolute liberation.
Retracting her spinning thoughts, she fixed her gaze back onto Yukinoshita.
“Your clinical assessment is entirely accurate.
However, the target parameters extend far beyond just him—they incorporate you as well,” her tone had leveled into a vastly more tranquil cadence.
“Regardless, the physical blueprint has been delivered by my hand.
I desperately wish to observe the absolute upper limit of what the two of you can achieve.”
Yukinoshita didn’t instantly bridge the silence.
Her vision drifted from the folder resting in Utaha’s hand straight up to her facial features.
“Do you genuinely conclude that the project is viable merely by realizing this baseline?”
”What?”
”I shall explicitly reiterate my clinical verdict from yesterday—this remains an absolute, amateurish farce.”
Utaha furrowed her brow.
”While the structural documentation exists, it is exceptionally rushed; furthermore, this merely addresses the isolated sector that you personally consider acceptable—the sector assigned specifically to you,” Yukinoshita’s delivery remained thoroughly unhurried.
”What about the alternative components of the pipeline?
The artist?
The producer?
Surely you do not harbor the delusional assumption that a project of this magnitude can successfully launch utilizing nothing more than your singular, solitary presence?”
”The foundational mission statement of the Service Club is to instruct individuals how to fish rather than handing them sustenance.
If the fisherman flat-out lacks the internal drive to harvest the catch, what functional purpose does teaching him technical maneuvers even serve?”
”Heh, that is a baseline reality I am naturally fully cognizant of.”
Utaha cast a brief glance at her phone interface.
Last night, she had already dispatched an explicit transmission to Tomoya Aki.
What objective Yukinoshita was desperately angling for was crystal clear to her.
Yukinoshita demanded a display of absolute, serious commitment toward this endeavor from their ranks.
Reflecting upon the parameters upon returning home, the core error undeniably resided with their camp.
If the primary architects fail to put on a display of serious commitment, how on earth can external entities deploy assets to assist you?
Framing it in that light, her historical behavior merely made her appear remarkably petty.
However, the primary target wasn’t Yukinoshita.
It was Hiroto Tachibana.
Utaha simply could not decipher the exact mechanics behind how Hiroto’s statements had managed to directly pierce through her psychological defenses and strike her absolute core vulnerabilities with such surgical precision.
Did that individual possess a profound, intimate knowledge of her character?
Based on what parameters?
She tightened her grip around her phone, an unyielding surge of competitive defiance burning fiercely within her soul.
Her primary objective was to observe exactly what caliber of performance Hiroto Tachibana could even deliver if he was dragged in to manage the operations.
It didn’t take long before Tomoya Aki arrived at a frantic sprint.
”Se-Senpai, the timeline you enforced for these frameworks was far too rushed, wasn’t it?!” Remembering the structural template Utaha had blasted to his inbox last night, his facial features were a chaotic canvas of absolute shock and deep grievance.
Operating under his baseline creative concepts, mapping out an asset of this nature demanded a minimum timeline of five days.
No, ten days!
Incorrect, it required at least half a month of rigorous synthesis to properly organize.
How on earth had she managed to churn out a comprehensive document in a single day?
However, the moment his mind processed that Senpai had endured such grueling labor strictly for his sake, his grievances evaporated into thin air.
He had manually rushed a microscopically small segment of his own assignments; though the volume was remarkably sparse, it at least constituted a tangible deliverable to hand over.
Utaha accepted the scattered sheets of paper he extended, casually flipping through the metrics as her brow furrowed a fraction.
She remained completely silent.
Right at that exact instant, the parameters of the crowd parted once more.
Clustered securely within a dense entourage of her friends, Eriri marched directly into the sector.
Clutching a document mailing bag in her hand, she advanced straight toward Utaha’s coordinates, extending the asset forward.
”Apologies, I have logged a minor delay.
An external entity explicitly troubled me to transfer this package into your possession.”
Utaha accepted the document bag, choosing not to immediately break the seal.
She stared fixedly at Eriri.
Her gaze was locked in an absolute, unblinking chokehold, explicitly communicating a singular message: Keep playing dumb.
Being subjected to that specific intensity of vision made Eriri’s scalp crawl with violent friction.
”Ahem,” Eriri cleared her throat, feigning absolute ignorance regarding the underlying implication.
“U-Um, the asset has been successfully delivered, I shall take my leave first—”
The exact millisecond she pivoted her frame to execute an escape sequence, her vision caught sight of Hiroto Tachibana stepping smoothly out from the parameters of the crowd.
Eriri violently retracted the foot she had just extended forward, pivoting her body right back around as she feigned an absolute posture of never having harbored the intent to depart.
Hiroto paid her zero active mind, marching straight past her coordinates to bring himself directly before Utaha.
Utaha registered his arrival instantly.
”You’ve arrived at the perfect juncture.”
She whipped her head back toward Yukinoshita, her tone rising into an officially formal cadence: “The synthesis of our operational proposals has been explicitly laid bare across the table.
May I formally request Yukinoshita-san to officially accept our club commission?”
Yukinoshita Yukino offered a decisive, crisp nod.
“Naturally.
I formally accept this commission.”
Utaha swiftly shifted her gaze back onto Hiroto, her eyes burning with an immensely provocative gleam.
“I am exceptionally expectant to witness the true depth of the technical capabilities Tachibana-kun is poised to put on display.”
”Technical capabilities?” Hiroto furrowed his brow a fraction.
“Put what capabilities on display?”
”Hmm?” Utaha noted dismissively, operating under the assumption that the other party was merely deploying a facade of stubborn resistance.
“Operating as an active club member, do you genuinely harbor the intention to contribute zero operational output toward this project?”
”Contribute output?
What output?” Hiroto shifted his line of sight toward Yukinoshita, before delivering his final lines with absolute clarity:
”I explicitly stated this parameter from the absolute beginning—I am not a member of this club.”