Ayanokoji Kiyotaka walked swiftly along the intermittent water trail in the cruise ship's brightly lit corridor. His steps were steady, but he couldn't accelerate further. The water marks on the smooth floor seemed particularly treacherous—he had to control his pace to avoid slipping.
Meanwhile, the figure ahead, riding that mop, moved with astonishing speed. Like an ice skater gliding across a rink, he rounded the corridor's end and disappeared after only a few turns.
Ayanokoji stopped, facing the empty crossroads ahead. The water traces here blurred and faded, eventually dissolving into the dryness brought by circulating air.
He felt neither surprise nor disappointment. That kind of movement wasn't something ordinary people could keep pace with.
He stood still, his gaze sweeping across the surrounding passage signs, his mind working rapidly.
Sakamoto's actions just now, though seemingly absurd, had a clear purpose.
Drawing on his rough memory of the cruise ship's functional area distribution from when he'd first boarded, Ayanokoji turned and began walking in a specific direction.
At the entrance of a room marked "Cleaning Supplies," the door stood slightly ajar.
Ayanokoji didn't enter immediately. He stood quietly in the shadow outside.
From inside came a slight rustling sound, followed by a grateful voice: "Oh, thank you so much! I've been looking for this mop for ages—thought I'd lost it. And you even helped me mop the corridor on this deck?"
"It's no trouble at all. Don't mention it." Sakamoto's calm voice answered. "I merely wished to test the exact time required to clean this deck's corridor by gliding at a constant speed. The data has been recorded."
"Ah? Test... test the time?" The staff member's voice dripped with confusion.
"Indeed. Farewell."
Footsteps approached the door. It swung open gently.
Sakamoto walked out.
The long mop was gone from his hands. The transparent waterproof shoe covers had been removed and were now held neatly in his grip.
He seemed not to notice Ayanokoji in the shadows and began to walk away.
"Sakamoto-kun."
Ayanokoji stepped out of the darkness, his voice calm.
Sakamoto's footsteps paused. He turned slowly.
He pushed up his glasses. Behind the lenses, his gaze settled on Ayanokoji.
"Ayanokoji-kun."
A peculiar silence fell between them.
The sea breeze drifted in through a porthole at the corridor's end.
Ayanokoji didn't speak immediately.
He waited.
He waited for Sakamoto to ask his intentions first. The one who speaks first often unconsciously surrenders a measure of conversational initiative.
Sakamoto regarded him quietly, showing no sign of impatience. His face betrayed no emotion.
Seconds passed.
Finally, Sakamoto broke the silence. "Is Ayanokoji-kun waiting here for something?"
The initiative, seemingly, had been handed to Ayanokoji.
Ayanokoji met his gaze and cut straight to the core. "In the discussion, the question you raised about the essence of the school's class division system—the true meaning you wanted to express wasn't the strategy I later deduced, was it?"
His gaze sharpened, locking onto Sakamoto's face, searching for any subtle crack beneath that calm mask.
He was disappointed.
Sakamoto's expression remained unchanged. Not a flicker in his eyes. He merely pushed up his glasses lightly and responded evenly, "I believe Ayanokoji-kun's interpretation at the time was reasonable and logical. It played a positive role in promoting the smooth progress of our group discussion."
The first method of probing is ineffective.
Ayanokoji shifted angles immediately, posing a sharper question.
"Since Sakamoto-kun seems never to refuse answering questions, allow me to ask something more practical."
He paused, choosing his words with care.
"Your series of actions at this school—your astonishing performance at the start of the year, the absolute advantage you led Class A to achieve in the uninhabited island exam—their purpose, it seems, wasn't merely to solidify Class A's position as number one, was it?"
He watched Sakamoto closely.
"You appear to have long since understood the underlying operating rules of this institution."
"And your true goal, perhaps... is to subvert those rules themselves?"
This was Ayanokoji's boldest speculation, built on months of observation. From that very first day on the school bus, all of Sakamoto's actions had exuded a quality of being simultaneously detached and precisely involved. He was omnipresent, seemingly omnipotent—yet he appeared genuinely unconcerned with mundane competitions like class rankings.
His leading Class A to victory felt less like pursuing victory for its own sake and more like demonstrating a certain "correct" path.
Sakamoto listened quietly. Behind his glasses, his gaze seemed to shift—almost imperceptibly.
He did not immediately deny it.
Sakamoto parted his lips slightly, as if preparing to respond—
However—
"Yo, isn't this our big celebrity?"
An arrogant voice sliced through the corridor from the other end, shattering the moment's tension.
Ayanokoji and Sakamoto turned simultaneously.
Ryuuen Kakeru stood there, hands in his pockets, a cold, unreadable smile curving his lips. His gaze bypassed Ayanokoji entirely, locking onto Sakamoto with predatory focus.
More striking was the phone in his hand—its screen brightly lit.
Ryuuen wasted no time. He strode forward and stopped directly before Sakamoto, raising the phone screen to his eyes with undeniable assertiveness.
Ayanokoji's gaze followed.
On the screen, a newly received email preview displayed brief but startling content:
[Notice]: The Ryuuen Group Special Exam has concluded early. All members of the Ryuuen Group, from the time this notice is issued, are no longer required to participate in subsequent group discussions and the final Q&A session.
The Ryuuen Group's exam... ended?
Ended early? No longer required to participate?
And the Ryuuen Group—wasn't that Ryuuen Kakeru's own group?
Ayanokoji's mind raced. An exam concluding prematurely meant only one possibility under the established rules: someone had made an early guess—whether correct or incorrect—triggering an immediate termination.
Which meant Ryuuen's group had already experienced either Result Three or Result Four.
And the fact that Ryuuen was here, displaying this email with that particular expression...
Ayanokoji filed the implication away for later analysis, returning his attention to the confrontation before him.
Ryuuen's smile widened as he watched Sakamoto read the message. "What do you think, Sakamoto? Your Class A might be untouchable, but the rest of us? We're playing our own games."
He lowered the phone but kept his eyes fixed on Sakamoto, as if expecting some reaction—surprise, concern, perhaps even a crack in that perpetual calm.
Sakamoto regarded him with the same unruffled expression he wore for everything else.
"Congratulations on your group's conclusion," Sakamoto said evenly. "I trust the outcome was satisfactory."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement—neutral, detached, as if discussing the weather.
Ryuuen's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Satisfactory enough. More than satisfactory."
His gaze flicked briefly to Ayanokoji, then returned to Sakamoto. "But I'm not here to chat about my group's results. I'm here because I heard something interesting."
He leaned slightly closer. "I heard that in your little rabbit group meeting, someone started asking some very... interesting questions. About the school's system. About the purpose of class divisions."
His eyes glittered. "Now why would anyone need to ask questions like that? Unless they already knew the answers and wanted to see who else was paying attention."
The implication hung in the air between them.
Ayanokoji remained still, observing. Ryuuen's information network was clearly active—he'd already received reports from Manabe or others about the discussion. And he'd come straight to Sakamoto.
He's probing. Testing. Trying to see if Sakamoto will reveal anything.
Sakamoto pushed up his glasses. The lenses caught the corridor light, reflecting it back at Ryuuen.
"Questions," Sakamoto said calmly, "are the foundation of understanding. Is that not why we are all here? To understand?"
He offered nothing more. No denial, no confirmation, no elaboration.
Ryuuen stared at him for a long moment, then let out a short laugh. "You're good. I'll give you that." He stepped back, shoving his phone into his pocket. "But this school has a way of making even the best slip up eventually."
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back at Ayanokoji. "And you. Class D's phantom leader. Enjoying your little chess game?"
Without waiting for a response, he strode off down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.
Ayanokoji turned back to Sakamoto.
The moment was broken. The conversation they'd been having—about the school's rules, about Sakamoto's true purpose—had been interrupted, perhaps deliberately.
But something else had been revealed.
Ryuuen's group had ended early. And Ryuuen himself was here, seeking answers.
The game was accelerating.