The classroom, which had been a buzz of whispered conversations and shuffling papers, went silent as the door clicked shut behind the homeroom teacher. Her presence was commanding—her sharp black suit, meticulously styled ponytail, and the notebook tucked under one arm spoke volumes about her no-nonsense approach.
"Everyone, take your seats," she said, her voice cutting through the air with practiced authority.
Immediately, the students scrambled to obey, chairs screeching against the polished floor as they hurried to their designated spots. I made my way to the back row, claiming the seat I had been assigned, right behind a guy with chestnut-colored hair who seemed oblivious to the world around him. His posture screamed "relaxed"—or maybe "detached" was a better word. Either way, he didn't even flinch as I slid into my seat.
Once I settled in, I leaned back in my chair, my posture deliberately laid-back, hands tucked into my jacket pockets as I let my sharp electric-blue eyes wander around the classroom. That's when I noticed them.
The cameras.
Four of them, strategically placed in the corners of the room, their black lenses gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
One camera? Sure, maybe for security or something. But four? Seriously? My mind raced with sarcastic commentary. What are the school administrators, voyeurs? Do they get off watching teenagers fidget and scribble notes? Or is this some kind of "Big Brother" nonsense? I smirked faintly, keeping my thoughts to myself, but my fingers tapped idly on the desk as my instincts screamed that something about this school wasn't right.
The teacher cleared her throat, pulling my attention back to the front of the room. She stepped behind the podium with a precision that suggested years of practice in commanding a room. Her eyes scanned the class, sharp and calculating, as if mentally cataloging each and every one of us.
"Welcome, freshmen," she began, her voice even and authoritative. "First, congratulations on being accepted into this advanced institution. You are among the select few chosen to join the Advanced Nurturing High School. Many applied, but only the most exceptional were offered a seat here."
Her words elicited a mix of reactions. Some students straightened in their chairs, pride evident in their expressions. Others, like the chestnut-haired guy in front of me, remained completely unfazed. I, for my part, let my smirk linger, more amused than impressed by the fanfare.
"I am Sae Chabashira, your homeroom teacher. In addition to being your point of contact for administrative matters, I will also be teaching you Japanese history. Unlike other schools, there will be no class change during your time here. For the next three years, I will remain your homeroom teacher, guiding you throughout your journey. I expect us to work well together."
Her tone was brisk, almost robotic. It was clear this wasn't her first time giving this speech. Her movements were equally precise as she placed a sleek black box on the podium with a soft thud.
At the front, Chabashira-sensei's expression didn't change as she moved into what was clearly a rehearsed speech.
"Now, I'm going to explain the special rules of this school. You should have already been briefed on some of these during the admissions orientation, so this will be a review for most of you."
The students nodded quietly, their earlier chatter replaced by attentive silence.
She began listing off the basics:
Tuition is completely free.Dormitory living is mandatory, with separate accommodations for male and female students.External contact is prohibited unless under special circumstances.
For the most part, it was nothing new. I had heard all this during the orientation. My mind began to wander again, though I kept my outward focus intact.
Tuition is free. That, I could understand. The government had funded this school for years, using free tuition as a selling point to handpick the nation's most promising students. But "external contact prohibited"? That was a red flag.
Chabashira-sensei paused, letting the weight of her next words settle over the room. "Unlike other schools, there will be no reshuffling of classes. For the next three years, you will remain in Class D. This will not change, regardless of academic performance or other factors."
That caught my attention.
In a typical school, reshuffling served a purpose. It allowed for a balance in student abilities, ensured fairness, and even provided opportunities for social growth. But here, they were abandoning that concept entirely.
No reshuffling meant no escape. If you ended up in a dysfunctional class, you were stuck with them for three years. Conversely, if you found yourself surrounded by capable peers, you could either rise with them or be left behind. It was a deliberate decision, one that hinted at a larger strategy.
Was it to promote camaraderie? To encourage competition? Or was it something darker?
My musings were interrupted as Chabashira-sensei moved to the next phase of her explanation. She pulled a box onto her desk and began handing out sleek, black mobile phones to each student.
"This school has another unique feature," she announced. "The S-System. The mobile phone you are receiving is your student ID terminal. Communication is limited to within the school grounds. All external contacts will be blocked. Additionally, this device will serve as your sole means of payment within the school."
As I received my phone, I turned it over in my hands, studying its design. Sleek, modern, and unassuming. But I knew better than to take it at face value.
Chabashira-sensei continued, "The interface is simple. After logging in with a face scan, you can use the phone for all transactions, just like mobile payment. What you're spending, however, is not money but points issued by the school. As long as you're here, anything you need can be bought with these points."
She paused for dramatic effect, her gaze sweeping the room.
"Points will be automatically transferred on the first of each month. As of now, each of you should have received 100,000 points. By the way, each point is equivalent to one yen. Any questions?"
The classroom buzzed with an electric mix of disbelief and excitement as students clutched their new phones, staring at the glowing "100,000 Points" displayed on their screens. The number seemed too surreal, too generous to be real, and yet there it was—undeniable.
Aiden leaned back in his chair, his red cap casting a faint shadow over his electric-blue eyes. His expression remained calm, even disinterested, as if the chaos around him was background noise to his thoughts. Yet inside, his mind was racing, dissecting every word Chabashira-sensei had said and every possible implication.
100,000 points.
He glanced at his screen again, as though expecting the numbers to vanish like some cruel prank. But they didn't. The amount was real—at least for now.
Chabashira-sensei said "as of now."
That phrase stuck with him. He knew it wasn't chosen casually. Words had weight, especially when delivered in such a controlled environment. If they received 100,000 points now, it was highly unlikely the same amount would be issued every month. Why start so high unless it was meant to condition their expectations?
"Why such a massive amount?"
His mind churned through possibilities.
Equal Distribution for All Students?
If every student across all three grades received the same amount, the sheer cost was staggering. With 40 students in each class, 160 per grade, and three grades, that meant 480 students total.
480 students x 100,000 yen = 48 million yen per month.
That was 576 million yen per year, just for one year of allowances. Factor in the three years a typical student spends at the school, and the numbers skyrocketed to an unimaginable 1.728 billion yen.
Where was this money coming from? Taxpayer money? Impossible.
The Japanese government was already in a fiscal deficit, barely able to sustain its existing programs without raising taxes and tightening budgets. Citizens worked themselves to the bone, often for meager salaries, half of which disappeared into taxes. The idea of public funds being poured into a private school's student allowances was absurd. If the public ever caught wind of this, the uproar would be deafening—parents would demand the same for their own children, and politicians wouldn't risk their careers for such a reckless policy.
"So… private funding?"
Aiden frowned. Even then, this sum was outrageous. And for what purpose? To pamper students? No, this school wasn't about indulgence. Miyu had said as much when she explained the school's reputation—its graduates became elite leaders, not entitled brats. There had to be more to it.
Inconsistent Monthly Allowances?
What if this was a one-time payment, designed to lure them into a false sense of security? The "as of now" hinted that the points could fluctuate, possibly depending on performance, behavior, or other variables they hadn't been told about yet.
Maybe the 100,000 points were just bait.
The school might want to test their spending habits—how much they'd splurge versus how much they'd save. It could be a lesson in self-control, a covert way of teaching financial responsibility. Would the next month's amount be the same? Or would it drop drastically to punish recklessness?
Expulsion as a Control Mechanism?
Aiden's thoughts returned to his earlier speculation. If students were expelled for poor performance, it could explain how the school managed its finances. A reduced student body meant fewer allowances to distribute.
They're using the points as a carrot, he mused. Dangle the reward, then take it away as punishment for failure.
His fingers brushed over the phone's smooth surface, the number 100,000 glaring back at him. This was no gift. It was bait.
He adjusted the brim of his cap, the shadow over his eyes deepening as his smirk faded into a thoughtful frown. "No such thing as a free lunch," he muttered under his breath. The idiom wasn't just a phrase; it was a universal truth. If someone offered something for free, there was always a catch. And free lunches? They were often the most expensive of all.
The rest of the class, however, seemed oblivious to the undercurrent of manipulation.
"Oh my god, 100,000 yen?!" a girl in the middle row squealed, her voice rising above the chatter. "That's insane! I can buy so many clothes!"
"Forget clothes, I'm getting the latest gaming console," another boy chimed in, grinning ear to ear.
Some students were already discussing what they'd spend their points on—designer watches, gourmet meals, even extravagant electronics. The sheer excitement in their voices made it clear they believed this was a windfall, a golden ticket handed to them without strings attached.
Fools, Aiden thought, watching them with a faint smirk. Their excitement was predictable, even understandable, but it was also shortsighted. The school wasn't their benefactor; it was their handler. They're throwing you a bone to see how quickly you'll bite.
Aiden wasn't the only one feeling skeptical, though. While some of his more gullible classmates seemed ready to accept the situation at face value, the rest of the class looked equally bewildered. Which, in all fairness, was only natural. Free money—especially in such large amounts—was unheard of. Even if it were real, there had to be strings attached. There always were.
Sensing the unease settling over the room, Chabashira-sensei stepped in to quell the rising doubts.
"Are you surprised?" she asked, her tone calm but firm. "There's no need to be. This school evaluates students based on their potential and abilities. The points you receive are a reflection of the school's assessment of you. Feel free to use them as you see fit."
She paused, letting her words sink in, before adding, "Once awarded, the points are yours. You can even transfer them to others if you wish—but be warned: bullying and coercion will not be tolerated."
Her gaze swept across the room, sharp and assessing, as though daring anyone to test the limits of that rule. Her expression remained unreadable, an impenetrable mask of authority and control.
"That concludes the important details," she said finally, her voice carrying a note of finality. "Any other questions?"