Class 1 B : introduction to the S system

Lloyd's POV – The Nature of Control

That girl earlier was insufferable. I despise people like that—those who carry themselves with a misguided sense of superiority, as if their righteousness entitles them to dictate the world around them. If she keeps that up, she'll only isolate herself.

Everyone needs help at some point. Relationships—friendships, alliances, even fleeting interactions—are all transactional at their core. Give and take. A mutual exchange of benefit.

If she doesn't discard that foolish idealism soon, she'll learn the hard way. The thought alone irritated me.

I arrived at my designated classroom. Class 1-B.

This is where I'll be for the next three years… or at least, if I don't complete my task ahead of schedule. I stood at the doorway, scanning the room. The students had already settled into their seats, the air filled with chatter as friend groups naturally began to form.

As I stepped inside, I could feel eyes on me from multiple angles. Some were merely fleeting glances, others more scrutinizing. I ignored them and walked toward my assigned seat—second from the window. The seat beside me was occupied by a black-haired male, who sat with an air of indifference.

I observed the classroom with a calculating gaze.

I was never good at casual conversation, nor did I have an interest in small talk. Discussing mundane, irrelevant topics wasn't my forte because, at the core of it, I view everything as part of a grand system. A machine with countless gears, each turning with a purpose.

If I engage with someone, it's because I'm searching for information, aligning pieces to serve a function that benefits me.

In other words… I'm selfish.

And speaking of information.

There are four cameras in this room, placed strategically to capture most of the classroom's activity. That alone tells me everything I need to know about how this institution operates.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling quietly.

Then, movement caught my attention.

A girl with long, strawberry-blonde hair easily attracted the focus of the room. Her bluish-purple eyes gleamed with enthusiasm as she spoke freely with those around her, a bright smile on her face. She was the type who thrived in social settings—charismatic, friendly, the kind of person who naturally drew people in.

Meanwhile, my gaze drifted to another student—a boy with violet hair and strict purple eyes. His posture was upright, disciplined, with an air of authority. A natural leader, or at least, someone who aspired to be one.

Then, the classroom door slid open once more.

A woman entered—our supposed homeroom teacher.

She had chest-length brown hair and a slender yet well-endowed frame. But what stood out the most was the sluggish way she moved. Her posture lacked the usual refinement of an educator, and there was something sluggish in her gaze.

Was she… hungover?

The mere thought was absurd. What kind of institution would appoint a teacher who showed up to class in this condition?

She stumbled slightly as she reached the podium, but somehow managed to regain her footing.

Clearing her throat, she addressed us.

"Ahem. I am Chie Hoshinomiya, your homeroom teacher for the next three years. This institution does not change teachers or classrooms, so get used to me. An opening ceremony will take place in the gymnasium in an hour, but first, I'll explain the school's special rules and important information."

She began distributing manuals, instructing them to be passed around.

I listened carefully as she continued.

"The school provides a wide range of facilities, including entertainment and educational resources. One notable feature is the school library. Additionally, everything on campus is purchasable."

I narrowed my eyes slightly at that last statement.

No matter how prestigious this school claims to be, allowing students to buy anything is an inherently flawed system. This isn't an institution of learning—it's an experiment in controlled economics.

"I will now distribute your student cards. These are essential for purchasing items on campus. Simply swipe them at store scanners to make a transaction. If you check your student account on your phone, you'll notice you've been allotted 100,000 points."

The classroom erupted in murmurs.

100,000 points? Even without knowing much about money, I understood that was an excessive amount.

As expected. This school operates on a currency system. And given how vague her explanation was, there's undoubtedly a catch.

"'Points' serve multiple functions," she continued. "One point is equivalent to one yen. They will be deposited at the start of each month, so you may spend freely or choose to save. However, keep in mind that after graduation, all points will be returned to the school. In other words, you can't withdraw them upon leaving. Points may also be transferred between students, though there are procedures involved."

A girl raised her hand. The strawberry-blonde from earlier.

"How exactly do we transfer points? Is there a formal agreement process involved?"

I rested my chin on my hand, observing.

Her question was insightful—she had already picked up on the vagueness in the explanation. But it still wasn't the most important question.

The teacher smirked slightly. "Yes, you're correct. Transfers require formal memorandums."

"I see."

I sighed internally. That wasn't the right question.

The most critical question would have been: Are we guaranteed the same amount next month?

Because handing 100,000 points to a group of teenagers with no restrictions is a blatant psychological trap. It's designed to encourage reckless spending.

And finally, someone caught on.

A boy with firm conviction in his voice spoke up. "This amount is excessive. Are we guaranteed the same allocation next month?"

The room fell silent.

Hoshinomiya smiled, but her expression held something amused, almost condescending.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that," she replied smoothly. "However, I can assure you that you will receive points."

A vague response.

That confirms it. They're deliberately withholding information.

I exhaled sharply. I want nothing to do with this school. Just my mission, and I'm gone. Is that too much to ask?

After wrapping up her explanations—including warnings about bullying and point extortion—she finally dismissed us, reminding us about the opening ceremony in ten minutes.

My body ached from sitting through all that useless information. The biggest flaw in this system was simple: everything hinged on whether you get caught.

Which meant there were undoubtedly blind spots.

That would be my first objective.

Finding the gaps in their surveillance.