Numbers Don't Lie

The tension that had built up over the past few days, fueled by scheming, last-minute strategy meetings, and the general chaos of dealing with the Special Exam, had all led to this moment. The big event. The pinnacle of intellectual battle.

And yet, as I sat there staring at the blank tablet screen before me, all I could think was how underwhelming it felt. Sure, the pressure was there but the actual process? Absurdly mundane. The stakes were artificially inflated. In other words, just another glorified school day wrapped up in unnecessary theatrics.

What wasn't mundane, however, was the setup.

To promote collaboration, accountability, or possibly just to mess with us, each desk was shared by a pair. On top of that, the Ministry of Education—or rather, its budget—had been particularly generous this year. Instead of the usual paper tests, we were handed tablets, each sleek and new, for the entire duration of the exam.

I eyed the device, turning it slightly to catch the light. Definitely not a cheap model, even if it was limited to basic functions. A conservative estimate? Probably around 20,000 yen per tablet, minimum. Multiply that by the number of students taking the exam across both schools and well, the numbers started adding up fast.

So much for the "limited funding" excuse, I kept hearing that. ANHS must have a cozy relationship with those grants. The kind that made their supposed struggles sound more like fairy tales. No money? Sure. And I'm the Prime Minister.

I glanced around the room, noting the other students fidgeting with their tablets. Some were already staring at the blank screens as if they might spontaneously display answers if they focused hard enough. Others whispered in hushed tones, trying to squeeze in last-minute pep talks before the exam officially began. The exam rules were strict about no talking once the timer started, but until then, the room buzzed with nervous energy.

What wasn't helping my focus was my seating partner.

Horikita sat next to me, her expression calm but piercing. It wasn't just her usual composure that made her presence so oppressive. It was the way her eyes seemed to drill into me like she was analyzing every fidget, every breath, every stray glance.

Why, you might ask? Good question. If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be sitting here wishing I could go home.

I tried to ignore her gaze, focusing instead on tapping the edge of my tablet with my finger. But her voice cut through the air, low and sharp enough to make me flinch. "You don't seem very prepared."

Stop looking at me. I'm not a math formula you can solve by glaring at it.

I turned my head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe it's because someone keeps staring at me like I'm about to detonate."

Her lips thinned, but her eyes didn't waver. "I'm ensuring you don't mess this up. We're sharing a desk, and our scores are being monitored. If you underperform, it reflects on me."

Ah, so that's what this was about. She wasn't just scrutinizing me out of the kindness of her heart.

"Relax," I muttered, twirling my stylus between my fingers. "I don't need a chaperone. Focus on your own exam."

Her gaze remained longer before she finally looked down at her tablet, her expression unreadable. But I could still feel the occasional glance from her side of the desk.

And then, the door opened.

Secretary Tachibana strode into the room, her presence commanding instant attention. She moved with the kind of efficiency that made you question your own sense of purpose, clipboard in hand, a faint scowl resting naturally on her face.

"Attention," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a well-honed blade, silencing all. "The exam will commence exactly at the designated time. Be prepared."

Her announcement was crisp, no-nonsense. Exactly what you'd expect from someone like her. But as she scanned the room, her eyes briefly met mine.

Out of pure curiosity—and maybe a touch of mischief—I raised my hand slightly as if to wave. A harmless gesture, really. But her expression immediately shifted, her scowl deepening into something that could only be described as pure annoyance.

Secretary Tachibana doesn't like me.

Maybe it was my aura of indifference, or I'd unknowingly committed some great crime against her sense of order and discipline. I mean, Horikita Manabu enjoyed my presence, right? Either way, her unblinking stare was enough to make me rethink my little experiment. Creepy as hell. Slowly, I lowered my hand, pretending to adjust my sleeve like nothing had happened.

Horikita, of course, noticed. "What are you doing?" she whispered sharply, her tone laced with irritation.

"Just testing a hypothesis," I replied under my breath. The results were conclusive.

She gave me a look that said she wasn't even going to bother asking for details. Fine by me. I didn't want to explain how I'd managed to annoy someone by doing absolutely nothing.

As the clock struck the appointed time, Tachibana raised her voice once more. "You may begin."

The faint sound of styluses tapping against tablets filled the room, and the air grew heavier. I turned my attention to the screen, the first question already staring back like a challenge.

Time to get to work.

ㅤ

ᛚᛟᚾᛖᛚᚤᚲᚤᚾᛁᚲᚨᛚᛋᛟᚢᛚ

ㅤ

The moment I started the test, I felt an immediate sense of betrayal. Japanese was supposed to be my native language and I studied a lot for this test. I'd been speaking it, reading it, and surviving its convoluted web of rules and exceptions my whole life. And yet, somehow, this test had turned it into an impenetrable labyrinth of nonsense and doom.

Seriously, who uses words like kirinji or tamayura in casual conversation? Not to mention the literature section. They'd dug up some ancient essay about morality and nature's inherent balance. I'm pretty sure even the original author would have trouble deciphering what they wrote.

I tapped my stylus against my temple, trying to summon some divine inspiration or at least recall something vaguely relevant from class. Alright, so let's start with my plan. The trick is to think like the one who wrote this, not like a normal human being.

Answering the questions felt less like applying logic and more like trying to predict the whims of someone who thought old proverbs and obscure haikus were the pinnacle of education. Still, I chipped away at it, focusing on multiple-choice sections where I could play the odds. True brilliance lies in strategic mediocrity.

Then came Social Sciences, where the exam makers decided to test not just our knowledge, but our patience. Each question read like it was ripped from a political debate—dense, overcomplicated, and full of answers that all sounded technically correct. It was like they wanted us to second-guess every choice.

One particularly maddening question stood out:

"In the context of Japan's post-war economic recovery, which policy contributed most to the period of high economic growth in the 1950s and 60s?"

Easy, right? Except every option was viable: land reforms, industrial subsidies, the establishment of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. At this point, I wasn't just answering a question. I was crafting a manifesto.

And don't get me started on the essay portion. "Explain how cultural values influenced the adoption of democratic principles during the Meiji Restoration." Sure, let me just summon my inner historian. How many words did they want? 500? Yeah, no problem. I'll just condense a few centuries of history into a neat little package for you.

The clock ticked mercilessly as I scribbled out answers, occasionally glancing at Horikita, who looked as calm as ever. She was probably halfway through her tests while I was still wondering if I'd accidentally opened a philosophy textbook.

But hey, that's life. Sometimes you're the samurai, and sometimes you're the guy wondering why anyone still studies the Meiji Restoration in the first place.

ㅤ

ᛚᛟᚾᛖᛚᚤᚲᚤᚾᛁᚲᚨᛚᛋᛟᚢᛚ

ㅤ

Once the final test ended, a wave of relief washed over me. The steady stress that had been looming for hours finally began to dissipate. I leaned back slightly in my chair, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Finally, it was over.

The format of the tests had been clever, almost painfully so. Apparently, each of the five subjects: Japanese, English, Social Sciences, Mathematics, and the catch-all Sciences was designed to be graded with brutal efficiency. The tablets we used weren't just for show; the tests were structured to allow automated checking.

Most of the questions were multiple-choice or fill-in-the-blank with specific answers that left little room for ambiguity. Even the short-answer sections demanded concise, to-the-point responses, almost like programming code where even a misplaced period could ruin everything. The few essay-style questions were limited in length, with pre-set word counts and standardized rubrics.

This setup ensured that the results could be processed and analyzed almost instantly. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if a team of programmers had been hired to build a grading algorithm for these exams. It was efficient, ruthless, and just a little bit dystopian.

And yet, it made sense. Both Sobu High and Advanced Nurturing High School weren't exactly known for their leniency. This system eliminated any possibility of favoritism or human error in grading while emphasizing precision and clarity.

Not to mention, it was probably cheaper in the long run. Sure, equipping every student with a tablet wasn't free. But considering that these weren't high-end devices but basic models designed for educational use. Well, they couldn't have been that unaffordable.

But hey, what's a few million yen when you're dealing with a budget that comes from government coffers? The funding likely came from one of those fancy education modernization initiatives. "Improving Learning Through Technology" or some equally flashy slogan. Money well spent, right?

Horikita sat next to me, her posture just as rigid as it had been all morning. I thought about making a comment but one glance at her face told me that might not be the best idea.

Hirata's revived fan club was in full swing. Or at least, that's what it looked like. A group of girls from Class D had gathered around him, their eyes practically sparkling as they hung on his every word. I half-expected them to pull out pom-poms and start a cheer routine.

From now on, this will probably just another Tuesday for him.

After a moment of debating whether to retreat or advance, I decided to approach. Why? Maybe I just wanted to experience what it was like to bask in the radiant glow of his charisma. Either way, my feet carried me toward the human embodiment of sunshine.

Hirata noticed me immediately. His smile widened—if that was even possible—and for a moment, I thought he might actually sparkle. "Ah, Hikigaya-kun!" he greeted me with a warmth so genuine it could probably melt an iceberg. "How did you do on the test?"

Before I could answer, I felt a sudden shift in the air. The girls surrounding Hirata turned their gazes toward me in unison, like a pack of hawks spotting an intruder. Their expressions ranged from mild curiosity to outright hostility, as if my very existence was an affront to their perfectly curated social ecosystem.

I'd somehow become the uninvited guest at a tea party.

Did these girls even know? I mean, seriously, were they even remotely aware that not so long ago, this same guy was ready to kick off his villain arc? Probably not. To them, Hirata was just a depressed boy who had become a hero again—a beacon of positivity. If they only knew how close he'd been to flipping the table on this whole "good guy" act, they might reconsider those sparkly looks they kept giving him.

"I survived," I replied, keeping my tone as nonchalant as possible. "Barely."

Hirata laughed, the kind of laugh that could make even the most cynical person believe in the goodness of humanity. "That's good to hear! The tests were challenging, weren't they? Especially the Social Sciences section, so many nuanced questions."

The girls, meanwhile, continued to watch me like I was some exotic animal. One of them even whispered something to another, and they both giggled. Probably plotting my downfall. Or assigning me a nickname like "New rival."

What the hell?

"Yeah, it was something," I said, glancing sideways at the Class D girls. Their eyes narrowed just a fraction. Not a good sign. "Anyway, I just wanted to see how you were holding up after all that. You seemed pretty focused during the exam."

Hirata nodded, "Thank you, Hikigaya-kun. I appreciate that! I was trying my best not to let the pressure get to me."

He said it with such humility that it sounded completely sincere. If I'd said the same thing, it would've come off as either sarcastic or desperate.

Cruel world.

"Well, keep it up," I said, taking a small step back. "Don't let your fan club distract you too much."

The girls bristled slightly at that, and I decided it was a good time to make my exit. You know, before I got labeled as Public Enemy No. 1.

As I made my way down the hallway, trying to avoid any further run-ins with Hirata's fan club, I suddenly noticed a familiar figure approaching—well, more like stumbling awkwardly in my direction. It was Yuigahama. She waved hesitantly, her movements unsure, like she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to call attention to herself.

Her usual energetic demeanor seemed to have shrunk into something smaller, more subdued. By the time she reached me, her posture resembled that of a scolded puppy, tail firmly tucked between its legs.

"What's up?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

She fidgeted, her gaze darting everywhere but at me. "I-I don't know if I did well enough on the test," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

I had a distressed Yuigahama on my hands. She looked so pitiful and ready to burst into tears.

What would you expect? That I'd pat her on the head and tell her everything was going to be okay? Yeah, maybe some riajuu would pull a move like that. Disgusting degenerates, the lot of them. Absolutely no chance I'd stoop to something so embarrassingly cliché.

"Where's Ichinose?" I asked instead, trying to redirect the conversation to something less emotionally charged.

Yuigahama hesitated again, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. "Uh, she… had something important to take care of," she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like the floor had suddenly turned into lava.

We stared at each other for a moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Finally, I sighed. "Look, don't stress too much about the test. There's probably someone out there who did worse than you. Statistically speaking, at least. No need to worry about some stupid exam anyway."

She blinked at me, her lips parting slightly as if unsure whether to take my words as comfort or a backhanded insult. Honestly, I wasn't sure either, but it was the best she was going to get from me.

"R-right, thanks, Hikki," she said after a moment, her expression softening ever so slightly.

Disaster averted. Mission complete.

Yuigahama glanced at me one last time before blurting, "I'm going to find Yukinon," and scurried off, her steps hurried as though staying longer would fry her circuits.

I watched her retreating figure for a moment. With a shrug, I turned and resumed my own path, my goal clear.

Before long, I arrived at the door. I didn't bother knocking. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind me.

Horikita Manabu sat at the far end of the room, leaning back in his chair. His glasses were off, folded neatly on the desk in front of him, and his eyes were closed as though he were catching a brief nap.

The moment the door clicked shut, however, his voice greeted me without missing a beat. "Hikigaya." His voice carried its usual serious tone, but there was an unmistakable touch of amusement in it this time. "You've been growing a little too comfortable around the Student Council lately."

It wasn't a reprimand. If anything, it sounded like he was joking or as close to joking as Horikita Manabu ever got.

"Let's not pretend we didn't both know I'd end up here," I replied. My gaze flicked to him, noting his posture. For once, he wasn't hunched over his desk, pen in hand, scribbling away like a machine.

"You're not writing for once," I observed, raising an eyebrow. "Did the universe finally run out of things for you to plan or analyze?"

He opened his eyes, sharp and calculating as ever. "Even I know the importance of rest, Hikigaya. You should try it sometime."

Horikita Manabu leaned forward slightly, placing his glasses back on with a deliberate motion. "But I doubt you came here to comment on my downtime, Hikigaya." His voice carried its usual authority, drawing a faint sigh from me.

"Right, straight to business then," I said, walking up to him. "Do you have the results of the Special Exam?"

His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "Indeed. Though they won't be officially released for another hour."

I crossed my arms. "Then I take it you've got the inside scoop already?"

"Naturally." Horikita gestured toward the desk, where a single sheet of paper rested, its crisp surface unmarred by his usual endless notes. "But before I show you, let me say this: the results were... unexpected. Even I didn't anticipate this outcome."

"That so?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as someone who's often surprised."

His lips curved ever so slightly, a hint of amusement seeping through his otherwise stoic demeanor. "True, but this exam managed to exceed expectations in its own way. Take a look."

"Let me see,"

Not that it matters. I already know the most probable outcome anyway.

He slid the paper toward me.

I stepped closer, my eyes scanning the neat rows of data until the numbers snapped into clarity:

ㅤ

ㅤ

1st Place: Class C – Plus 150 Class Points.

2nd Place: Class D – Plus 100 Class Points.

3rd Place: Class A – Plus 20 Class Points.

4th Place: Class B – Minus 30 Class Points.