The echoes of the opening ceremony still lingered in the hallway, but Class 1-A's classroom already held a distinctly different atmosphere. The sharp sense of elite students silently permeated the air.
Thirty-nine students were in their seats, yet the window seat, with a clear nameplate, remained conspicuously empty, declaring an absence amidst the order.
Minutes before the first class bell, whispers flowed between desks, and gazes repeatedly swept over the empty seat, curiosity and speculation quietly growing.
"Absent on the first day, quite bold."
A low, serious voice came from the front row. It was a burly bald boy, sitting like a rock, the words 'discipline' etched between his brows. His sharp eyes were fixed on the empty seat, clearly displeased by this disorder.
"Perhaps he got lost?"
A smiling voice responded. It was a dazzling blond boy, leaning relaxed against his chair back, his smile sunny, talking to his neighbor, yet his peripheral vision was also glued to the empty seat.
On the other side of the classroom, in a back row, a slender, pale-skinned girl sat quietly. A dark wooden cane leaned against her desk, her posture serene. Her uniquely textured silver hair flowed like moonlight, accentuating her delicate and lovely face. She didn't participate in the discussion, merely glancing at the empty seat with her perceptive eyes, a subtle, unreadable curve on her lips, as if amused by this unexpected little interlude.
The waist-length purple-haired girl next to her rested her chin on one hand, looking out the window, completely uninterested in the undercurrents in the classroom or the empty seat. Her purple hair fell, almost covering her small profile, silently emitting an 'approach at your own risk' aura.
The homeroom teacher, Mashima Tomoya, entered the classroom with steady steps.
He was well-built, his teacher's uniform crisp, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over this domain that held the highest expectations—order and strictness were his creed. The classroom instantly fell silent.
Mashima nodded, preparing to begin his opening remarks. As his gaze swept over the last row, his movements suddenly froze.
The window seat was empty. The name 'Sakamoto' on the nameplate pierced his eyes.
Class A? First class of the semester? Late?
A hint of displeasure broke through Mashima's calm.
Class A represented the highest standards. Being late was not just impolite, but also a slight to collective honor. He quickly recalled 'Sakamoto's' file—unremarkable. Yet, this tardiness now etched a not-so-flattering first impression of that file in his mind.
Mashima's brows furrowed slightly, his authoritative gaze sweeping the class:
"Classmates..."
He was about to call out the absent student.
"Knock, knock."
Two clear, steady knocks on the door, precisely timed in the pause of his words.
All eyes instantly focused on the doorway.
The door opened.
A tall figure stood silhouetted against the light, his outline blurred. He took a step forward, entering the classroom's light—black-rimmed glasses, a clear dark brown tear mole under his left eye, a handsome and serene face, and a burgundy school uniform that neatly outlined his tall, straight physique.
He subtly adjusted his breathing, a fine sweat seemingly on his forehead, yet his breath was steady, without any panic, instead carrying a strange composure. His gaze met Mashima's with frankness.
"My sincerest apologies, Sensei,"
His voice was clear and sincere, without evasion,
"On my way back, I encountered a teacher with mobility issues who had accidentally scattered important documents. I assisted in organizing them, which took some time, preventing me from taking my seat sooner. I humbly ask for your understanding, Sensei."
He bowed slightly, his posture respectful but not subservient.
Helping to organize documents? This reason seemed relatively plausible.
However, to Mashima, who emphasized that 'punctuality is an essential quality of an elite,' this was still a kind of 'misjudgment' of Class A's priorities.
Mashima's gaze, sharp as a blade, scrutinized him for several seconds. The reason was naive, yet exceptionally firm.
"Just this once," Mashima's voice was low and brooked no argument, "Class A is a model of advanced nurturing, and nothing should be a reason to disregard time discipline. Remember that."
He nodded.
"Take your seat."
He didn't directly accuse him of "being late," but the subtext emphasizing "time discipline" was crystal clear.
"Thank you, teacher." Sakamoto-kun bowed again, his tone calm.
He straightened up, his gaze naturally sweeping over the classroom—a brief moment, as if making eye contact with every observer. He began to walk.
There was no awkwardness, no panic.
His steps were steady and fluid, as if he were walking down an empty corridor. The rhythm of each step seemed meticulously calculated, yet without any trace of deliberate effort.
His arms swung at a moderate amplitude, his shoulders and back straight as a pine. His destination was clear—the empty seat by the window—but his path, in everyone's eyes, seemed to trace an invisible, elegant arc.
He passed through rows of seats, countless eyes fixed on him, yet he seemed oblivious.
The burly bald boy's brows were locked, his lips tightly pressed, his eyes sharp as knives, his body slightly leaning forward, his doubt almost bursting forth.
The silver-haired girl with the cane gently tapped the top of her cane with her fingertip, the playful curve of her lips deepening, and the investigative gaze behind her lenses grew more intense.
The dazzling blond boy's smile remained, but his eyes now held a glint of keen interest, and his fingers lightly tapped the desk.
The purple-haired girl's languid gaze retracted from the window and fell upon him. Her expression remained indifferent, but a subtle ripple passed through the depths of her purple eyes, immediately returning to a deep pool.
In the silence, only Sakamoto's footsteps could be heard. He walked to the empty seat by the window.
He didn't sit down immediately.
His left hand very naturally brushed the air above the back of the chair, quick as an illusion, his body turning towards the seat with the momentum, his center of gravity sinking, his posture relaxed.
The moment his hips settled, perfectly conforming to the seat—
"Ring—!"
The sharp, loud electric bell, as if precisely calculated, suddenly burst forth without warning! The sound waves filled the classroom, assaulting their eardrums.
Buzz!
Time froze for a moment. One moment, silence; the next, a deafening roar. The huge contrast made everyone's hearts pound! Many instinctively tensed their bodies.
Only the boy by the window, in the midst of the sound waves, calmly adjusted his sitting posture, his gaze directed at the podium. He was so composed, as if the noise were a salute fired for him.
He even tilted his head slightly, looking out the window, as if searching for the shadow of a cherry tree.
Mashima stood at the podium, the bell roaring, his gaze fixed on Sakamoto.
The perfect synchronization of his seating with the official class bell was startlingly precise! Sakamoto-kun sat down at the exact moment the bell rang—strictly speaking, he was not late.
That extraordinary calmness, that rhythm precise to the second. Was it calculation? Or a magnificent "performance" created by luck?
A ripple of mixed vigilance and absurdity spread in Mashima's heart.
He gripped his file, cleared his throat, suppressed his churning thoughts, and regained his authority.
"The homeroom meeting begins now."
His voice was steady and strong, but in the depths of his eyes, the name "Sakamoto," along with his lateness and that eerily precise seating bell, had been etched onto the observation list—this was an individual who needed special attention.
In the classroom, the bell faded, leaving only Teacher Mashima's low voice as he began his instruction. And Sakamoto, the boy by the window, was already sitting upright like a statue, his gaze intently fixed on the podium, his expression under his black-rimmed glasses as calm as water, as if all the commotion just now had never happened.
Mashima's gaze, sharp as a blade, scrutinized him for several seconds. The reason was naive, yet exceptionally firm.
"Just this once," Mashima's voice was low and brooked no argument, "Class A is a model of advanced nurturing, and nothing should be a reason to disregard time discipline. Remember that."
He nodded.
"Take your seat."
He didn't directly accuse him of "being late," but the subtext emphasizing "time discipline" was crystal clear.
"Thank you, teacher." Sakamoto-kun bowed again, his tone calm.
He straightened up, his gaze naturally sweeping over the classroom—a brief moment, as if making eye contact with every observer. He began to walk.
There was no awkwardness, no panic.
His steps were steady and fluid, as if he were walking down an empty corridor. The rhythm of each step seemed meticulously calculated, yet without any trace of deliberate effort.
His arms swung at a moderate amplitude, his shoulders and back straight as a pine. His destination was clear—the empty seat by the window—but his path, in everyone's eyes, seemed to trace an invisible, elegant arc.
He passed through rows of seats, countless eyes fixed on him, yet he seemed oblivious.
The burly bald boy's brows were locked, his lips tightly pressed, his eyes sharp as knives, his body slightly leaning forward, his doubt almost bursting forth.
The silver-haired girl with the cane gently tapped the top of her cane with her fingertip, the playful curve of her lips deepening, and the investigative gaze behind her lenses grew more intense.
The dazzling blond boy's smile remained, but his eyes now held a glint of keen interest, and his fingers lightly tapped the desk.
The purple-haired girl's languid gaze retracted from the window and fell upon him. Her expression remained indifferent, but a subtle ripple passed through the depths of her purple eyes, immediately returning to a deep pool.
In the silence, only Sakamoto's footsteps could be heard. He walked to the empty seat by the window.
He didn't sit down immediately.
His left hand very naturally brushed the air above the back of the chair, quick as an illusion, his body turning towards the seat with the momentum, his center of gravity sinking, his posture relaxed.
The moment his hips settled, perfectly conforming to the seat—
"Ring—!"
The sharp, loud electric bell, as if precisely calculated, suddenly burst forth without warning! The sound waves filled the classroom, assaulting their eardrums.
Buzz!
Time froze for a moment. One moment, silence; the next, a deafening roar. The huge contrast made everyone's hearts pound! Many instinctively tensed their bodies.
Only the boy by the window, in the midst of the sound waves, calmly adjusted his sitting posture, his gaze directed at the podium. He was so composed, as if the noise were a salute fired for him.
He even tilted his head slightly, looking out the window, as if searching for the shadow of a cherry tree.
Mashima stood at the podium, the bell roaring, his gaze fixed on Sakamoto.
The perfect synchronization of his seating with the official class bell was startlingly precise! Sakamoto-kun sat down at the exact moment the bell rang—strictly speaking, he was not late.
That extraordinary calmness, that rhythm precise to the second. Was it calculation? Or a magnificent "performance" created by luck?
A ripple of mixed vigilance and absurdity spread in Mashima's heart.
He gripped his file, cleared his throat, suppressed his churning thoughts, and regained his authority.
"The homeroom meeting begins now."
His voice was steady and strong, but in the depths of his eyes, the name "Sakamoto," along with his lateness and that eerily precise seating bell, had been etched onto the observation list—this was an individual who needed special attention.
In the classroom, the bell faded, leaving only Teacher Mashima's low voice as he began his instruction. And Sakamoto, the boy by the window, was already sitting upright like a statue, his gaze intently fixed on the podium, his expression under his black-rimmed glasses as calm as water, as if all the commotion just now had never happened.