The morning of the fourth day brought an unexpected email.
[Notice]
All first-year students are required to attend a mandatory assembly at 10:00 AM in the cruise ship's main auditorium.
Attendance will be taken. Missing this assembly will result in a penalty.
Ayanokoji read the message twice. A mandatory assembly was unusual—the school preferred to communicate through emails and class-specific announcements. Something significant was happening.
He arrived at the auditorium to find it rapidly filling with students. The space was large, capable of seating several hundred, but the first-year students numbered only about a hundred and twenty. They clustered by class, the unspoken divisions of loyalty and competition evident in their seating patterns.
Class A occupied the front rows, their posture uniformly upright, their expressions disciplined. Class B sat behind them, Ichinose at the center of her group. Class C had claimed the left side of the auditorium, with Class D on the right.
Ayanokoji found a seat near the back of Class D's section. Horikita sat a few rows ahead, her posture tense. Karuizawa was nearby, fidgeting with her phone.
At precisely 10:00 AM, the lights dimmed.
A figure stepped onto the stage—a man Ayanokoji recognized from the entrance ceremony. Tsukishiro Tokinari, the school's vice director. His grey hair was slicked back, and his smile was thin and humorless.
"Good morning, students. Thank you for assembling promptly."
His voice was smooth, practiced—the voice of a politician.
"I am here today to announce a change to the second-year curriculum. Effective immediately, the school will be implementing a new system of evaluation."
A murmur rippled through the audience.
"This system, which we call the 'Rising Tide' protocol, is designed to ensure that competition remains healthy and balanced. Under the current system, one class has achieved a significant lead. That lead, while impressive, creates an imbalance that undermines the educational mission of this institution."
Ayanokoji felt his pulse quicken.
"Therefore, beginning with the next special exam, all classes will be evaluated using a modified point structure. Class A will receive reduced bonuses for success. Classes B, C, and D will receive increased bonuses. In addition, a new mechanism will be introduced: the 'Comeback' bonus, which rewards classes for overcoming significant point deficits."
The room erupted.
Students shouted, argued, demanded explanations. The vice director raised a hand, and the noise subsided.
"I understand this is a significant change. It is meant to be. The school believes that competition is most meaningful when the outcome is uncertain. This adjustment ensures that all students have the opportunity to rise—or fall—based on their own efforts."
He smiled again, that thin, humorless smile.
"The details will be provided in an email later today. I encourage you to read them carefully. The first exam under the Rising Tide protocol will take place two weeks after our return to the mainland."
He stepped back, and the lights rose.
The assembly was over.
The auditorium emptied slowly, students lingering in clusters to discuss what they had just heard. Ayanokoji remained in his seat for a moment, processing.
Rising Tide. Comeback bonus. Reduced bonuses for Class A.
It was exactly what he had predicted—an adjustment designed to prevent any class from becoming untouchable. But the scale of the adjustment was staggering. The school wasn't just tweaking the numbers; they were fundamentally altering the competitive landscape.
"Interesting."
The voice came from beside him. Ayanokoji turned to find Sakamoto standing in the aisle, his expression thoughtful.
"You expected this," Ayanokoji said.
"I considered it a possibility. The school's purpose isn't to crown a winner—it's to test students under pressure. If one class becomes too dominant, the pressure disappears."
"So they're artificially creating pressure."
"They're restoring balance. The question is how the various classes will respond."
"Class A will be unhappy."
"Naturally. But unhappiness is not the same as defeat. The new system still rewards success—just less generously. Class A's advantage hasn't disappeared; it's simply been reduced."
"And Class D?"
Sakamoto smiled. "Class D now has a genuine opportunity. The Comeback bonus could allow them to close the gap significantly if they perform well. That's a powerful incentive."
"An incentive for competition."
"Yes. The school wants competition. It always has."
Sakamoto turned to leave, then paused.
"Ayanokoji-kun. You asked me once about my goals. I told you they involved understanding the rules. This change—the Rising Tide protocol—is part of that understanding. The rules are not static. They can be altered. And when they are altered, the true nature of the game is revealed."
"Which is what?"
"That the game is not about winning. It's about playing. And the best players are those who can adapt when the rules change."
He walked away, leaving Ayanokoji alone in the empty auditorium.
The rules can be altered.
The implications were staggering. If the school could change the rules at will, then anything was possible. The entire system was mutable, subject to the whims of whoever held power.
Who holds power?
The question followed him as he left the auditorium.
That evening, the email arrived with the full details of the Rising Tide protocol.
Ayanokoji read it carefully, annotating key points.
Key Changes:
1.
Reduced Class A bonuses: Class A will receive 50% of normal bonuses for success in special exams.
2.
Increased Class B/C/D bonuses: Classes B, C, and D will receive 150% of normal bonuses for success.
3.
Comeback bonus: Any class that closes a point gap of 500+ points in a single exam receives an additional 100 class points.
4.
New exam type: A "Team-Based Strategic Competition" will be introduced, emphasizing cooperation within classes and competition between them.
The message was clear: the school was engineering a comeback.
Ayanokoji set down his phone and stared at the ceiling of his cabin.
The game had changed. And he needed to decide how to play.
( Sorry readers for the disappearance, but we back till the year closes)