The plateau. Late afternoon.
While Class D still fumbled at the streamside, struggling to establish even a temporary camp, Class A had already moved to the next phase of their operation.
Katsuragi Kohei walked at the front of the column, his bald head a reliable beacon in the dappled jungle light. Behind him, the students of Class A moved with purpose, their fatigue tempered by the knowledge that they were ahead—far ahead—of any competing class.
Totsuka Yahiko had been running calculations during their brief rests. Five strongholds occupied in a handful of hours. A commanding lead in the base race. All of it made possible by the sand table Sakamoto had left them—that impossible, three-dimensional gift that had transformed the island from unknown territory to mapped terrain.
"Watch your footing," Katsuragi called back. "The ground is uneven here. Stay together."
In the column's middle, Kamuro Masumi walked in her characteristic silence. Her gaze drifted forward, finding Sakamoto's tall figure at the head of the group, then slid away. Her expression betrayed nothing, but her eyes returned to him more often than chance would explain.
Morishita Ai, by contrast, radiated barely contained excitement. Her camera was ready. Her mind was cataloging. Sakamoto had promised "wilderness survival techniques," and she intended to document every moment.
Sakamoto stopped.
"We've arrived."
The column pressed forward, pushing through a final curtain of undergrowth, and the world opened before them.
The campsite. First view.
It was, by any measure, perfect.
A plateau nestled against a massive rock face that rose like a natural fortress wall. The ground was flat and dry, cushioned by generations of fallen leaves that formed a soft, insulating carpet. At the base of the rock wall, a spring emerged from some hidden source, its crystal-clear waters gathering in a small pond before disappearing through a crack in the stone—a water source that flowed continuously without creating stagnant pools or damp ground.
Below, the jungle stretched toward the distant sea, visible in sweeping panoramas. Above, the sky opened wide, promising sunlight for drying and stars for watching.
Even the most jaded among them felt their breath catch.
"This is... incredible..."
"Better than anywhere we've seen!"
"And it's dry—actually dry!"
Katsuragi's nod was slow, appreciative. Every problem he had anticipated—damp ground, difficult water access, poor visibility, vulnerability to weather—had been systematically avoided in this single location. Sakamoto had not merely found a campsite. He had found the campsite.
Sakamoto turned to face them. His hand rose, adjusting glasses that hadn't shifted during the entire trek.
"This location offers wind protection, southern exposure, elevated dry ground, convenient water access without flooding risk, and open visibility for observation." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if describing the obvious. "I believe it is suitable as our primary camp."
From Sakamoto, "suitable" was the highest possible praise.
He continued without pause. "We will now construct temporary shelters. Special points should be conserved for necessities. Nature provides adequate protection if we work with it rather than against it."
He walked toward the tree line without waiting for acknowledgment.
The demonstration.
The Class A students watched in gathering wonder as Sakamoto began to work.
His movements were not rushed, but they were impossibly efficient. He selected flexible branches with a single glance, testing their spring with a gentle touch before bending them into position. He wove them together using only his hands and gathered vines, creating a lattice framework that seemed to grow from the forest floor.
He used the terrain itself—the rock wall behind, the sturdy trees at the sides—as anchor points, integrating his construction with the existing landscape rather than fighting it. Within minutes, a basic frame took shape: arched, stable, designed to shed rain and withstand wind.
He layered broad leaves over the framework—banana leaves, palm fronds, anything with sufficient size and flexibility—starting at the bottom and overlapping upward like traditional thatching. The roof extended nearly to the ground on the weather side, creating a shelter that would remain dry even in heavy rain.
The entire process took less than ten minutes.
Morishita Ai was practically vibrating. "Branch selection based on flexibility ratios... natural anchor points... vine tension techniques... overlapping leaf layering for waterproofing... it's like watching a master class in primitive engineering!"
Sakamoto dropped lightly from the finished shelter, brushing leaf fragments from his hands.
"This is the basic structure. Work in teams, replicate this method using available materials. The goal is shelters sufficient for the entire class. Adapt to the terrain—use what exists rather than forcing what doesn't."
Katsuragi stepped forward immediately, his organizer's mind already assigning roles. "Boys handle framework and heavy transport. Girls collect thatching materials. Teams of four, coordinate with your neighbors. Follow Sakamoto-kun's method exactly—don't improvise until you understand the fundamentals."
The camp erupted into purposeful activity.
Building together.
Kamuro Masumi discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she was good at this.
Her framework rose steadily under her hands, each branch selected with care, each vine knot pulled tight. She worked in focused silence, but occasionally her gaze would drift—just for a moment—to where Sakamoto moved among the groups, offering quiet corrections, demonstrating techniques, answering questions with that endless patience of his.
He never looked at her. Not once.
She told herself she didn't care.
Nearby, Yamamura Miki stood frozen before her assigned branch pile, uncertainty paralyzing her usually capable hands. A classmate noticed, gently guided her through the first few steps. Slowly, hesitantly, she began to weave.
And then, impossibly, a smile appeared on her usually expressionless face. Small. Tentative. But real.
Sakamoto passed her group, observed her work for a moment, and offered a single word: "Good."
Yamamura's cheeks flushed. Her hands moved with new confidence.
Morishita Ai, of course, was documenting everything. Her camera captured Kamuro's precise knots, Yamamura's hesitant smile, the way Sakamoto's demonstrations transformed confusion into competence. She was building her own shelter while she worked, but her true construction was happening in her mind—the catalog growing, the understanding deepening.
On the plateau's edge, Katsuragi paused in his own labor to survey the scene.
An hour ago, this had been empty wilderness. Now, frameworks rose across the clearing. Students who had never built anything more complex than a bookshelf were constructing viable shelters. The camp was taking shape with a speed and efficiency that would have seemed impossible that morning.
All because of one person.
He looked toward Sakamoto, who was now helping a struggling group with their roof thatching, patient as always, undemanding as always, present as always.
He gave us the map. He found the campsite. He taught us how to build. And he's still working, still helping, still making sure everyone succeeds.
What kind of person...
The question remained unfinished. But for the first time, Katsuragi didn't find it troubling. Some questions didn't need answers. Some presences simply needed to be appreciated.
He returned to his work, the camp rising around him, the afternoon light softening toward evening.
The plateau camp. Twilight.
Morishita Ai darted between groups, her arms full of vines, her sky-blue pigtails bouncing with each enthusiastic step. She was everywhere at once—delivering materials, offering observations, occasionally stopping to photograph a particularly interesting knot or branch configuration.
Sakamoto moved among the workers with quieter purpose. A slight adjustment here. A whispered suggestion there. His interventions were minimal but transformative—a twist that doubled a frame's stability, a layering technique that would keep rain out, a tension adjustment that prevented sagging.
The builders, however, were the students themselves. Every shelter rising across the plateau bore the marks of its creators' hands. Imperfect. Uneven. Theirs.
As the sun's final rim slipped beneath the horizon, staining the sky in shades of orange and purple, the camp stood complete.
Rudimentary, yes. Crude, certainly. But habitable. Functional. A collection of shelters that would keep them dry and warm through the night.
A sense of accomplishment settled over Class A like a blanket. They had built this. Together.
Then their stomachs began to rumble.
The problem emerged with uncomfortable clarity: they were hungry. Genuinely, urgently hungry. And none of them wanted to spend their precious 300 private points on food when those points might prove critical later.
Every eye, by unspoken agreement, turned to Sakamoto.
He felt their gaze. Of course he did. His hand rose, adjusting his glasses with that familiar, elegant motion. His gaze swept the sea, the stream, the forest.
"Nature's bounty exceeds our imagination," he said calmly. "We need not hunt to fill our stomachs."
The gathering.
He led a group of boys to the stream first, crouching at its edge to examine the stones below the surface.
"Treasure flows in the water."
He pointed to emerald-green filaments attached to the rocks—delicate algae that swayed with the current. "This algae is nutritious and entirely edible. Collect it carefully, take only what we need, and leave the roots intact so it regrows."
His demonstration was meticulous, showing exactly how to harvest without destroying.
Next, the forest edge. Wild berry bushes and fruit trees he had noted during his earlier traversals. "These fruits are safe. Observe the color, the growth pattern, the presence of animal activity—nature indicates what is edible."
Morishita Ai stepped forward eagerly, her memory for detail already cataloging the varieties. "I can help identify them! I've been documenting everything Sakamoto-kun has shown us!"
She took charge of the foraging groups, her enthusiasm infectious, her instructions precise.
Sakamoto, meanwhile, led Hashimoto and several others to the tidal pools exposed by the receding sea. Among the rocks, they found shellfish, small crabs, and edible seaweed—a bounty hidden in plain sight.
"Take only what we need," Sakamoto reminded them. "Enough for tonight, enough for tomorrow. No more."
His words transformed their approach. What might have been greedy harvesting became careful selection, reverent gathering.
The preparation.
Back at camp, the ingredients accumulated: algae green as emeralds, berries purple and red, mushrooms pale and firm, shellfish in their rugged shells, wild greens vibrant with life.
Now came the question of fire.
Sakamoto chose a sheltered spot near the camp's center, arranging stones into a simple stove pit. No matches. No lighter. He produced instead a hardwood stick, a flat board with a shallow groove, and a handful of fine, dry wood shavings.
"Rubbing sticks to make fire?" a student whispered, doubt coloring his tone.
Sakamoto placed the stick's tip into the groove, pressed his palms together around it, and began to rotate.
The speed was immediate and impossible. His arms blurred, the stick spinning at a frequency that seemed to ignore friction and physics alike. A faint whooshing sound accompanied the motion, the air itself disturbed by the velocity.
"Secret Technique—"
The wood shavings began to smoke. A thin wisp, barely visible.
And then Sakamoto moved.
His body dropped into a squat, his center of gravity lowering, and his upper body began to sway—rapidly, violently, side to side. The motion was so fast that his torso became a blur, a pendulum swinging at impossible frequency.
Morishita Ai's voice cut through the stunned silence, her explanation breathless with excitement. "Repetition Side Step! He's using lateral shifts to create a directional micro-wind field! The airflow is feeding oxygen directly to the smoking point—it's aerodynamics applied to primitive fire-starting!"
Under the focused breeze of his motion, the smoke thickened, curled, and—
Poof.
A bright flame erupted from the wood shavings.
Sakamoto's movements ceased instantly. He transferred the burning tinder to prepared dry grass and kindling with steady hands, blew gently, and the campfire caught, crackling to life.
The students stared. Some had forgotten to breathe.
The transformation.
Fire burned. Ingredients waited. But without pots, without pans, without seasonings—how could this become a meal?
Sakamoto answered by producing plants they had overlooked.
Leaves that, crushed, released a sour citrus aroma. Deep purple berries whose juice carried salt and umami. A brown tuber that, when warmed, exuded a sweet, caramel-like scent.
"Nature provides seasoning," he explained. "We need only recognize it."
Katsuragi understood immediately. He began organizing the class into teams—some folding large banana leaves into makeshift plates and bowls, others washing and sorting the gathered ingredients, still others crafting clean wooden skewers and simple utensils.
The camp transformed into a kitchen. Students who had never cooked anything more complex than instant noodles worked side by side, their earlier exhaustion forgotten in the shared purpose of creating a meal.
Sakamoto moved among them, not directing but enabling. A suggestion here about which leaves paired with which ingredients. A demonstration there of how to wrap shellfish in banana leaves for steam-baking. A quiet word of encouragement to a student struggling with a knot.
Kamuro Masumi found herself working beside Yamamura Miki, the two of them preparing wild greens with focused efficiency. They didn't speak, but the silence was comfortable—shared purpose needing no words.
Morishita Ai was in her element, documenting everything while simultaneously helping three different groups. "The leaf-wrapping technique creates a natural steaming packet! And look—he's using the heat gradient around the fire to cook different ingredients at different temperatures!"
Hashimoto Masayoshi, usually so calculating, found himself simply... working. Passing materials. Splitting tasks. Being part of something larger than his usual machinations.
Even Katsuragi, for once, set aside his constant strategizing. The camp was built. The food was cooking. The class was functioning. For this moment, there was nothing to plan—only a meal to share.
The fire crackled. The aroma of cooking food began to rise. And on the plateau, under a darkening sky filled with the first stars, Class A came together in a way none of them had expected.
They had built shelters. They had gathered food. They had made fire from nothing.
And they had done it together.
The plateau camp. Nightfall.
Sakamoto moved around the stone stove with the unhurried precision of a master chef in his element.
He adjusted the arrangement of embers, redistributing heat with calculated gestures. Packages wrapped in large leaves—shellfish meat and algae, seasoned with the sour juice crushed from wild citrus leaves—nestled into the hot ashes at the stove's edge. The slow heat would steam them gently, preserving tenderness while infusing the contents with smoky depth.
Above the flames, skewers of mushrooms and wild vegetables turned at careful intervals. Each had been brushed with the dark berry juice that carried salt and umami, the liquid caramelizing as it cooked. Sakamoto watched for the exact moment when edges crisped and interiors softened—that perfect boundary between charred and burnt.
On a flat stone heated to scorching, brown tuber slices sizzled, releasing waves of sweet, nutty fragrance that drifted across the camp. He turned them once, twice, each side developing a golden crust while the centers became soft and almost creamy.
And on a broad banana leaf, arranged with the attention of a painter composing a canvas, wild fruits and edible flowers rested in a simple salad—color and freshness to balance the cooked dishes.
There were no pans. No ovens. No bottles of oil or salt or soy sauce.
But the air that rose from Sakamoto's careful work carried complexity that would not have been out of place in a fine restaurant.
The feast.
When the first dishes arrived on banana leaf plates—passed from hand to hand, distributed among the gathered students—a hush fell over the camp.
The plating was primitive but beautiful. The colors worked together: green of algae, white of shellfish, brown of mushrooms, purple of berries, gold of roasted tubers. The arrangement suggested intention, care, artistry.
The aromas were intoxicating.
"This... this is really from the things we gathered?" a student whispered, disbelief coloring her voice. "The algae and the mushrooms and the... the weeds?"
Sakamoto gestured toward the food, his expression unchanged. "Please, enjoy."
They needed no further encouragement.
The first bites brought exclamations that echoed across the plateau.
"The shellfish—it's so tender! And that sourness—it cuts through perfectly, no fishiness at all!"
"The mushrooms are incredible! Crispy outside, but inside—so juicy! And that umami flavor, what is that?"
"This tuber tastes like dessert! Sweet and nutty and... is that caramel? How?"
"The algae is so fresh! Like the sea, but clean, not overwhelming!"
Katsuragi Kohei ate with the focused attention of a man conducting analysis. Each item received careful consideration. Each flavor was noted, catalogued, appreciated.
Finally, he set down his portion and spoke, his voice carrying genuine wonder.
"Extraordinary. The flavor balance is exceptional. Many restaurants would envy the way these ingredients' natural qualities have been highlighted. Nothing overwhelms. Everything complements."
Around the fire, heads nodded in agreement. They had gathered the food. They had helped prepare it. But the transformation—from raw ingredients to this—that was Sakamoto's gift.
Kamuro Masumi ate her mushroom in small, deliberate bites, her gaze repeatedly drifting toward the figure by the stove.
The firelight caught Sakamoto's profile, illuminating the concentration in his features, the way his attention never fully left the cooking even as he participated in the meal. He looked, in that moment, like something from another world—a chef, yes, but also an artist, a craftsman, a provider.
She looked away quickly, but not before a warmth touched her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire.
Morishita Ai was, of course, documenting everything. Her camera captured the food, the faces, the firelight. But her eyes kept returning to Sakamoto, to the way he orchestrated the entire scene without ever seeming to direct it.
He's not leading, she thought. He's... enabling. Making it possible for everyone to succeed, and then stepping back to let them enjoy the results.
The thought settled into her ever-expanding catalog of observations.
The night deepens.
Stars emerged above the plateau, scattered across a sky that had deepened from purple to indigo to velvet black. The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks spiraling upward to join them.
Class A sat in a loose circle around the flames, their hunger satisfied, their weariness tempered by accomplishment and good food. Conversation flowed easily—comments about the day, observations about the food, speculation about what tomorrow would bring. Laughter rose occasionally, genuine and unforced.
It was, by any measure, a success. Shelters built. Food gathered and prepared. A community formed in a single day on an uninhabited island.
Sakamoto sat slightly apart from the circle, his own portion finished, his gaze moving slowly across the scene. The firelight reflected in his glasses, warm points of orange that softened his usual inscrutability.
He watched Kamuro laugh at something Morishita said. Watched Katsuragi engage in genuine conversation without strategic calculation. Watched students who had been strangers months ago now share food and stories around a fire they had built themselves.
His expression did not change. But something in his posture—a barely perceptible relaxation—suggested satisfaction.
His hand rose. His middle finger found the bridge of his glasses and pushed upward, the gesture as familiar as breathing.
The night was young. The exam continued. Other classes faced their own challenges.
But here, on this plateau, under these stars, Class A had found something more than shelter.
They had found themselves.
And Sakamoto, as always, simply observed—present but apart, part of the scene yet somehow above it, the quiet center around which everything else revolved.
Everything had just begun.
Patreon Rene_chan. 20 advance chapters, kindly support:)