Chapter Six – The Point System and The Experience System
After arriving at the academy garden, he sat on a bench.
The bench was made of cold, gray stone, unyielding and slightly damp from the morning mist that still clung to the manicured hedges. The garden was a stark, orderly space—geometric pathways cutting through patches of tough, uninviting grass and rows of pruned shrubs that looked more like green fence posts than living plants. It was designed for utility, not relaxation. A place to be seen walking purposefully, not for sitting and contemplating one's doom.
Which is exactly what (Tokito) was doing.
He had fled the echoing cavern of the main hall, the press of bodies, the overwhelming aura of ambition and latent violence. Out here, the air was marginally fresher, carrying the faint, chemical scent of industrially-maintained greenery and the distant hum of the academy's power generators.
Sigh.
He let out a long breath, watching it form a tiny, pathetic wisp of cloud in the cool air before it dissipated. Even his sighs were on-brand.
And began reading the instruction manual located inside his smartwatch.
He tapped the screen, the glass cool and smooth under his fingertip.
Tap.
A holographic display, small and faintly blue, projected a few inches above the watch face. It was the academy's digital handbook. There, the basic information regarding the missions that students could undertake was written.
He scrolled with a slow, deliberate swipe of his finger.
Swish.
In addition to special information about the academy, or the way to obtain equipment, or even medical means, and even food.
The list was exhaustive and deeply depressing. It was less a welcome packet and more a terms-of-service agreement for a particularly lethal subscription box.
In front of (Tokito), everything was written in a small file inside the watch.
That file was organized and precise.
It was a model of bureaucratic efficiency. Sections were clearly marked: Mission Protocols (D-Rank). Dormitory Regulations (Violations Punishable by Point Deduction). Cafeteria Hours & Nutritional Guidelines (Caloric Intake Monitored). Medical Wing (Triage & Basic Healing – Costs Apply). Armory & Equipment Procurement (Rank-Based Access).
And (Tokito) read it very quietly and slowly to understand everything, instead of using only his knowledge from the manga.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, the stone bench leaching the warmth from his body through the thin fabric of his uniform pants. His crimson eyes moved line by line, absorbing the dry, legalistic text.
Because in the end, even after searching on the internet, he didn't know all the things that students must do.
The internet had given him the broad, public-facing lies. This was the gritty, internal truth.
In the end, the academy hides its internal information from all external and unofficial parties.
It made sense. You wouldn't advertise the fact that you were running a child soldier factory with a high mortality rate. Better to call it a "prestigious training institution" and let the rumors do the terrifying work.
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The Point System.
The heading glowed in the hologram.
– Each student receives monthly points based on their rank. Students of Rank D receive 100 points each month. They can use them to buy equipment, food, or anything they need.
Of course, (Tokito) knew these matters from the manga.
He'd read about the grind, the economy of survival. But reading it in a dry manual, applied directly to him, was different. It was no longer a narrative device; it was his budgeting spreadsheet for the next month of his life.
In addition, he also knew the amount of points a person needs to live in this academy.
The manual had a handy, soul-crushing breakdown.
For students who possess only 100 monthly points, these students can live for a month if they economize their points well.
"Economize well" was underlined in his mind. It meant skipping meals. It meant forgoing any equipment beyond the bare minimum. It meant hoping you didn't get a paper cut, because even basic bandages cost points.
In the end, medical means and all other things can be bought for one point from the nursing office each time.
So a single antiseptic wipe or a painkiller would cost 1 point. A sprained ankle could bankrupt you for a week.
In addition, students can buy weapons from the weapons office for 50 points.
The number made him wince. Half his monthly survival budget, for what? A basic combat knife? A taser? Something that would be utterly useless against anyone with an actual offensive power.
Of course, the reason they can continue with 100 points, even though buying a weapon alone needs 50 points, is because missions from Rank D also give them points they can use to buy.
Ah, there it was. The grind loop. You were given a subsistence allowance, but to afford anything that might keep you alive on a mission (like, say, a weapon), you had to risk your life on a mission. It was a perfect, vicious circle.
And usually, according to the manga, the points for each mission of that rank are about 100 points.
So a standard D-Rank mission paid out roughly a month's stipend. If you survived it, you could double your points. If you got hurt, you'd spend those points on healing. If you died… well, the points were the least of your worries.
Therefore, naturally, these points are enough if students economize to live well inside the academy walls and carry out the missions on the official mission board of the Hero Association.
The sentence was the academy's official line. It was technically true. It was also a masterpiece of spin, framing a life of constant, calculated scarcity and lethal risk as "living well."
But even that made (Tokito) sigh.
He leaned back, the stone bench digging into his spine.
Thump.
The reason was very simple.
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The Experience System.
The next section header glowed ominously.
– There is another system besides the point system that students need to understand. The points that students obtain can be used to rise in rank.
His eyes narrowed. This he remembered less clearly from the manga. The protagonist never seemed to worry about points; he just got stronger and the ranks followed. For a side character, the mechanics were suddenly vitally important.
This means moving from Rank D to Rank C requires an amount of experience points.
Not the spending points for food and bandages. A separate currency. An internal tally of your "worth."
And those points are the points that students use to buy the things they need and food.
A cold understanding dawned. The "points" were split. There were Spending Points (for goods and services) and Experience Points (for rank progression). And they came from the same source: mission rewards. You had to choose: spend them to live now, or save them to maybe, possibly, rank up later.
(Tokito) pressed on the smartwatch screen and entered the rank section of the Hero Association.
His finger tapped with more force than necessary.
Tap. Tap-tap.
And there, he looked at the amount of experience needed for a person from Rank D to become a person from Rank C.
The holographic display shifted, showing a stark, personal dashboard.
[Tokito Kaito – Rank D]
[Current Experience Points: 100 Points]
[Points Required for Promotion to Rank C: 10,000 Points]
The numbers hung in the air, glowing with a cruel, digital clarity.
[10,000 points].
Again, after reading the number of points a person needs to rise to the next rank, (Tokito) could only think to himself.
The thought formed slowly, then slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.
"These people are just monsters."
The words were a hissed whisper, torn from him by the sheer, audacious unfairness of it.
"Do they want students who don't possess strong abilities to collect 10,000 points to rise to the next rank? How is that possible?"
His mind did the math, the numbers clicking into place with a series of cold, metallic sounds in his imagination.
Click. Clack. Crunch.
"Each mission of Rank D will give only 100 points. And if that person buys only daily necessities, they will waste these 100 points."
He envisioned it: complete a dangerous D-Rank mission, earn 100 EXP. Then spend 50 on food for the week, 10 on minor medical supplies, maybe 20 on repairing your uniform. You'd be left with 20 EXP saved. If you did that every week, it would take… years. Years of perfect survival, of never getting seriously injured, of never needing a better weapon.
"How can such a person collect 10,000 points, for hell's sake?!"
The question was a roar trapped in the silent cage of his skull.
Then the answer also appeared in (Tokito)'s head.
It came not as an inspiration, but as the grim, inevitable conclusion dictated by the system's own rules.
And he said coldly in his heart:
"He needs to form a group to undertake missions higher than his own level."
The manual had said it: team up, take on C-Rank missions for more points. That was the intended path. The system forced cooperation among the weak, pooling their mediocrity to tackle slightly bigger threats for better rewards.
But is this easy?
(Tokito) thought sarcastically, a bitter smile twisting his lips.
"Undertaking such missions means clashing with a group of super villains or entering dangerous places that can kill low-level people."
He pictured it: him and a few other D-Rank losers, armed with kitchen knives and sheer desperation, trying to arrest a C-Rank villain who could shoot fire from his eyes or turn into steel. It would be a slaughter. A brief, messy footnote in the academy's casualty reports.
"Those who possess strong combat abilities in addition to that…"
His voice in his head trailed off, the sarcasm dying, replaced by a hollow ache.
Then (Tokito) said bitterly, while also knowing the extent of his own strength:
"With the strength I possess, in addition to not receiving any special training, it is impossible for me or any other student in my same situation to obtain enough points to qualify for promotion to the next level."
The admission was final. The system wasn't just hard; it was designed to be nearly impossible for someone like him. It was a filter, and he was the residue meant to be washed away.
"This academy does not train people. It only gives them missions as if it were an association or a guild."
The realization crystallized. They weren't students in a school. They were independent contractors for a mercenary guild that held them captive. The "academy" was just a branding, a campus that housed the mission board and the point stores.
"The students in the academy train themselves by themselves and understand their own powers."
No teachers holding your hand, explaining the nuances of your ability. You figured it out, or you died trying. Trial and error, with error meaning a closed-casket funeral.
"The teachers present in this place are just heroes who only care about the security of the academy and do not teach students."
The man in blue, (Genos Sakon), was a perfect example. A warden, not a professor. His job was to maintain order and assign missions, not to instruct on cloud-formation techniques.
"Perhaps only teachers who have taken an interest in a specific student might train him. But the rest, they are not responsible for them."
If you were lucky, or had a flashy enough power, you might attract a mentor. For the rest… you were on your own.
"They only protect the academy grounds as part of a deal with the academy itself."
The "teachers" were security detail, paid in points or prestige to keep the bad guys from attacking the mission hub. They weren't here for him.
(Tokito) hit his hand on the wooden bench.
The motion was sudden, fueled by a surge of frustrated anger. His fist connected with the cold, hard wood.
Thump.
The wooden bench shook a little only and nothing else happened to it.
The impact sent a dull shock up his arm, vibrating through his bones. The bench, sturdy and uncaring, absorbed the blow without a mark. It was a perfect metaphor for his situation: his anger was insignificant, absorbed by the immutable, unfeeling structure of the system.
And he muttered in a low voice:
"Damn it. This won't be good. If I can't rise in level, I will never be able to leave the hero system. And that means I will remain in this academy forever under the laws of the state."
The full, horrifying scope of the trap snapped shut around him.
In short, the meaning of (Tokito)'s words: Japan, in addition to other countries, establishes these academies.
He parsed the logic from the manual and his memories. The state's reasoning was chillingly clear.
These academies turn students into soldiers to carry out missions through this academy.
Cheap, deniable, motivated labor. Solve your superpowered crime problem by throwing superpowered teenagers at it. If they die, they were "heroes lost in training." If they succeed, the state takes the credit.
The state is not responsible except for giving students enough money to live averagely in exchange for carrying out these missions.
A basic stipend—the 100 points—to keep them fed and housed, just enough to keep the gears of the machine oiled.
But at the same time, these students can never leave the academy unless they rise to at least Rank B.
The clause was buried in subsection 47-C of the regulations. He'd almost missed it.
Only if they reach this rank can they request to leave the academy.
Rank B. It might as well have been Mount Everest. To get there from D, you had to climb through C, then B. 10,000 points for C. How many for B? 50,000? 100,000?
There is no other way to leave this place.
No dropping out. No running away. The "Judicial Apprehension" mentioned in his admission notice would hunt him down. He was property now. Indentured servitude with a superpowered twist.
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Why does (Tokito) want to leave even though the academy will give them easy missions at first to accomplish, in addition to money to live?
It wasn't because he was arrogant or thought he could live his life freely anywhere else.
Freedom was a distant, abstract concept. Survival was more immediate.
But because this academy is a dangerous area, especially with the presence of the main character nearby.
The memory from the manga surfaced, clear and terrifying. An arc he'd read. Around chapter… 40? 50?
This academy may be destroyed by a super villain brought by the hero at any moment.
A major attack. A colossal battle between the protagonist's faction and a powerful antagonist. The academy, this very campus, became a battleground. Buildings collapsed. Students—background characters, extras, nobodies—were crushed, vaporized, killed in the crossfire.
And (Tokito), who is of this amount of strength, will die like an ant in front of a group of super monsters.
The image was vivid: him, trying to hide behind one of these precise hedges, as a energy blast the size of a bus obliterates the entire garden. His clouds wouldn't even make a decent smoke screen.
He clenched his fist, the knuckles white from the earlier impact and the cold.
Crack.
His joints gave a soft, protesting pop.
And he let out a low sound after drawing a plan in his mind.
The plan was born not from hope, but from desperation. A rodent's plan to escape a sinking ship.
Fffh…
"I must obtain the points. To do that, I need to form a good team."
The conclusion was inescapable. Solo grinding was a death sentence. He needed allies. Other pieces of marginally useful debris to huddle together with.
"It's true that it is impossible for me to work with the main characters because they are too strong…"
They were locomotives on their own tracks. They wouldn't slow down for a cloud. Trying to latch on would just get him run over.
"…but there are some side characters I can work with."
His manga knowledge was his one real asset. He knew who survived, at least for a while. Who had useful, if unspectacular, powers. Who might be desperate enough to team up with a cloud-maker.
"In addition, I remember some events, criminals, and their locations."
A sly, grim thought took root. He didn't have to fight fair. He had meta-knowledge.
"As long as I can succeed in delivering these criminals to prison by reporting, I will also consider that I have accomplished high-level missions, which gives me a larger amount of points."
The plan crystallized. He wouldn't fight the C-Rank villain. He would find out where he was going to be before he committed his next crime, anonymously tip off the authorities, and claim the "mission" reward for his "investigation." He'd be a ghost, a rat in the walls of the narrative, scavenging points from the edges of the plot.
It was cheating. It was cowardly. It was perfect.
"And as long as I reach Rank B with this method, everything will be good."
The goal was clear. Not to become a hero. Not to get strong. To gather enough points, by any means necessary, to buy his freedom from this system.
Forgetting the bitter thoughts that were in his mind just a few minutes ago, a smile began to appear on (Tokito)'s face very slowly.
It was a cold, calculated smile. Not one of joy, but of focused intent. The smile of a cornered animal that has just spotted a narrow, dark crack in the fence.
But this smile did not show arrogance in cold thinking.
It showed the grim determination of someone who has accepted the rules of a rigged game and decided to exploit every loophole he could find.
In addition, his mind had begun discussing the characters he should include in his team.
A mental list began to form, drawn from the background of manga panels, from crowd scenes, from minor characters who had a line or two of dialogue before fading into obscurity.
In addition, he was thinking of the way he needs to do to include these individuals in his group.
He wouldn't ask. He couldn't offer strength. He had to offer something else. Leverage. Information. A path to survival they couldn't see.
"The person I will start with will be that young man, certainly."
An image of a young man with sky-blue hair and gray eyes appeared in (Tokito)'s mind.
The memory was fuzzy. A side character. Not a fighter, but… something else. A supporter? A tech guy? He couldn't remember the name, but he remembered the hair color and the look of perpetual, quiet anxiety. Someone overlooked. Someone potentially useful.
At the same time, a great feeling of difficulty appeared.
Recruiting anyone would be hard. Why would anyone join the weakest guy in the class?
But with a simple movement of his head, a slight shake, (Tokito) told himself:
"I cannot put weak people in my group. What would I benefit from them?"
It was a cruel but necessary calculation. He needed people who could contribute, who had powers that could be leveraged, even if they weren't top-tier.
"It's true that the characters I want to add are somewhat strong…"
"Somewhat strong" was relative. In the world of S-Rank potentials and replicators, "somewhat strong" meant "might not die immediately in a D-Rank mission."
"But I possess other means to make them join, especially since I know some hidden secrets that might benefit them from the manga."
That was his currency. Not strength, but spoilers. He knew things. Future events. Hidden weaknesses of early villains. Personal secrets, desires, fears of these side characters. He could offer them a roadmap through the minefield, a way to gain points and survive that they couldn't see on their own.
It was manipulative. It was underhanded.
It was his only shot.
He stood up from the bench, the stone cold where he had been sitting.
Scrape.
He looked out across the sterile garden, towards the monolithic dormitory buildings. Somewhere in there were his first potential recruits. His first pieces in a desperate game of survival chess.
He took a deep breath, the air still tasting of chemicals and damp earth.
Then he began to walk, his steps a little firmer than before, his mind no longer swirling in panic, but whirring with cold, practical, and deeply cynical calculations.
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End of Chapter.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for reading as(Tokito) transitions from despair to bitterly pragmatic scheming. Your readership is the only point system that matters in this dojo of dread. ❤️ :)
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