Ren learned early that growing older did not mean becoming freer.
It meant becoming visible.
As his body grew stronger and his face lost its childish softness, expectations began to cling to him like invisible threads. Teachers watched him longer when he raised his hand. Parents of other children compared their sons and daughters to him without realizing he could hear. Coaches expected consistency, not effort.
Excellence, once noticed, demanded maintenance.
Ren understood this instinctively.
So he learned to blend.
Elementary school was where the mask truly began to take shape.
Ren entered with a clean slate—no exaggerated rumors, no dramatic labels. Just a polite boy with good grades and an easy smile. He made sure it stayed that way.
He sat neither at the front nor the back of the classroom, choosing a middle seat that allowed him to observe everything without being too conspicuous. He answered questions, but not every question. He allowed others to shine, stepping back when someone needed confidence more than he needed recognition.
When group projects formed, he didn't take charge immediately.
Instead, he waited.
He watched who hesitated, who spoke first, who deferred without realizing it. Then, gently, he filled the gaps. He suggested ideas rather than assigning tasks. He praised contributions sincerely, making people want to work harder—not for the grade, but to maintain the image of being competent in his eyes.
By the end of each project, teachers often said things like, "This group worked very well together."
They never said, "Ren led this group."
Which was exactly what he wanted.
Ren's classmates liked him.
Not passionately. Not obsessively.
They liked him the way people liked gravity—reliable, unnoticed until gone.
He had friends he ate lunch with. Friends he played sports with. Friends who complained to him quietly when they were frustrated.
He listened.
Listening was the easiest way to gain trust without giving anything away.
One afternoon, while sitting beneath the shade of the school's old cherry tree, a boy named Takahashi sighed heavily and kicked at the dirt.
"My dad says middle school entrance exams decide everything," he muttered. "If you mess up, your future's over."
Ren watched a petal fall onto his shoe.
"That's not true," he said calmly.
Takahashi looked at him. "Easy for you to say. You're good at everything."
Ren met his gaze evenly. "I just prepare," he replied. "Anyone can do that."
It wasn't entirely honest.
But it wasn't cruel, either.
What mattered was that Takahashi relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing.
People didn't need the truth.
They needed reassurance.
At home, Ren's life remained warm and steady.
His parents never pushed him harshly, but they encouraged him. They attended every competition, every school event. His mother kept his trophies clean and modestly displayed. His father asked about his day every evening without fail.
They didn't know about the future Ren remembered.
They didn't know that the school they occasionally saw on TV was already looming like a destination written in ink.
Ren didn't tell them.
Not because he didn't trust them—but because some knowledge was a burden.
And burdens changed people.
By the time Ren was twelve, he began preparing consciously.
Not obsessively.
Methodically.
Advanced Nurturing High School wasn't something you studied for in the usual sense. It selected students based on academic records, behavior evaluations, adaptability, and potential.
Which meant Ren had to be more than smart.
He had to be balanced.
So he diversified.
He joined the student council in middle school—not as president, not even vice-president, but as a secretary. A position that required organization, observation, and discretion.
He learned how decisions were influenced quietly. How authority didn't always belong to the loudest voice. How meetings often ended not with votes, but with exhaustion—where the most persistent idea won simply because no one wanted to argue anymore.
Ren never abused that.
He learned from it.
Sports continued as well.
Swimming remained his strongest field, but he added running and basic martial arts—not to dominate, but to understand movement, endurance, and controlled aggression.
There were boys stronger than him.
Boys faster than him.
Ren didn't need to be the best.
He needed to be good enough that no one questioned his presence.
Romance entered his life quietly.
A girl named Miyahara confessed to him during the second year of middle school, her hands shaking as she held out a neatly folded letter.
Ren accepted it gently.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't reject her coldly.
He read the letter carefully, then returned it with a soft smile.
"I'm sorry," he said honestly. "I don't think I can be the kind of person you want right now."
She cried—but not because he was cruel.
She cried because he was kind.
They remained acquaintances. She never spoke badly of him.
Ren learned something important that day:
Romance wasn't just about emotion.
It was about responsibility.
And he wasn't ready—not yet.
Not with the future closing in.
The closer he came to the end of middle school, the more the memories sharpened.
Class placements.
Private points.
Exams designed to break cooperation.
He didn't know where he would be placed.
Class A was tempting—but dangerous. Expectations there were merciless.
Class D was underestimated—but volatile.
Class C and B sat in between, each with their own traps.
Ren didn't aim for a class.
He aimed for adaptability.
If the school wanted to test him, he would respond.
If it wanted to observe him, he would give it something worth observing—but not enough to reveal everything.
The acceptance letter arrived on a quiet afternoon.
Ren came home to find his parents seated at the table, an envelope between them. His mother's hands trembled slightly.
"Ren," she said. "This came today."
He knew before he touched it.
Advanced Nurturing High School.
The campus he remembered. The battlefield he had been walking toward since infancy.
His father cleared his throat. "We'll support you, whatever you decide."
Ren picked up the envelope.
His hands were steady.
"I want to go," he said.
There was no hesitation.
That night, Ren packed slowly.
Not because he was unsure—but because he was saying goodbye.
To the simplicity of childhood.
To a life where excellence was praised without cost.
He stood in his room, looking at the familiar walls, the bookshelf, the desk where he'd studied for years.
This was the last place he would ever be just a student.
From now on, every action would be measured.
Every relationship weighed.
He lay in bed, staring into the darkness.
Somewhere in that same darkness, other students were preparing.
Some with ambition.
Some with fear.
And one, Ren knew, with eyes as unreadable as a still lake.
Ayanokōji Kiyotaka.
Ren exhaled slowly.
"I'll meet you soon," he whispered—not as a challenge, not as a threat.
Just a fact.
The bus ride to the school was quiet.
Students sat scattered, each lost in their own thoughts. Ren chose a seat by the window, watching the city fade into something cleaner, more artificial.
When the gates appeared—tall, pristine—his pulse remained calm.
So this was it.
The place that turned children into rankings.
The place where kindness was optional, but intelligence was mandatory.
The place where romance, friendship, betrayal, and ambition would all be quantified in points.
Ren stepped off the bus with the others.
He didn't stand out.
He didn't hide.
He simply walked forward.
Whatever class awaited him, whatever role he would play, he was ready to adapt.
The test had begun—not because the school decided so, but because Ren had decided long ago that he would face it properly.
And this time, he wouldn't be alone.
End of Chapter 2