The steam from the bargain-bin instant noodles curled around the second-year students like a shroud of their own poor choices.
In the sterile, high-tech environment of Tokyo Metropolitan Advanced Nurturing High School, the scent of MSG and desperation was a loud confession of failure.
Jin watched them with a clinical detachment. These upperclassmen from Class 2-C were a living cautionary tale.
They had walked into this school a year ago, likely drunk on the initial deposit of one hundred thousand points, unaware that their every whisper, every late arrival, and every piece of litter was being tallied against their future.
"Give us a moment to discuss," the representative of the trio said, his voice hushed and urgent.
Jin waited. He wasn't in a hurry. Beside him, Ichinose Honami shifted slightly, her violet eyes clouded with a mix of curiosity and a lingering sense of unease.
She was the type to help a stranger pick up a fallen trash can—a gesture Jin had noted earlier—but in this den of lions, her altruism was a rare, perhaps dangerous, commodity ready to be exploited by other Classes.
The second-year students finished their huddle. The one acting as the lead, a boy named Sato, looked up with a mask of forced confidence.
"One hundred thousand points," he declared. "Pay that, and I'll tell you the secrets of how this school actually functions. It's a bargain when you realize it's the difference between staying at the top and falling into the abyss."
One hundred thousand points. To a fresh Class A student, that was exactly one month's allowance. Spread across their class of forty, it was a mere 2,500 points per person.
But Jin knew the psychology of a new class. Trust hadn't been built yet. Proposing a collection for 'information' from a group of starving seniors would look like a scam or a weakness.
"Senpai," Jin said, his voice smooth, carrying the subtle edge of a blade. "This school doesn't just have you guys. There are three other classes in the second year. I'm not sure about Class 2-B but Class 2-D would be happy to undercut you for a warm meal."
Sato's eyes flickered. He was hungry, and Jin knew it. "The prices offered by others will only be higher than ours. We're being generous. Fine—ninety-nine thousand points."
Jin didn't blink. "Thats too much. How about 50,000 private points."
"That's too little." The upperclassmen Sudo refused Jin's offer.
Jin finally revealed his threat, "Senpai, you just mentioned that Class D students will live a life like hell. If I ditch you and approach someone else from Class 2-D they might sell me the info for 50,000 private points."
The color drained from Sato's face, replaced by a flush of indignant rage. "Fifty thousand?! What kind of joke are you playing? Do you have any idea what this information is worth?"
He took a half-step forward, his fist clenching. For a moment, the threat of violence hung in the air, but his eyes darted toward the black dome of a surveillance camera tucked into the corner of the cafeteria ceiling. He froze.
"Sato, calm down," one of his companions hissed, grabbing his arm. "He's right. If we don't take it, those guys in 2-D will. They'd do it for twenty thousand just to see a piece of meat. They have enough of wild vegetable free set meal."
Sato exhaled, the fight leaving him like air from a punctured tire. "Fine," he spat, looking defeated.
"Fifty thousand private points. Deal."
Jin didn't hesitate. He pulled out his student terminal, tapped a few commands, and a soft ping resonated from Sato's pocket.
"Why only ten thousand?" Sato demanded, staring at the screen of his device.
"A down payment," Jin explained, his expression unreadable. "If the information you provide proves to be entirely accurate and actionable over the next month, you'll get the remaining forty thousand. It's a performance-based contract, Senpai. Surely you understand the value of merit."
Sato stared at Jin for a long beat. "This year's Class A... you're a different breed. Much more cunning than our batch."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly tone as he began to spill the mechanics of the school's S-System.
He explained the brutal reality: the school was a miniature meritocracy. Class Points (CP) were the true currency. One CP equaled one hundred private points per student monthly. But more importantly, CP determined your rank. Class A wasn't a permanent title; it was a position that could be seized or lost.
"The first month is a trap," Sato warned. "It's a 'Character Assessment.' The teachers won't tell you anything. They'll let you sleep in class, use your phones, and talk back. And for every infraction, they're carving chunks out of your Class Points. You'll wake up on the first of next month with zero points and a one-way ticket to poverty."
He went on to detail the astronomical costs of the school's "backdoors."
• One hundred thousand private points to buy a single mark on an exam to avoid expulsion.
• One million private points to pass a failing subject.
• Twenty million points to transfer classes.
•Twenty million to save a classmate from being kicked out.
Jin listened, absorbing every detail. He asked about the potential for "good deeds" to add points, citing Ichinose's earlier actions.
Sato laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "We don't know about that. We only ever did things that cost us points. The school doesn't announce the rubric. We just know that being a 'good student' is the bare minimum."
"I think I understand," Jin said, tucking his terminal away. "Thank you for your time. If your words hold true, expect the rest in a month."
As they walked away toward the cafeteria's main stalls, Ichinose followed close behind, her brow furrowed in thought.
"Arima-kun, that was... intense. Let me pay for my share of the information. It's not fair for you to shoulder the cost for the whole class."
"No need," Jin replied, his gaze fixed forward. "Ten thousand points is a small price for a map of the minefield."
"But you promised him fifty thousand," Ichinose reminded him, her innate sense of fairness kicking in. "Shouldn't we prepare the rest?"
Jin stopped and looked at her. The afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the floor. "I promised to give it, Ichinose-san, but that doesn't mean I will."
She blinked, surprised. "But... a deal is a deal, isn't it?"
"In a world where points are life, a verbal agreement with a stranger who didn't think to secure a binding contract is merely a suggestion," Jin said calmly.
"They gave us information because they were starving. They lacked the leverage to demand a formal agreement through the school's systems. If they were truly 'stronger,' they would have made the transfer conditional through an official interface."
He began walking again. "Besides, I suspect they held back. They told us the rules, but not the exceptions. Why reward incomplete work?"
Ichinose remained silent for a moment, processing the cold logic. She realized then that Jin wasn't just playing the game; he was already rewriting the rules to suit himself.
In a school designed to sort the elite from the discarded, Jin had already identified that the most valuable resource wasn't points—it was the ruthlessness to use them.
"You're really something, Arima-kun," she murmured, though whether it was a compliment or a realization of fear, even she wasn't sure.
"I'm just a student trying to graduate from Class A," Jin replied. "And in this school, honesty is a luxury we haven't earned yet."
They entered the bustling heart of the cafeteria, where other students were still laughing and spending their points on lavish meals, blissfully unaware that the ground beneath their feet was already beginning to shift.
Jin looked at the menu, but his mind was already calculating the trajectories of forty different classmates, wondering how many would survive the first month's "assessment" and how many would be reduced to eating instant noodles by May.
He hadn't just bought information; he had bought an advantage. And as he watched the second-year students desperately slurping their salty broth in the distance, he knew he would never let himself be in their position. Not for fifty thousand points, and certainly not for a verbal promise.