New beginnings always spark excitement.
That feeling had accompanied me on the day I started living off rummaging through trash, when I first stepped into the White Room, and even when I left that place to live as an ordinary middle schooler.
Today, I was starting a new chapter at a high school that, while somewhat special by Japanese standards, was still just a school. Sure, I hadn’t succeeded in kindergarten or elementary school, and in middle school I had caused enough chaos to make teachers shake their heads repeatedly—I was, after all, a notorious troublemaker—but a fresh start promised a bit of fun.
There I was, lost in my own thoughts and staring blankly out the window, when suddenly—
"Excuse me, could you move your seat?"
A first-year, a gentle-faced beauty, addressed a blond boy who had nonchalantly occupied one of the priority seats. The girl clutched the hand of an anxious elderly woman as she appealed, reminding him that the seat was reserved for the elderly and disabled. Yet the boy, legs casually crossed and too self-assured to even glance her way, argued that moving wouldn’t benefit him in the slightest.
Despite her earnest appeals—almost as if she were disregarding any notion of proper morality—the girl persisted, eventually giving up on him and calling out for others to offer their seats instead.
Watching the exchange, I yawned and mused silently, "A move that benefits him, huh."
Morally, the girl’s argument was sound, but the boy’s logic held water from a strictly theoretical standpoint. To those Japanese people who hold common sense, manners, and mutual consideration in high regard, his behavior seemed like nothing more than a complete disregard for those values.
Well, I wasn’t exactly Japanese by birth, but...
Anyway.
"I wish neither of them were in my class."
With that thought, I continued to gaze at the strikingly blue scenery outside—blue in a needlessly overwhelming way.
"...I should have expected nothing less."
After the tedious entrance ceremony, I made my way to Class D—the room I’d been assigned—and discovered familiar faces from the bus ride earlier that day. The kind-faced girl was one thing; but to think I’d end up in the same class as that insolent blond…
"Let’s just avoid each other as much as possible."
Determined not to erupt into the reckless adolescent storms of my middle school years, I resolved to keep my distance and choose a seat near the back window. Just as I was about to settle into my chosen spot, I heard someone remark,
"...Looks like someone’s already taken it."
At the very back by the window, a boy with lifeless, dead-fish eyes stared out, and beside him sat a black-haired girl exuding a sharp, intimidating aura.
"Did you need something?"
I felt a twinge of annoyance that my quiet haven had been claimed. Then, as I glanced toward the book in her hand, the black-haired girl addressed me.
"No, not really."
"Then could you move? You’re distracting me by just standing there."
"Oh, what a rude girl," I thought to myself.
For a moment I considered how I might deal with her, but then—
"...Forget it."
Not wanting to cause a scene on the very first day, I simply nodded and moved to the seat in front of the boy with the dead-fish eyes.
"Still..."
There was something strangely familiar about his gaze.
...No, that couldn’t be.
As I slumped on my desk, intending to catch a quick nap, a voice interrupted,
"Could everyone spare a moment? From now on, let’s introduce ourselves and be friends as quickly as possible. What do you say?"
A handsome boy with a fresh, inviting smile made the suggestion to the entire class.
"Looks like the popular type," I mused internally.
Self-introductions—something I hadn’t done much of, yet I knew how crucial a first impression could be. The initial introduction always left a lasting mark.
"Then, how about you over there?"
At the cue of Hirata Yosuke, the social butterfly who was gesturing toward the only person in the class sharing my hair color, I nodded and stood up.
Then, I addressed the class,
"My name is Baek I-an. I’m from Korea. Nice to meet you."
It was an ordinary introduction with a slight twist, and whispers filled the room. There was even a girl from China among us, so it wasn’t surprising that being from overseas piqued their curiosity.
One by one, the rest of the class introduced themselves.
For the record, the headstrong black-haired girl was Horikita Suzune, while the boy with the dead-eyed stare was Ayanokouji Kiyotaka.
As conversation buzzed in the room, a woman—presumably our homeroom teacher—approached the door at the front of the classroom.
"She sure gives off a cold vibe," I thought.
Introducing herself as Chabashira Sae, our homeroom teacher distributed a school guide booklet and gave a brief rundown of the school’s policies.
When I listened to her explanation of the overall system, I was utterly stunned.
"Are they out of their minds?" I thought.
Forty students per class, 160 per grade, and fewer than 500 students in the entire school—yet they provided full dorms and deposited 100,000 yen every month?
I wasn’t the only one taken aback. The other students exchanged awed glances as they whispered about the school’s extravagant provisions. Even though the teacher eventually hushed them and continued with her explanation, seeing 100,000 points loaded onto the terminal made my heart race a little.
Why would I feel tense instead of excited?
Hadn’t the entrance process been a run-of-the-mill interview and exam? Judging by the introductions and how ordinary everyone seemed, it was clear that this wasn’t a haven for carefully selected elites.
And yet they were practically throwing money at us? Unless the school was run by a ridiculously wealthy eccentric, it made no sense. For a nationally recognized “educational institution” to receive such support, its results would have to be extraordinary. They even boasted that graduates were almost guaranteed acceptance into any company or university they chose. The outcomes were flawless—but what exactly was being assessed to yield such results?
"Something smells off," I whispered to myself.
As I fiddled with the terminal, my suspicions deepened.
When the explanation ended, I completely dismissed the overly cheerful classmates who suggested a group hangout and hurried over to a cluster of convenience facilities in an area known as Nemu Namu Mall. I even popped into a convenience store to grab a bottle of water.
The points corresponding to the water’s price were immediately deducted from my terminal.
"The prices are pretty much in line with what you'd see outside," I remarked.
When I returned the water, the points were promptly credited back. The system was as sophisticated as any high-end gadget.
At that moment, I was convinced that these points really did operate as currency.
Surveying the surrounding shops, I mused, "It’s not just convenience stores and eateries. There are clothing shops, electronics stores, department stores, karaoke bars, PC cafés, manga cafés—it's almost like looking at downtown Tokyo."
According to what I learned from the convenience store clerk—and he was clearly an external hire, as were all the other shop employees—another little detail caught my eye:
"A free merchandise display, huh..."
This area was filled with a vast array of inexpensive goods, all marked as free. Since they cost nothing, you could take as much as you wanted. But then I wondered,
"No matter how wasteful people are, why have a safety net for when they run out of points?"
Not just food, but everyday necessities were available there. The mere fact that these items were provided raised two possibilities:
First, the school might be exceptionally generous. That optimistic view, however, was quickly dismissed by my instincts.
Second, there was the possibility that points weren’t depleting solely by one’s own spending but could also be forcibly drained by outside factors.
I didn’t trust my gut blindly, but the latter theory seemed more plausible.
"Hmm... Should I test it?"
After paying for a few free items and leaving the store, I immediately approached a boy who had just exited behind me, looping an arm casually around his shoulder.
"W-Whoa?! Wh-what are you doing?!"
"Could I have a moment of your time?"
"A-a first-year?! Wh-what the heck are you doing all of a sudden?!"
The older student, startled by my unexpected touch, exploded in surprise. I, however, easily brushed off his reaction.
"You need points, don't you?" I said, showing him my terminal loaded with points.
The reason was simple: he had just come out of the same convenience store after buying free merchandise—the kind of action that an upperclassman wouldn’t undertake without reason on the very first day that points were issued.
To verify my theory and satisfy my curiosity, I needed hard evidence.
How else could I get it, if not by testing whether points truly functioned as money?
After all, money isn’t just for purchases; it’s a powerful tool for negotiation.
"W-what are you up to?"
"Nothing too complicated. I just have a few questions. For every question you answer, I’ll transfer 1,000 points to you—immediately. But if you say you don’t know or try to dodge a question, you won’t get a single point."
"O-one thousand points?!"
Thump!
When the boy gasped at the amount, I quickly covered his mouth with my finger and signaled for silence.
"There are too many eyes on us here. Let’s move somewhere more private. And let’s keep this conversation as quiet as possible, okay?"
The boy looked a bit frightened with his mouth still covered, but after a brief pause he relaxed, nodded slightly, and agreed to my proposal.
Soon enough, the location changed and time passed...
"That was a good deal, senpai. If I need anything else, I’ll be sure to come find you," he said.
Even though I had spent a hefty 5,000 points, I had gleaned almost all the information I needed, and I left the alley with a satisfied smile.
Just as I had suspected, something was amiss.
"What an intriguing system, Advanced Nurturing High School," I mused.
To think they’d set such a clever trap.
So, what should I do next?
Great chapter gehehhehehe