Chapter 1: Opening: Survival Game Special Exam

It was early morning in late June.

The massive passenger ship, laden with students from every grade, cut its way across the open sea toward a small, uninhabited island.

The first-years could barely contain their bewilderment at the sheer scale of the operation, while the second-years, though somewhat tense, carried themselves with a quiet air of confidence. And for us third-years, this marked an uncanny milestone— our third consecutive year facing an exam on an uninhabited island. There was no doubt the battle ahead was fast approaching.

The stage for this battle, however, was the very same island we had visited last year. That was unexpected— though, on reflection, perhaps entirely logical.

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Japan may boast over ten thousand uninhabited islands, large and small, but only a fraction are suitable for landing— fewer still have terrain appropriate for an exam and owners willing to grant access. When you factor in all those constraints, the list of candidates likely dwindles to a mere handful.

Although the sun beat down with dazzling brightness, the air wasn’t oppressively hot. If anything, the sea breeze brushing against our skin felt almost chilly. Holding the exam a month earlier than in previous years seemed to be having a greater effect than expected.

Cutting through gentle waves, the massive ship gradually slowed as the island’s shoreline came into view, preparing to nestle against the coast. The time had just passed eight in the morning.

“Looks like we’re finally here,” Hashimoto muttered.

We had been granted free time until the moment of arrival, which was why he and I were currently seated together in the ship’s café.

“Man, I’m tired,” Hashimoto stretched his arms high with a yawn deep enough to echo. “I really should’ve gone to bed earlier last night…” Judging by his sluggish movements, it was clear he hadn’t slept enough.

“Well… I wonder what kind of troublesome— nah, more like, what kind of nasty exam they've cooked up for us this year.” he added, almost grumbling.

As he spoke, Hashimoto pinched the front of the neckline of his brand-new short-sleeved undershirt and lifted it slightly.

“There’s gotta be a reason they handed us new gym uniforms, after all.”

When we boarded the ship back at school, all of us third-years were issued brand-new gym uniforms— top, bottom, and an undershirt— along with mandatory instructions to change into them before disembarking. At a glance, they looked almost identical to our usual gym clothes, but the fabric was noticeably thicker. Whatever the reason, it was clear these weren’t the same as the standard ones.

“Man, this has gotta be rough for anyone seriously studying for entrance exams, right?” Hashimoto, who had absolutely no intention of taking any exams himself, let the thought slip out lazily. “Getting dragged away from their desks at a time like this. You think the third-years before us ever complained?”

“Who knows. Though I did see Shimazaki bring a full set of study materials onto the ship.”

“Hitting the books even out here, huh.”

I’d also seen him struck by severe seasickness and give up midway.

“Either way, they’ll probably make up the time later with extra study sessions.”

“They better not cut into our precious summer vacation to do it. If that’s the plan, I’m out.”

What sort of measures were they considering, if any at all? As a third-year, it was something I was somewhat curious about, but right on cue, as if responding to Hashimoto’s complaints, a ship-wide announcement echoed overhead.

“We will be arriving at the uninhabited island shortly. As previously instructed, third-year students are to leave all personal belongings, including mobile phones, in their cabins. Please ensure you are wearing the designated gym clothes and are carrying nothing as you prepare for disembarkation.”

It was a simple reiteration of the instructions we had already received. Since Hashimoto and I were already changed and empty-handed, all we had to do was wait for the ship to stop without needing to go anywhere.

“They still haven't called the first or second-years,” Hashimoto, who had assumed it would be an island exam with all grades mixed together from the start, noted, glancing around curiously. “Does that mean they’re not getting off the ship right away?”

“Perhaps. But there's no point speculating now.”

“True…”

Before long, the ship eased into the pier.

After another announcement confirming a full stop, Hashimoto and I stood up and made our way toward the deck.

While I couldn't discern it from inside the ship, the moment I stepped onto the island, the change was obvious: the place had been significantly developed compared to last year. Even something as estimating the time it took to get around, based on the previous exam, might not be reliable anymore.

“Your homeroom teachers are standing over there,” a person nearby, who appeared to be a school official, said, pointing toward the shoreline. “Please head over immediately and line up by class.”

Since more third-years were beginning to gather behind us, we quickened our pace.

As we approached the beach, towering stacks of cardboard boxes came into view.

“I remember this pretty well… Man, talk about nostalgia.”

Back during the last uninhabited-island survival exam, which involved every student grade, all of us were forced to put our minds into overdrive, constantly poring over maps and trekking across the island, regardless of the compass points.

That’s probably why this particular sight, this landscape, despite how brief our time here was, ended up etched so clearly into my memory.

We gathered around Mashima-sensei, our Class C homeroom teacher, and waited for the rest of the third-years to assemble.

There was still no sign of the first or second-years descending from the ship. Were we starting first? Or were the other grades not involved at all? It's still unclear for now, but the full picture should be revealed with the explanation soon.

It took a few minutes for all the third-years to gather. Before the official exam explanation began, however, Mashima-sensei moved to the center of the beach and announced that Nakanishi from 3rd Year Class D would be absent from the special exam due to a fever.

“It's unfortunate that we have an absentee,” Mashima-sensei stated, “but poor health is unavoidable. In this situation, the class in question will begin one member short. Now then, before we commence the Uninhabited Island Survival Game Special Exam, allow me to explain its rules.”

He didn’t linger on Nakanishi’s absence. It seemed there were no heavy penalties attached— of course, losing a class member is never ideal, but since Ichinose’s class already maintained forty members, and the student in question wasn’t a top performer, the damage would be minimal.

Rulebooks detailing the exam were passed down the rows, one eventually finding its way into my hands. It seemed we were expected to follow along as we listened.

The cover featured a photograph of the uninhabited island with a precise grid overlay. Naturally, the island itself was identical to the one from the previous year, yet I immediately noticed a critical difference in the map structure. Last time, the coordinates used for the map ran from A to J horizontally and 1 to 10 vertically. This time, however, the entire area appeared to be significantly more subdivided, with the horizontal axis now extending all the way from A to O, and the vertical axis stretching from 1 to 15.

I decided I would examine the map more thoroughly later. For now, I opened the booklet to check the main overview of the rules.

Uninhabited Island Survival Game Special Exam

Duration:

Maximum: 3 nights and 4 days.

The exam will conclude immediately upon complete resolution.

Daily Exam Hours: 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM (final day concludes at 4:00 PM).

Overview:

The objective is to compete by using paintball guns to defeat the VIPs and Guards of the opposing classes.

Pre-Exam Preparation:

Prior to the start of the main exam, each class must assign every student to one of five different roles. Most roles have population limits and grant different authorities.

Commander (1 per class, required)

Can track the location of all students using a dedicated tablet.

GPS Display: Class A is Red, B is Blue, C is Yellow, D is Green.

GPS location is updated every five minutes only during exam hours (9:00 AM to 6:00 PM).

Can utilize tactics (described later).

Can communicate directly with VIPs via radio.

Can learn the details (name, role) of students who are eliminated.

The Commander cannot be eliminated, nor do they possess any means of attack.

Cannot leave the Headquarters Area (F14).

Substitution: In case of illness or injury rendering continued participation impossible, a substitute may be appointed only with school approval.

VIP (3 per class, required)

Can communicate directly with the Commander via radio.

Possesses no means of attack.

Scoring: The class receives 100 points for each surviving VIP upon the exam's conclusion.

The class is considered Wiped Out if all three VIPs are eliminated, and its ranking will be finalized.

Guard (No Limit)

Possesses the sole means of attack using a paintball gun to eliminate the opponents.

Elimination Rule: Eliminated Guards are disqualified, evacuated from the island, and wait aboard the ship until the exam ends.

Weapon Retrieval: When a Guard is eliminated, they must retrieve at least one main weapon to the Headquarters.

Note: Any lost weapons during the exam must be immediately reported to the school.

Scoring: The class receives 1 point for each surviving Guard upon the exam's conclusion.

Analyst (Up to 2 per class)

Uses a tablet capable of determining the location of events, supply names, and retrieving passwords.

Appointment: If a slot is open, an Analyst can be appointed from the remaining Guard, but they cannot revert back to a Guard role.

(The appointment requires the VIP to contact the Commander, and is only granted upon approval.)

Possesses no means of attack.

Scout (Up to 1 per class)

Can detect the presence of students from other classes within their current square and the surrounding 8 squares (total 9 squares).

If a student from another class enters the same square, the officer can also detect their direction/bearing.

Note: If the GPS has been disabled due to a tactic, detection of both the surrounding 8 squares and the current square is not possible.

Appointment: If a slot is open, a Scout can be appointed from the remaining Guards, but they cannot revert back to a Guard role.

(The appointment requires the VIP to contact the Commander, and is only granted upon approval.)

Possesses no means of attack.

Victory Determination

Final rankings are determined by a total score: (Surviving VIPs × 100 points) + (Surviving Guards × 1 point).

※Tie-Breaker : In the event of a tie, one random student from each tied class will be selected for a short sudden-death match.

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Rewards and Penalties

1st Place: +150 Class Points

2nd Place: +100 Class Points

3rd Place: -100 Class Points

4th Place: -150 Class Points

Complete Wipeout Penalty

The first class to be entirely wiped out (all 3 VIPs defeated) before the exam concludes must select one student for expulsion.

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As we flipped through the pages of the rulebook, Mashima-sensei began explaining the details of the special exam.

When stripped down to its essence, the premise was simple: a large-scale survival game spanning the entirety of this vast, uninhabited island, where students would attempt to eliminate their opponents using paintball guns.

My very first impression was that it all felt surprisingly lenient. While expulsion was certainly on the table for one losing class, that was the ultimate extent of the penalty. No matter how you sliced the rules, they dictated that only one student would be expelled in the end. This was, of course, welcome news for the vast majority of the student body.

The exam itself wasn’t nearly as complicated as the lengthy explanations written in the rulebook. The real challenge, however, lay elsewhere— namely, most students had never so much as touched toy guns like electric or gas-powered airsoft guns, let alone paintball guns.

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A palpable wave of confusion was visibly spreading across the entire third-year cohort.

“Anyone here ever played airsoft before? Or even kinda knows how it works?” Hashimoto called out in a low voice to a few boys standing nearby, but not a single one nodded in affirmation.

It was unfortunate, but it seemed very few in my own Class C were thrilled about this special exam.

In stark contrast, Class A seemed almost lively. Onizuka, Ijūin, and a few others were talking with visible excitement, as if survival games were something they were already familiar with. From their expressions alone, it was clear they either had direct experience with survival games or at least understood the mechanics well enough to feel confident.

“In addition to standard survival elements, your management of these roles will be critical,” Mashima-sensei continued. “The Commander's ‘Tactics’ have limited uses but can decisively turn the tide of battle. Furthermore, the periodic ‘Events’ will also significantly influence the situation. I expect all of you to read through the rulebook and understand these details yourselves.”

Following his instruction, I turned the page to find the specifics of the Commander role.

Tactics (Usable by the Commander at any time)

Full GPS Jam: Disables the GPS of all students in the designated class for 30 minutes. (Limit: 1 use)

Individual GPS Jam: Disables the GPS of a selected person for 30 minutes. (Limit: 3 uses)

Identify Person: Reveals the name and role of the selected student's GPS. (Limit: 5 uses)

※Even while Full GPS Jam or Individual GPS Jam is in effect, the Commander of the class that used the tactic can still see correct locations on their tablet every 5 minutes.

The tactics granted exclusively to the Commander, just as Mashima-sensei explained, held enough power to genuinely change the course of the battle if used well. However, they could just as easily be rendered completely meaningless if timed poorly. Ultimately, they were tools that demanded sharp judgment.

The full GPS shutdown, in particular, seemed poised to become a genuine trump card. Whether for setting up an ambush or guaranteeing a clean escape from pursuers, its potential uses were broad.

As I mulled over those possibilities, staff members suddenly hurried over with boxes and began distributing similar looking wristwatches that we'd used last year. We each strapped one on and went through the initial setup process.

“These watches are not to be removed,” Mashima-sensei warned. “During the special exam, wearing them twenty-four hours a day is mandatory. Remove it even once, and you risk immediate disqualification. Should any malfunction or error occur, report it to your Commander at once or head directly to headquarters.”

He continued, “Just like last year, the watch can display your blood pressure, heart rate, and also your current area and direction. In addition, if a paint round strikes your clothing, the built-in sensor will activate, the watch will detect it, and an OUT verdict will be issued automatically. In other words, the moment your watch displays an OUT, you are disqualified. Students assigned as Scouts will also have access to a special GPS-detection feature that tracks other classes. The watch contains several other minor functions as well, so please refer to the rulebook for further details.”

There were still several pages left in the rulebook, most of them dedicated to the wristwatch’s functions, usage instructions and a list of additional rules. I could go through those later. For now, I already understood the outline of the exam.

“So the class whose three VIPs get knocked out first has to give up a student for expulsion, huh? Yeah… figured they'd pull something like that.” Hashimoto muttered, twisting his wrist to examine the watch strapped to his arm.

“Just like you predicted, then?” Hashimoto added.

“Well, more or less.”

Judging from the way these roles were structured, the students actually moving across the island wouldn’t have any means of pinpointing their precise location— not through devices, nor through any kind of overhead map or visual display.

The same applied when it came to locating the whereabouts of other classes. The only way to obtain that information was to receive instructions from the Commander at Headquarters through the radio, with the designated VIP acting as an intermediary.

In practice, that made the system far more challenging than it appeared on paper. A single missed report or delayed transmission could lead to a fatal misunderstanding. Even a minor slip in communication could result in danger on the field.

And if a student were to become separated from their VIP, they would be forced to search for their teammates using nothing but the signal from their watch— leaving them vulnerable to ambush at any moment.

“You’ve all skimmed through the rulebook by now, I assume,” Mashima-sensei said, his voice cutting through the low chatter. “This exam will last a maximum of four days & three nights. You will use your initial supply of paint pellets, along with any you acquire from event supply boxes, to compete and ultimately determine the outcome of the exam.”

Listening to him, I looked over the final section: the event details.

Events

Events would activate automatically at 11:00 AM (10:00 AM on Day 1),and then again at 1:00 PM, 3:00 PM, and 5:00 PM.

① Supply Drops: A supply box appears in a specific area for one hour, and its contents can be obtained.

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The contents fall under three types: food, daily necessities, and paint rounds. Details and quantities are unknown until obtained.

Opens with a shared password that changes every hour. (carrying the box is prohibited).

② Restricted Areas: Starting on Day 2, grid squares will progressively become unusable.

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Once an area is announced as unusable, it becomes off-limits one hour later.

Remaining in a restricted area for more than five minutes results in disqualification.

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That should sum up the core rules we’ll need to keep firmly in mind.

One particularly important element was the shrinking of the battlefield. Starting from the second day, four times a day during the scheduled events, new areas would be declared off-limits. Once announced, there would only be a one-hour grace period before entry was prohibited. Depending on which locations were restricted, avoiding encounters with other classes might become impossible— and in the worst case, you could walk right into an ambush.

Another noteworthy regulation was the off-hours period from 6 PM to 9 AM. GPS updates would halt during that time, though we were still allowed to move freely. However, once morning arrived, we were required to resume the exam from the exact position we occupied at 6 PM the previous day. This rule effectively eliminated the possibility of long-distance nighttime maneuvers designed to catch opponents off guard at dawn.

Keeping the island’s sheer size in mind, I began sketching out several hypothetical endgame scenarios in my head.

This time, the school had made the stakes unmistakably clear. An expulsion awaited the first class to be completely wiped out. The student to be expelled would be chosen from among their own.

On the surface, the rules demanded an unavoidable sacrifice.

But in reality, most classes already had straightforward methods prepared to minimize the damage.

When the risk of expulsion was first announced, what everyone had likely imagined was the immediate sacrifice of 'the student who holds Protection Points,' or perhaps a powerful, authoritative leader forcibly nominating someone.

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Indeed, the only saving grace lay in the word 'selection,' meaning the ultimate judgment on who to sacrifice was entrusted to the discretion of each class.

Choosing someone with a Protection Point would nullify the penalty. Whether that person would willingly give up their point, however, remained uncertain.

In this way, the penalty of finishing last and the consequence of being wiped out were essentially the same, like two different paths leading to the same undesirable result. Naturally, every class would want to avoid it.

Yet if a passive battle continued out of paralyzing fear of the expulsion risk, the danger of a draw would inevitably emerge. And since victory or defeat in a tiebreaker would hinge entirely on luck, no class could afford to avoid conflict forever.

Eventually, whether they liked it or not, confrontation was inevitable.

Even so, Mashima-sensei and the other instructors showed no sign of tension, nor did their expressions carry any sense of heaviness.

This was far more lenient than I’d expected— almost as if an escape route had been laid out in plain sight. In that sense, it was clear the school was still holding back.

“Now then, I’ll explain the weapons the guards are allowed to handle,” Mashima-sensei said.

He retrieved an assault rifle from a cardboard box— a near replica of an M16— and then raised a shotgun as well.

Beside him, Sakagami-sensei presented two more models: a submachine-gun-style paintball gun and a handgun-type model.

“What's that?” Such a voice, filled with surprise, came from the direction of Class A. “I've never seen a paintball gun like that before.”

“These are prototypes, not yet available commercially,” Mashima-sensei explained. “For the details… I’ll hand things over to Kishinami-san.”

Mashima-sensei glanced over, and an adult I'd never seen before, who was standing by, gave a polite bow.

“A pleasure to meet you all. My name is Kishinami, and I’m a sales representative from Kanto Shooter Co., Ltd., a company that specializes in manufacturing toy firearms— including airsoft and model guns. Today, in cooperation with the staff and students of Advanced Nurturing High School, we’re conducting a field test of our new competitive paint gun models, which are currently under development for near-future use. These units retain the form factor and handling of real firearms while safely firing paint rounds. Furthermore, the gym uniforms you’ve changed into are embedded with our latest proprietary technologies— thermal sensors, color-reactive fabrics, and impact detection modules. When a paint round strikes the abdomen or back with sufficient force and bursts, the system links with your wristwatch to register an ‘out.’ In some cases, a hit may not lead to immediate disqualification, but for the chest and back, please assume that a single hit will result in an ‘out.’ If light, superficial splashes land along the edge of the uniform, the sensor may not activate. In such cases, it will be considered safe. However, since these are still prototypes, it is possible— though rare— for a clean hit to fail to register.”

“And in that case,” he warned gently, “do not assume you are safe. Stop immediately, and report yourself.”

He delivered the pitch with the smooth cadence of a seasoned salesman. Mashima-sensei nodded, adding his own clarification.

“If a malfunction incorrectly declares a ‘safe’ as ‘out,’ we’ll treat it as a rescue case. If an ‘out’ is judged as ‘safe,’ there will be no penalty as long as you report it promptly. But continuing to fight after knowing you were hit will be treated as a major violation— one that may result in your class losing entirely, so please be careful. If you believe a malfunction has occurred, simply use the communication function on your wristwatch to report a retirement or health-related issue and provide the necessary details.”

The school would verify every case themselves, and if a hit was ruled safe, you’ll be allowed to return back to the field.

In addition, It was also made clear that stealing, tampering with, or using another class’s weapon in any way was strictly prohibited. The same applied to physically harming or restraining an opponent— whether by punching, kicking, or otherwise preventing them from firing.

Anyone caught doing so would be disqualified instantly, with their class losing 100 Class Points on the spot.

And if the behavior was malicious enough, the student could even be brought before an expulsion review.

“This is an important matter, so I will continue the explanation, though some parts may overlap,” Mashima-sensei continued. “When a paint pellet hits, the linked watch will make an ‘out’ judgment and beep for two seconds. If the student who is ‘out’ is a Guard, they must cease their attack immediately before the sound stops. Continuing to attack after an ‘out’ judgment has been made will result in a penalty. And do not mistake those two seconds for leeway. If you continue to attack, resist, or interfere while knowing you are ‘out,’ it will be deemed intentional and a penalty will be imposed. The same applies to attacking outside of exam hours. Furthermore, everyone must be aware that all acts that shake the very foundation of the special exam rules will absolutely not be tolerated.”

Judging by the explanation so far, any paint that happens to splatter off a tree or other surface without triggering the sensor won’t be counted as an ‘out’. Still, when things fall into a gray area, the safest option is to check in with the administration.

Kishinami, the salesman, stepped forward and resumed his explanation with smooth precision.

“The paint guns you are given at the start not only have different appearances but also different performance specs,” he said. “This M16-style assault rifle has the longest range and a magazine capacity of 50 rounds. The shotgun has about half the range and a smaller capacity of 30 rounds, but it can fire 5 shots at once. The submachine gun has the same range as the assault rifle but a smaller capacity of 30 rounds; in exchange, it's lightweight and easy to handle even with one hand. Using two of these main weapons simultaneously is prohibited. However, as for handguns, each class will only be given two, but they are the only weapon permitted for dual-wielding. The user must, however, wear a holster in a visible position on their leg. Also, all weapons have a built-in battery, specified to last for about 1000 shots. If the battery runs out, it can only be replenished from event supply boxes. And while they have a certain degree of water resistance, please be careful as prolonged exposure to heavy rain or submersion in seawater or river may cause failure.”

The salesman paused for a moment, exhaling softly. Then, as though a thought had just struck him, he hurried to add the one thing he’d forgotten to mention.

“All paint rounds are fully biodegradable by the way. No matter how much you fire, there will be no environmental harm. So I hope you will all enjoy yourselves to the fullest.”

Certainly, if the paint from the pellets were to cause environmental damage, it would be a problem, but if there are no negative effects in that regard, there seems to be no need to hesitate to fire.

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“The number of guns initially given to each class will be up to the number of Guards, but each weapon type has a cap. You can’t have everyone choose assault rifles or submachine guns.”

It was obvious the partnering company wanted a diverse set of weapons used on the field.

“And ammunition is limited. Your main weapon starts fully loaded, and you get only one additional full magazine each. Use your shots carelessly, and they’ll vanish before you realize it. In that case, you will have to obtain additional paint pellets from the supply boxes at events.”

Or rather, the exam was designed to force us to compete for resources.

“The examination time for day one of this special exam is scheduled from nine in the morning until six in the evening,” Mashima-sensei stated, his voice carrying clearly over the waves. “The signal for both the opening and closing of the combat window will be announced by sounding the ship’s horns. The official start is at nine o'clock, and, take note, the first Event will commence at ten o'clock, not eleven. Following that, events will be executed as per the schedule written in your rulebooks. Moreover, combat engaged outside of these designated examination hours is strictly prohibited.”

He paused, letting the implication sink in before issuing a severe warning: “If combat occurs outside of exam hours, resulting in another student being tagged 'Out,' the student who committed the rule violation will be declared 'Out' instead. Additionally, if, in the unlikely event, fraudulent acts designed to conceal these violations are discovered, a truly significant amount of class points will be deducted from the offending student’s class. If the act is deemed malicious, immediate expulsion is also on the table.”

The rulebook in my hands contained far more than just the event schedule.

Hidden among the dense text were countless rules, regulations, and contingency measures.

A hit outside exam hours wouldn’t count.

A misfire could be reported; the staff would check the situation and even provide replacement clothing.

A malfunction that falsely triggered an out could also be appealed— but only if the student could prove they hadn’t been hit.

Naturally, these relief cases required absolute proof that the student had not been hit. It was therefore safer to assume that no relief could be expected if, for example, the student was struck by paint after the device malfunctioned and registered an erroneous 'Out.'

On this island, falling ill meant instant disqualification. Intentionally breaking the wristwatch carried the same penalty.

Crucially, if any device anomaly was detected, the preceding and subsequent audio records would be preserved as evidence— leaving little room for excuses.

Given how many unexpected situations could occur, it was safer to review the rulebook thoroughly.

One thing became unmistakably clear as I read: While the school intended to turn a blind eye to minor operational hiccups, any fraudulent act that threatened the foundation of the special exam— removing the sensor-equipped gym uniform to avoid being hit, or continuing to fire even after the system registered an impact— would never be overlooked. Facing expulsion alongside a massive class point reduction meant the cumulative cost was immeasurable.

Not even Ryūen could afford to break these rules.

And neither could I.

The risk outweighed any conceivable benefit.

The only vulnerability that might tempt a Commander to push their luck would be the VIP's rapidly failing health, yet the rules harshly declared a 200-point penalty— double the standard loss— if such a forced continuation were discovered. Clearly, in the worst-case scenario, the least damaging recourse was simply to declare a prompt retirement.

And there was the wristwatch, distributed to every student just as it had been last year. Its mandatory, twenty-four-hour wear was non-negotiable, acting as a constant monitor of heart rate and blood pressure. Should any malfunction or unauthorized removal occur, the system was configured to send an immediate alert signal to Headquarters. Newly enhanced this year, the watch now contained both a compass function and a self-reporting Withdrawal button, allowing a student to voluntarily declare their inability to continue due to major injury or severe health issues.

To forcibly continue while in a state requiring medical attention would truly be an act yielding a hundred harms for zero benefit.

“Now then,” Mashima-sensei said, voice carrying over the students, “one representative from each class— anyone is fine— will come forward to draw a lot. This will decide your starting location for the 9 AM start. The available starting coordinates are C12, E12, G12, and I12. You will begin from positions approximately fifteen minutes’ walking distance from one another.”

Fifteen minutes. That was a fairly optimistic estimate. Even accounting for the reduced exam area, I wondered if this short distance was another consequence of the development we had noticed. Although the starting points were technically separated, they were practically a stone's throw away. Depending on the assigned locations, a team could, with a full sprint across the sandy beach— regardless of poor footing— achieve contact in less than five minutes.

Ofcourse, that kind of reckless dash wasn’t realistic.

If we came bursting out onto the beach, desperate to start a fight, the other classes would see us immediately and rain paint down on us. It was a strategy guaranteeing high risk for low return.

Logically, the best coordinates would be C12 on the far western flank, to avoid being boxed in, or I12, which facilitated an easy escape route toward the east.

Even so, the draw that decided such an important starting point didn’t change based on who pulled it.

So I turned to Sanada, who happened to be standing nearby, and asked him to draw for us.

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He agreed with a simple nod and stepped forward without hesitation.

As Mashima-sensei and the staff concluded their final address, each class was instructed to separate and form a compact circle around their respective homeroom teacher. At that moment, Hashimoto approached me and spoke.

“Man, they said a whole lot, but the gist is just to win a class-on-class survival game, right?”

“That's about it.” I replied.

“For the time being, we should hang back, distance ourselves from the others, and observe, shouldn’t we? Let ‘em chew each other up.”

That would certainly be ideal— but I doubted things would fall into place so conveniently.

The entire structure— the rules, the limited resources, the terrain— was designed to tempt students toward the same tactic: seizing a ‘fisherman’s profit’ at just the right moment.

The lots were drawn in moments, determining that our class would deploy from the E12 area. This left C12 to Ryūen’s Class B, G12 to Horikita’s Class A, and I12 to Ichinose’s Class D.

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Sanada, returning from the draw, offered an apology for failing to secure one of the strategically superior edge locations, but I quickly dismissed his concern— it was an outcome beyond anyone’s control.

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Soon after, we were ushered to a row of cardboard boxes, where a briefing regarding the initial supplies prepared for each class began.

“What you see before you are the initial supplies provided to each class, and the contents are identical across all four classes,” the instructor announced. “You may take everything here, or if you deem something unnecessary, you may leave any amount behind. However, be warned: once the exam starts, the remaining supplies will be collected and cannot be reclaimed later. Considering this, you must discuss and decide among yourselves what is absolutely necessary.”

A survival trial lasting a maximum of three nights and four days. Every item taken required careful deliberation.

For now, though, speculation was useless. We gathered around our designated box and tore it open to see what we were working with. The first thing that greeted us was a grim reality— a pitifully small supply of food, nowhere near enough to sustain us.

“Seriously? This is it?” a voice muttered. “This won’t even last a day.”

The provisions consisted of nothing more than nutritional blocks and mineral water. A quick count revealed just two of each per student, with absolutely nothing else remotely edible provided. It seemed only enough had been prepared to be fully consumed before lunchtime arrived.

“So that’s how it is,” Hashimoto muttered. “If we want food, we have to fight for it during the events… they’re really not holding back.”

With food security tied directly to the special events, participation was no longer optional. And with that, the risk of clashing with other classes skyrocketed. We could try to ignore the events, but the system was clearly designed to make that impossible. The initial supplies were intentionally insufficient.

If the goal was to force conflict, then this was the sort of pressure needed to make it happen.

“Looking at the rules, as long as we keep running away, we can’t lose— at least for a bit,” Shiraishi observed, picking up one of the boxes of nutritional blocks. “You see, paintballs don’t get used if you don’t fight, but you can’t run from hunger.”

She was right. It was an undeniable fact: for any class that failed to secure sufficient food, the available range of strategies would rapidly narrow, leading to panic, followed by them challenging reckless combat and ultimately being eliminated. The fundamental choice before us was clear: take the risk and recover supplies, or avoid the risk and endure the resulting hardship. Or perhaps, a balanced strategy that attempted to navigate the perilous middle ground.

Already, the debate within our class was heating up, and opinions were beginning to sharply diverge.

“I still think going after nearby events is too dangerous,” Sugio argued, his eyes fixed nervously on the pitiful stack of nutritional blocks. “Instead of risking an early knockout, what if we avoid Class A entirely and cross the mountain right from the start? We’d have a much better chance of monopolizing the events in the northeast area. No other class would bother trekking all that way just to pick a fight, right?”

Shimazaki immediately shot the idea down. “I’m against it. What if other classes have the same idea? Besides, even if we burn all that energy crossing the mountain, there’s no guarantee any events will even spawn in the northeast.”

We were all just assuming the events would be spread out evenly, but the truth wouldn’t reveal itself until the exam actually began.

“In that case,” Shimazaki added, “I think we should stick close to our starting point until the first event is announced.”

Sugio’s plan might have avoided immediate combat, but it was riddled with other dangers: the sheer exhaustion of the mountain crossing, the uncertainty of event locations, and the unpredictable movements of our rivals. None of it could be taken lightly. At the current stage, deriving a single, definite correct answer was not possible, even for me.

To move north from our starting point, the shortest and safest route was through a narrow riverside path in G8. But with Class A having the geographical advantage, they would undoubtedly rush to control that chokepoint. If we followed, conflict would be almost guaranteed.

“So we just sit and do nothing?” Sugio countered. “That means preparing for a fight the second this thing starts. What if our three VIPs get taken out right away? Then what?”

He was imagining the worst-case scenario— our exam being over within an hour, let alone three days.

“Okay, okay, easy you two,” Hashimoto cut in, smoothly stepping between them. “Sugio, I get your point. But before we get ahead of ourselves, let’s finish checking the rest of the supplies. I’m sure our leader here will cook up a brilliant plan in the meantime.”

Offering an idea was easy. But insisting it on everyone else means shouldering the responsibility for the outcome. Looking at Sugio and Shimazaki, it was clear that neither of them was ready to bear that weight.

“Yeah… right.”

Hashimoto’s words effectively tabled the debate, and all eyes turned to me. The immediate crisis of our opening strategy was on hold, but the tension hadn’t broken. In an exam that demanded constant movement and the constant threat of combat, it was no surprise the class was on edge. For a group like ours, with strengths heavily skewed toward academics, a single misstep in the field could be fatal. That fear was palpable.

Putting aside our initial moves and the food problem, we turned to the next box. Inside were smaller items: paper maps, ballpoint pens, toothbrushes, and sanitary products. Mashima-sensei added that we could take as many of these as we wanted, on the condition that we didn’t discard them and returned everything at the end of the exam. Since they weren’t bulky, it made sense to grab plenty of spares.

Next, I pried open the largest cardboard box, revealing an assortment of tents in various sizes.

“Tents, huh,” Hashimoto said, looking them over. “We need to decide what to bring, and fast. The real question is how much burden of the planning we should dump on you, Ayanokōji.” His eyes drifted toward me, checking silently for direction. I gave him a small nod.

“I will provide the primary baseline for what supplies are necessary and the rough capacity we should carry,” I stated. “If there are any objections to this framework, let me hear them with the reasons attached at that time.”

My intent was to first establish a functional framework and then, as necessary, incorporate classmates' opinions. This method was the optimal way to avoid wasting precious time in an open-ended debate.

Ideally, everyone would have their own tent for a comfortable night’s sleep, but having forty people haul individual tents would be a logistical nightmare, severely crippling our mobility. That meant we needed to prioritize two-person and larger multi-person tents from the get-go. This strategy would also make it easier to alternate positions or share shelter when fatigued.

But the more critical question was how many to bring in total. As the exam goes on, students would inevitably be eliminated. That meant the large, multi-person tents would quickly become dead weight. In fact, the dynamic would flip entirely, with the smaller, more convenient one- or two-person tents becoming far more valuable. Those came with a one-touch setup, making them easy to pitch and pack away in a hurry.

While mentally calculating the necessary balance of tents to take, I cast my eyes toward the final, remaining group of cardboard boxes. What lay within was the most essential material: the weapons for fighting.

“Whoa, they look like the real deal up close,” Hashimoto breathed, reaching out to pick up an assault rifle. “Never touched one of these before.”

When I counted the numbers, it seemed a total of forty units of main weapons were prepared: twenty assault rifles, ten submachine guns, and ten shotguns. Additionally, there were two handguns designated as sub-weapons. Since one main weapon—which would serve as the primary force in any fight—could be possessed per Guard, the supply was sufficient for every member of our combat team to be armed.

“These shotguns look like a pain, though,” Hashimoto added, hefting one. “And they’re heavy.”

I picked up all three main weapon types and examined them briefly. The true feel of a weapon wouldn’t be clear until you actually used it, but judging from the distribution alone, the assault rifle seemed like the most balanced and user-friendly. So we’d likely fill the remaining guard slots with submachine guns and shotguns.

Morishita approached after checking the counts. “If we start with zero analysts, we can bring two extra guns. What do you think?”

“Having more paint rounds in the field is an advantage, that’s true,” I admitted, “but we’ll need Analysts eventually. When we appoint them later, we have to consider the hassle of managing their now-surplus weapons. It’s hard to say if it’s a net gain.”

Weapons weren’t disposable. They couldn’t be tossed aside like broken branches. Everything we carried in had to be carried out again. If guards were allowed to dual-wield, we could bend the system and make it work. But the rules shut down that option immediately. Spare weapons would only tie up someone’s hands and slow us down.

Crucially, every time an Analyst or Scout was declared ‘Out,’ they would be replaced by a Guard, meaning our overall baggage would only continue to accumulate.

“We’re sticking to a no-surplus policy,” I stated, cutting through the indecision.

“So you don’t intend to carry anything extra,” Morishita replied. “In situations like this, the natural instinct is to keep a little insurance— to grab whatever you can, just in case.”

It was true.

If a weapon broke, or we ran short on ammunition, having spares would be reassuring.

If everyone managed to stay active, those extra weapons could make a difference.

That’s precisely why the desire to cling to that sense of security was completely natural.

“If there’s something we need, we can get it from the events. That’s what the system is for,” I said.

Of course, the idea of going through the entire exam without anyone taking damage was unrealistic. Someone was bound to get knocked out before they ever used the supplies they were carrying. And in our class— where offensive power was scarce— carrying extra weapons meant nothing if one could not land a shot. Extra equipment only had value when backed by capability.

Furthermore, if we did take a surplus, the candidate would be the lightweight submachine gun, but its ammunition was limited to only sixty rounds per unit, even with spares. Moreover, since the magazine standard was different from the assault rifle, swapping ammunition required manually removing and re-inserting the rounds, adding unnecessary hassle.

There were better ways to manage our arsenal— recovering weapons from eliminated classmates or creating dedicated ammo caches in specific backpacks from the outset. Those backup options mattered, they shaped my decision as much as the weight of the weapons themselves.

“Well, I'll leave it to you,” said Morishita. “I’d prefer to dump the responsibility onto Ayanokōji Kiyotaka anyway.”

“That’s fine,” I answered.

After confirming the general consensus of the class, I reported what we needed to Mashima-sensei and received the supplies. The heavier items— like the water— went to the boys who had the strength and stamina to carry them, while the girls and those less suited for physical work were given only their own clothes and minimal amenities. Reducing their load was more practical in the long run.

“Before the exam starts, there’s something I need everyone to hear,” I said. My voice cut through the soft noise of zippers, rustling bags, and final preparations. They turned toward me.

“I want to explain what happens if we’re the first class to be wiped out.”

Matoba’s face stiffened, unease flickering across his expression. “Talking about losing before we even start? Why bring that up?” His voice carried the suspicion, maybe thinking I was offering excuses ahead of time.

“There will be an unavoidable penalty when that time comes,” I said. “We’ll be forced to expel someone. To prevent chaos later, I want us to decide in advance who it will be.”

The reaction was immediate. A thin, sharp tension spread across the group, as if every student instinctively recoiled from the idea.

“I mean… I get it,” Matoba muttered. “Nobody wants to fight while thinking they might be the one expelled, but…”

“Ayanokōji-kun,” Sanada said carefully, “is that really the right call?”

His tone aligned with Matoba’s, both of them recognizing exactly how severe the topic was.

“No one in our class has a Protection Point,” Matoba added. “That means if we get wiped out, someone is getting kicked out. For whoever we pick, that’s a death sentence.”

They were right. No one would willingly accept being the designated sacrifice.

“Besides,” Matoba continued, challenging my leadership, “just because you’re the leader, do you truly intend to decide who is to be expelled from here?”

His voice echoed the unspoken sentiment of many. No one here wanted to volunteer. And with me being a newcomer, letting me make such a decision naturally triggered resistance.

“Shouldn’t we decide that after we lose?” someone else suggested. “We can factor in who was responsible. Or just draw lots and share the same fate. Aren’t those the only fair ways?”

Most of them rejected the idea of deciding now. It was written on their faces. But I had already weighed the situation long before bringing it up.

“Hashimoto Masayoshi, it seems Ayanokōji Kiyotaka’s policy is already settled,” Morishita suddenly interjected, cutting through the tension. “I understand how he reached his conclusion without even needing an explanation from him.”

“For real?” Hashimoto asked, skeptical.

Morishita faced the doubting Hashimoto and gave a confident, decisive nod.

“If we incur the penalty, then the one who sacrifices himself to protect the class will, of course, be Hashimoto Masayoshi. That is the fairest and most balanced outcome.”

“I see, that makes perfectly… NO, sense at all. Oh, give me a break! I can’t believe I actually took you seriously for a second.”

“Is that so? I'm being for real for real, you know? Don't you think everyone except you, Hashimoto Masayoshi, would happily accept such a proposal?”

“Of course they would,” he shot back. “As long as they’re safe.”

“Exactly. Everyone is saved. There are no unfortunate victims.”

“Except me! How is that perfectly fine?”

“That can’t be helped. You’ll protect the class and become a star— a hero. Farewell, Hashimoto Masayoshi. I shall remember your existence… for at least a week.”

1

“Only a week? No, even if it was a year, I'd never agree to it. And besides, you just tossed my name out there hoping to actually make me the sacrificial pawn, didn’t you?”

No one wanted their name tied to the role of the expelled student. And in situations like this, the blame naturally drifted toward whoever wasn’t well-liked.

“Tch, so you noticed,” she muttered.

“You actually clicked your tongue... Can't let my guard down round ya for a second.” Hashimoto said, glaring at her briefly before turning toward me, unease creeping into his expression.

“If Hashimoto wants to volunteer, that’s fine,” I said. “But unfortunately for him, I’ve already decided who will be expelled if it comes to that. And even if someone objects, I won’t be changing that decision.”

“Hold on,” Matoba snapped. “Like I said earlier, being the leader doesn’t mean you get to decide every—”

I cut him off with a raised hand.

“If we incur the penalty… I’ll take the role myself.”

The chatter died instantly. A stunned silence fell over the class. Even Mashima-sensei, who had been observing with his arms crossed, unconsciously let them drop to his sides.

“…Are you serious?” Matoba asked, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re the leader.”

“A leader taking responsibility for defeat sounds admirable, but that isn’t the reason,” I replied, “The truth is simpler. I’m still an outsider— someone who joined this class only recently. I came here to push this class forward, to help it win. If the outcome of this exam ends in defeat, then bearing that weight myself is the only logical course. It’s the role that falls naturally to someone like me.”

“That might be true,” Hashimoto countered, “but this isn’t a test where you alone decide everything. Our class isn’t even good at this kind of thing. And if you get expelled, what happens to the class afterward?”

“Either way,” I said, meeting his gaze, “what good is a leader who allows the class to be crushed without a fight? You wouldn’t be able to trust me anyway.”

“I see… Well, you can certainly look at it that way,” Hashimoto admitted, though he didn’t sound thrilled.

For a class that had sunk to the bottom, what they needed wasn’t vague encouragement. They needed a foundation— a concrete reason to believe victory was possible.

Morishita spoke next, her tone steady. “A leader accepting responsibility is something I can acknowledge. If we’re forced to expel someone, Ayanokōji Kiyotaka will disappear. For now, that arrangement is fine. At the very least, our immediate safety is secured.”

She wasn’t being coldhearted. She was being rational— focusing on minimizing the emotional burden for everyone else.

“Still,” she continued without missing a beat, “when that moment comes, you’ll nobly volunteer yourself instead, right, Hashimoto Masayoshi?”

“You really can’t wait to sacrifice me, can you?” Hashimoto muttered.

But unlike before, he didn’t put up strong resistance. Part of it was because arguing with Morishita was exhausting and pointless.

But there was another reason. If I was expelled, it would be a death blow to Hashimoto’s own ambitions. Having already given up his ticket to another class, I was his only remaining hope for Class A.

Even if the situation unfolded in the worst possible way, he wouldn’t accept it wholeheartedly. But he might at least come to terms with the fact that reaching Class A would no longer be possible.

Given that reality, he has no option but to trust my judgment and swallow the decision for now. And since they cannot produce an alternative sacrifice, there are no other choices to weigh.

“Mashima-sensei.” I said, turning to him “Is there any issue with letting others know about this decision?”

“Of course not. Whether it's the truth or a lie, there's no problem with spreading the word about who will be expelled in case of a loss.”

“Then I’d like to make one request.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to officially confirm that, should an expulsion be necessary, that spot belongs to me. This is to prevent me from backing out later. Setting this in stone beforehand doesn’t violate any exam rules, does it?”

“...Are you being serious?” he asked, his composure finally cracking.

“Yes. This isn’t something I can say purely to ease my classmates’ fears.”

Without this, if we lost, I could theoretically refuse to leave, enduring the criticism while forcing the blame onto someone else.

“Sorry, but I can't finalize it at this stage according to the rules,” he said. “However, I'll keep your intention in mind.”

“Thank you.”

Mashima-sensei couldn't hide his bewilderment, but since a teacher couldn't possibly nominate another expulsion candidate, he had no choice but to respect my decision for the time being.

“Well, this explanation dragged on a bit, but this is the last thing you need to know,” Mashima-sensei announced. “From this moment on, you have thirty minutes to decide who fills which role. If you fail to reach a consensus within that time, the school will assign positions at random. I suggest you avoid that outcome.”

With that, he took a few steps back, creating a clear distance between himself and the class. His part was over; the decision was now entirely in our hands.

“Commander, VIP, and 3 other positions… This is the first major crossroad.”

A single mistake in assigning these key positions would undoubtedly impact our odds of victory.

To take an obvious example, putting someone like Ike or Hondō from Horikita’s class, or Ishizaki and Kondō from Ryūen’s, in the commander’s seat would be practically suicidal. On the flip side, Ishizaki possessed high physical specs and stamina, making him a solid asset if deployed as a Guard.

Before I could vocalize my thoughts, Morishita quickly stepped forward.

“The commander is arguably the most critical position. They must oversee the entire battlefield, predict the movement of the enemy, and most of all, determine the optimal timing to deploy tactics. It follows, then, that this role should be assigned first, with our selection made from all thirty-seven of us.”

“She sure loves stating the obvious with that high-and-mighty tone, doesn't she?” Hashimoto muttered, low enough that only I could hear.

Tamiya, however, raised her voice to agree with the sentiment. “I’m with Morishita-san on this. It’ll be a tough fight without solid orders from the top. Why not just pick Ayanokōji-kun? He’s our leader, isn't he?”

“Hold on,” Hashimoto interjected. “I don't doubt Ayanokōji would get results as Commander. But I'm dead set against it. He needs to be on the ground. The best role for him is Guard.”

2

“Guard? Any other role would be fine, but why on earth a Guard?” another student asked, puzzled.

“The reason is simple. I see Ayanokōji as a special asset. To put it bluntly, Guards might be disposable, but they are the only ones capable of stopping an enemy. Besides me and Kitō, we don’t exactly have many students who would fare well in this position. So it makes far more sense to have him on the front lines. Besides, just because he can’t communicate directly with the commander doesn’t mean he can’t keep the class organised, right?”

His voice carried a faint heat that he usually hid. The class reacted with mild surprise— this level of insistence from Hashimoto wasn’t something they saw often.

The VIP position was indeed key to determining the outcome, but the condition for victory relied on the VIP not being defeated. Hashimoto’s logic— that we should devote our best resources to ensuring the VIP’s survival— was sound. Furthermore, even if the Guards couldn't communicate directly with the Commander, they could still relay messages through the VIP, albeit in a roundabout way. It was even possible to request tactical activation through that channel.

That was why, even before this discussion began, I had already ruled out taking the VIP, Analyst, or Scout roles. However, the choice between Commander and Guard was still worth weighing.

The Commander role was tempting— being the only one able to track every student’s GPS location was a massive advantage that linked directly to a higher chance of winning. On my own, in this vast uninhabited island, I would have no way of knowing who from the other classes was moving where, or what they were targeting; I would be forced to simply go with the flow. Because of that, It wasn't a position to be taken lightly.

Even so, it wasn’t as if the commander alone could control the outcome with perfect certainty. No matter how capable the person in that position was, this exam wasn’t something that could be solved by one pair of hands.

“Besides,” Hashimoto added, “Ayanokōji probably doesn’t want to entrust his fate entirely to someone else in the first place.”

The idea of sitting at headquarters, issuing orders through a tablet and a wireless connection, wasn’t unattractive. Controlling information networks had its own appeal. But in this special exam, another fact stood firm: every student who could move well physically was far more valuable as a VIP or, especially, as a guard.

“You’re already thinking about how to handle the roles, aren't you? Let's hear your plan.”

There were five roles in total. Wherever I ended up, the choice couldn’t afford a mistake.

The commander— stationed in the safety of the base— was undeniably one of the most critical positions. They had access to the GPS locations of every student, and on top of that, they held authority to deploy powerful tactics capable of flipping a losing situation on its head. They were the only one allowed to view the battlefield from above, looking down on the entire flow of combat. That kind of vantage point couldn’t be entrusted to an amateur.

Taking on that responsibility myself was certainly a viable option.

With that said, Class C could not be described as a powerhouse of physical ability. We had agile students like Kitō and Hashimoto, but outside the core group, the majority were average or below. No matter how precise the Commander’s orders, they were meaningless if the soldiers on the ground couldn't execute them.

On the other hand, as a Guard, I could exercise my individual strength without restriction. With enough ability, it wasn't impossible to navigate threats without leaning entirely on the commander’s intel or pre-made tactics.

1

“I’m inclined to take a guard role,” I said.

“A'ight, that’s the right call.”

“But only,” I added, “if there is a suitable candidate for Commander.”

Who should be the Commander?

One face immediately came to mind.

Morishita.

For the commander, I wasn’t interested in simply assigning a “model student.” What I wanted was someone whose perspective and way of seeing things were different from the rest— someone who could notice details others missed. In that sense, I rated Morishita’s abilities highly.

Or so I’d like to say, but… Her eccentric nature is a major cause for concern. Passing information through VIPs was already inefficient; adding an unpredictable personality to that chain invited confusion I didn’t have room to manage. Even so, she was worth weighing… though her own willingness mattered more than anything else.

I briefly glanced towards Morishita, and her eyes snapped wide open, locking onto mine.

“If you’re asking me to take the command, I must humbly decline.”

She gestured towards me with her palms fully open, emphasizing her refusal.

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“Your eyes spoke volumes.”

“Well, it’s true I was considering it,” I said. “May I at least hear your reasoning?”

“Reason? Because I intend to participate as a guard. Whenever I see an uninhabited island, my old warrior’s blood begins to stir. Ah, yes… Long ago, they called me an Amazonian warrioress of the Dense Forest, feared across the land— No, forget that. It’s ancient history. Not worth recounting.”

She claimed she wouldn’t say much, yet she’d already said far too much. And considering it was, from every conceivable angle, clearly a lie, I decided to take her advice and forget it immediately.

But with her removed from the list, no other classmates came to mind who could fulfill the commander’s role at the standard I needed. Regrettably, that left no ideal candidates.

By elimination, someone like Sanada, trusted by everyone, might be the safest choice—

“Ayanokōji.” A voice cut through the brief silence as Shimazaki stepped forward. “If you’re having trouble deciding on a Commander, would you be willing to entrust the role to me?” He met my gaze. “I can’t promise I’ll exceed all expectations, but I believe I can handle the job competently.”

He wouldn’t have volunteered if he doubted his own aptitude. His intellect wasn’t a concern.

But for better or worse, Simazaki was the textbook definition of a serious, orthodox model student— steady, but not necessarily flexible. Whether he could adapt quickly in a chaotic situation remained unclear. Yet refusing him, with no better candidate in sight, could create unnecessary tension between us later.

“Can I trust you with this?” I asked

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “I was never the type to enjoy running around an uninhabited island anyway. I figure I’m more useful if I can focus purely on thinking.”

A role as heavy as commander naturally brought pressure, yet he approached it with clear, forward-facing determination. That alone made him deserving of serious consideration.

“Understood. In that case, I’ll entrust the Commander role to you, Shimazaki. But don't feel too burdened. A Commander’s capabilities are limited. The final responsibility for the success or failure of this exam lies on me, since I’m the one entrusting you with the role.”

When I said that, Shimazaki’s serious expression softened slightly.

Following this, Takemoto, Shiraishi, and Nishikawa, who had volunteered, were appointed as VIPs. Next, Sanada and Nakajima were assigned as Analysts, and Tsukaji as the Scout. The remaining students fell into the Guard role, and with that our formation was finalized.

“It seems all roles have now been assigned,” Mashima-sensei said. “In that case, take your necessary supplies and head to your starting area at once. Those serving as commanders are to remain here— you’ll be moved to headquarters shortly.”

He motioned for the students to follow.

This was where Shimazaki and I would part ways. With no means of direct contact until the exam was over, I quickly walked over to him.

“There’s something I want to tell you before we head out.” I said.

He turned toward me. “What is it?”

“No matter how small the change, if anything feels strange or makes you think something’s off, tell me immediately.”

“I’m entrusted with this important role,” he replied, “that goes without saying.”

“That’s not what I mean. The more you fixate on the responsibility of being Commander, the less you’ll notice what’s right around you. Another class’s commander smiling or getting angry. A subtle shift in another class's GPS formation, a pattern that feels just slightly off. Even if it’s nothing more than a personal hunch— something that bothers you as Shimazaki— I still want to know about it, no matter how insignificant it might look.”

He paused, thinking. “Won’t that… clutter the command structure with too much noise and cause confusion?”

“True.” I said. “That’s why the information won’t be spread broadly. It will go to a single point of contact.”

“Who should I pass it to?”

“It doesn’t particularly matter who,” I replied. “But for now, let’s make it Shiraishi. It’ll probably make things easier for you as well.”

From our earlier interaction, I had already understood that, just like Yoshida, Shimazaki harbored feelings for Shiraishi. If that was the case, then increasing his opportunities for contact with her would only be received as something positive.

For my part as well, among the three VIPs— Takemoto, Nishikawa, and Shiraishi— she was the one whose behavior, tendencies, and thought patterns I had the better grasp on.

Out of the three, she was the one I could say I saw the most clearly.

“No, no… that would be… awkward,” he stammered. “Yoshida would kill me.”

“There’s no reason to favor Yoshida alone,” I replied evenly. “To me, both of you are important friends.”

“I don’t know how you can say something like that with a straight face…” he sighed. “But even so, when it comes to Shiraishi, it’s still…”

“Is that so?” I asked. “Then Takemoto or Nishikawa works just as well. Takemoto’s a guy— that might be the safest bet.”

Given how close Nishikawa and Shiraishi were, any awkward slip with Nishikawa would just get straight into Shiraishi’s ears.

“No,” he said, after a moment. “On second thought… yeah. Shiraishi is fine. I’ll handle it properly, so you don’t need to worry.”

Despite his initial hesitation, Shimazaki came around. It was clear he’d decided that if he had to report to someone, it might as well be Shiraishi.

“Let's confirm one last thing,” I said. “I assume you’ll be monitoring the situation via GPS, but generally speaking, feel free to contact any VIP for standard updates. However, regarding vague doubts or mere feelings of unease— anything you aren’t certain about— route those exclusively through Shiraishi. We need to avoid adding unnecessary noise to the chain of command. The more people involved in a game of telephone, the more likely the message is to get distorted. In short, you can tell Shiraishi anything and everything, without filters.”

If Shiraishi were to be knocked out, we could simply decide at that time who would take her place as the contact.

“…You’re right,” he said quietly. “Understood. I’ll do that.”

I gave him a few more specific things to investigate once he arrived at headquarters, which he readily agreed to handle.

Before we set out, we performed the final step of preparation: each of us put on a pair of goggles to protect our eyes. Aiming at the head was prohibited by the rules, but for safety reasons, wearing the goggles during the exam was effectively mandatory. If we chose to remove them and something unexpected happened in that gap, the consequences would fall squarely on us.

Additionally, while the hit sensors appeared to be embedded only in the gym shirts, hits would apparently still register through a jersey, making the outer layer optional. That said, since the fabric would help cushion the sting of impact, keeping the jersey on seemed like the smarter choice for additional reassurance.