Chapter 3: The Approaching Tasks

At six-thirty on the second day, the sun crested over the island, signaling the arrival of morning.

The light was still young, pale at the edges, filtering through the fabric of the tent in a muted glow. I woke to the faint sound of footsteps approaching through the quiet morning air, then slowly pushed myself upright.

Beside me, Yoshida and Sanada were still asleep. Their breathing remained calm and even, completely undisturbed by the presence outside.

Peering out of my tent, I found Katsuragi standing nearby.

For a brief moment, a faint look of surprise crossed his face, as though he hadn't expected me to emerge so quickly. But he quickly composed himself and offered a brief greeting.

“Good morning.”

I returned the greeting and stepped out into the morning air.

“Sorry,” Katsuragi said. “Did I wake you up?”

“I was already awake.”

“I see.” He paused briefly before continuing. “I hate to ask this first thing in the morning, but I’d like a little bit of your time. There’s something I want to discuss regarding this special exam before the second day’s assignments begin.”

Whether he had spent the night reaching his own conclusions, or if Ryūen had fed him instructions behind the scenes, I couldn’t tell.

Still, I nodded and quietly followed him. Once we were a safe distance away from the tents, Katsuragi stopped and turned to face me.

“In this special exam, there are several penalties that carry the risk of expulsion,” he began. “Among them, the only one that absolutely cannot be avoided is the expulsion tied to finishing in last place. Even if every student were to tie, it still cannot be bypassed. However, depending on the circumstances, I'm sure you understand that it can be overcome rather easily, don’t you?”

“A student with a Protection Point could become the scapegoat instead,” I said. “Assuming things work out cleanly enough to make that possible.”

“That’s right.” Katsuragi gave a small nod. “If this were only a problem within a single class, self-sacrifice would be a highly viable strategy. But in a competition involving the entire grade, that kind of sacrifice could easily end up benefiting the enemy.”

“If there’s anyone who’d self-sacrifice without caring whether it benefited allies or enemies, it would probably be someone from Ichinose’s class.”

Hearing that, Katsuragi fell silent for a moment.

“…Is there anyone in Ichinose’s class who has a protection point?”

There were certain details that had not been disclosed to the other classes. Katsuragi slipped the question in casually, as though it were nothing more than a natural extension of the conversation.

“Sorry, but I wouldn’t know,” I replied. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“…Fair enough.”

The internal situation of Ichinose’s class wasn’t something I could casually discuss with a rivalling class.

In truth, I had already confirmed that, at present, no one in Class D possessed a protection point, not even Ichinose. Unfortunately, that meant executing such a strategy was entirely off the table.

3

“This is just my own speculation,” I continued, “but regardless of whether she has a protection point or not, I believe Ichinose will hold off on making a move until the bitter end. While she wouldn’t hesitate for a second if it meant protecting her own classmates, the current Ichinose isn’t about to extend that same courtesy to the other classes.”

“If your prediction holds true,” Katsuragi mused, “then unless a student with a Protection Point coincidentally ends up at the bottom, there’s a very high chance someone gets expelled the day after tomorrow. And since nobody can see the total token counts across the entire grade, students will naturally focus less on token multipliers and more on simply avoiding last place within their own group.”

That alone would become enough of a psychological anchor.

If someone could confirm they possessed even slightly more tokens than another student, it would at least provide temporary reassurance.

Of course, reality was nowhere near that simple.

Unless you physically verified someone’s token count, certainty was impossible.

Furthermore, since tokens could be freely transferred twenty-four hours a day, that underlying anxiety surrounding the rankings could never truly be dispelled.

“So, what do you plan to do?” Katsuragi asked.

“That’s a rather straightforward question,” I replied. “Are you really that curious about my next move?”

“There’s only so much I can do,” Katsuragi said calmly. “I don’t want anyone from Class B getting expelled, but I can’t keep track of classmates outside my own group. So at the very least, I want to make sure nobody in the group I’m assigned to gets expelled.”

1

Katsuragi wasn't the only one who felt that way. In fact, the vast majority of the student body likely shared his sentiment.

Allowing an expulsion to emerge from your own group carried a heavy burden of collective responsibility. That’s why it was only natural to want to save those within one's reach.

“The way you went after Ike and Shinohara yesterday…” Katsuragi continued. “Wasn’t there a reason behind that as well?”

The way Katsuragi framed the question made it clear he didn't believe I had picked a fight for no reason, nor did he think my attitude was born from petty personal grievances.

However, I gave a light shake of my head, brushing off his suspicions.

“If that’s what you thought, then I'm afraid you’re overestimating me,” I said. “Those two and I simply don’t get along.”

“Are you saying you provoked your own group members based on personal feelings?” Katsuragi frowned slightly. “That seems highly uncharacteristic of you. I always thought you were the calm and quiet type.”

“Ike and the others said it too, didn’t they?” I replied. “That maybe I revealed my true colours after becoming the class leader.”

Katsuragi fell silent for a moment, studying me.

“…I find that rather hard to believe,” he said at last. “But fine.”

Perhaps sensing that pressing any further wouldn't get him any closer to the truth, Katsuragi steered the conversation forward.

“Whatever your true intentions may be, our fundamental priorities should still align. Neither of us wants to see our classmates expelled. With that as a given, surely there’s room for us to cooperate in certain areas?”

“It’s true that as members of the same group, there are areas where we can work together,” I replied. “But on a fundamental level, your way of thinking about the penalties differs greatly from mine. Joining hands might prove difficult.”

“Differs...?”

“Katsuragi, your desire to avoid expulsions stems entirely from the fact that they’re your classmates.”

I paused briefly before continuing.

“But drawing an arbitrary line between your own class and the others misses the point entirely. The real question is whether or not a student actually has the value required to survive this special exam. Whether they’re a member of the same group or the same class is irrelevant. If they don’t measure up to that standard, then their expulsion is simply inevitable.”

Katsuragi listened quietly before responding.

“I won’t deny that logic,” he said. “But treating everyone with perfect objectivity is far easier said than done. Furthermore, prioritizing one’s allies is not wrong. Rather, it’s a completely natural instinct. That isn’t just a rule born of this special exam; if you look back through human history, you’ll find the exact same principle at work.”

Whether they shared the same birthplace. The same race. The same nation.

Humanity has always drawn a line somewhere. Once those boundaries were set, people fought with everything they had to protect those they deemed allies, and struck down those they recognized as enemies.

“I’m not saying that you have to think the same way,” Katsuragi concluded. “But that is what I believe the natural order should be.”

It wasn't about forcing a specific outcome upon anyone.

Rather, within the natural framework of society itself, those destined to receive penalties would emerge on their own, and those unfit to remain would quietly disappear.

“So then, are you saying you would be fine with a student from Class C finishing last and being expelled in this exam?” Katsuragi’s brow furrowed. “If that is the case, then perhaps our views on penalties really are different.”

His voice remained calm.

“But if you truly think that way, I have to say… I’m somewhat disappointed.”

“Eliminating those who lack ability or who disrupt the harmony of the class often triggers a self-purifying effect,” I replied with ease. “Of course, I’m not saying every student expelled so far fell into that category. But at the same time Yamauchi, Sakura, and Maezono disappeared. And though it happened before you transferred, Manabe was cut from Ryuen’s class as well. While losing numbers puts a class at a disadvantage, looking at the bigger picture, it isn't entirely a net loss.”

1

It wasn’t the kind of logic that would ever resonate with someone like Katsuragi, who sought to protect his comrades. Then again, very few people would ever enjoy hearing something so callous.

“Sorry for taking up your time so early in the morning.”

It was a brief exchange, lasting less than five minutes. Katsuragi gave a single, curt nod, offered a brief apology, and walked back to his tent, making no effort to hide his disappointment in me.

By the time we separated, it was just past seven in the morning.

After waiting a short while, I returned to Class C’s tent. Yoshida was already awake, busying himself outside the tent with breakfast preparations. Sanada was up as well, working on some chores a short distance away.

“Looks like you and Katsuragi were talking for quite a while, huh?” Yoshida remarked.

“You noticed?”

“After you left the tent, I heard Katsuragi’s voice for a bit,” he said. “I was curious, but I figured it’d be rude to interrupt. Was it about the special exam?”

Since he already knew I had gone outside to talk, there was probably no need to hide it.

“He asked whether we could cooperate to prevent expulsions from our classes.”

“So, are you planning to team up with Class B?”

There was no approval or objection in Yoshida’s voice. He simply seemed interested in what decision I would make as the leader.

“Unfortunately, the negotiation broke down,” I said. “This isn’t a problem that can be solved between two classes alone anyway. Still, on this second day, we may start seeing movements in various places as people attempt for that kind of cooperation.”

“Then we’d better keep our eyes peeled.”

Yoshida’s expression hardened as he cast a wary, sweeping glance toward the tents of the other classes.

Shortly after finishing breakfast with Yoshida and the others, the supervisor’s instructions echoed across the campsite.

“Now then, I would like to announce the first task of the day. You will be taking on a large number of tasks starting this morning, so please remain focused and approach them with care.”

Retrieving four tablets, he distributed one to each class representative.

“For this ‘Team’ task, four classes will compete in a simple academic test, taking turns using a tablet. The order in which the four members of each team take the test is completely random. First place will receive 3 tokens, second place 2 tokens, third place 1 token, and fourth place will receive no reward.”

1

With that preface complete, the supervisor started announcing details.

If all four members of a class won their rounds, the class could earn twelve tokens. On the other hand, if all four finished last, they would walk away with nothing.

There was no direct risk attached to the task. Even so, it was the kind of test that could create subtle disparities in the number of tokens held by each class.

The important thing was the order in which we tackled the test. Rather than having top-tier students clash head-to-head, the ideal scenario was to be paired against opponents you could edge out by a narrow margin. For our Class C lineup, the randomized order fell to Morishita, Sanada, Yoshida, and myself.

True to the supervisor’s word, the format was remarkably simple. Each round consisted of ten multiple-choice questions with five possible answers, drawn from a specific subject. If two or more students had the same number of correct answers, their ranking would be decided by the time taken to complete all ten questions.

Morishita placed third in her round, and Sanada took first in his. Yoshida went next, but his opponents were Katsuragi, Mii-chan, and Amikura. With that lineup, he ended in fourth place. Finally, I anchored the group and secured a first-place finish.

1

In total, Class C walked away with seven tokens. Over in Class A, despite Ike and Shinohara finishing dead last in their respective rounds, Kushida and Mii-chan were blessed with favorable matchups and both secured first place, bringing their total to six tokens. Class B earned five, while Class D matched Class A with six.

All things considered, the opening task had produced almost no significant difference between the classes.

“The gap didn’t widen nearly as much as I expected,” Yoshida muttered.

He was right. As a single task, the difference amounted to only one or two tokens, well within the margin of error.

However, judging from how smoothly the first task had been carried out, it was unlikely that things would end with just this.

“Now then, we will move on to the next task. The order will once again be randomized.”

The supervisor announced that the subject would change, and there on the uninhabited island, we once again turned toward the tablets.

In total, we repeated the same process five times.

At first, the results had been separated by only narrow margins. But as luck and ability began to show their uneven distribution, the scores gradually converged toward what could be called their natural expected values.

From the second round onward, the tasks proceeded without changing format, but their underlying nature had certainly transformed. While the luck of the matchups and coincidence had influenced the results in the first round, as the rounds repeated, those elements were gradually filtered out, allowing each individual's pure academic and processing abilities to manifest directly as their rankings.

The simple structure of ten multiple-choice questions stripped away any room for bluffing.

Since ties in correct answers were decided by time, nearly perfect scores became the standard among the top students. Ultimately, the deciding factor became how efficiently one could process the questions without wasting time.

The lack of hesitation, the speed of grasping the question's intent, and the accuracy in eliminating options. A slight delay in any one of those areas alone was enough to make someone fall one or even two ranks lower.

Among all of them, the two who consistently remained near the top were Sanada and Katsuragi.

Sanada was consistent from beginning to end. No matter what kind of question appeared before him, his judgment never dulled.

The efficiency with which he operated made it seem as though his answer had already been decided the instant he finished reading the question, placing him far above the others in balancing speed and precision.

Katsuragi, meanwhile, approached the competition differently.

Rather than securing a perfect score, he prioritized staying firmly in the upper ranks. By dedicating time only to the necessary portions, he optimized his overall processing. As a result, he displayed great strength in time-based tie-breakers and made remarkably few mistakes.

Just beneath those two, another layer of students gradually began to emerge:

Mii-chan and Kushida.

Neither possessed blistering speed, but they rarely misread a question. Their unshakeable grasp of the fundamentals ensured they never suffered any major collapses.

Kushida finished last in the second round, but from the middle stages onward, she regained her balance. Once her rhythm returned, she began steadily stacking up correct answers, one after another.

Mii-chan, meanwhile, progressed through the problems at the same rhythm throughout, leading to minimal fluctuations in her ranking, fulfilling a role where she steadily picked up 2nd and 3rd place finishes.

In a prolonged competition like this, the existence of students who simply remained consistent and didn’t make mistakes translated directly into a steady accumulation of tokens.

Of course, not everyone adapted so smoothly.

As the rounds continued, the faces repeatedly settling near the bottom also became increasingly clear.

Among them, Ibuki’s decline stood out the most.

The questions themselves weren’t exceptionally difficult.

3

Even so, Ibuki had a terrible habit of abandoning a problem before fully grasping its intent. The moment her understanding faltered, she'd simply give up and select an answer, practically leaving the outcome to chance.

At first glance, that kind of decision-making might have looked efficient. It certainly allowed her to move quickly. But without any solid reasoning backing her choices, her results were inherently unstable.

While she occasionally managed to scrape together a correct answer by sheer fluke, those fleeting moments of luck didn’t continue. As the rounds piled up, probability smoothed out the fluctuations, and her ranking naturally drifted to the bottom.

It wasn't a temporary stroke of bad luck, but rather the consequence of her deeply flawed approach.

What came as a mild surprise was the performance of Ike and Shinohara, two students who similarly struggled with academics.

Contrary to initial expectations, they didn't throw in the towel on the questions, maintaining their stance of trying to get as close to the correct answer as possible within their limited knowledge. They scrutinized the options one by one, and while hesitating, attached reasoning to narrow down their answers. Their process could by no means be called efficient, and there were many moments where they needed time to make a decision, but at the very least, they did not abandon thinking.

Unfortunately, their earnest effort didn't directly translate into favorable results. They simply couldn't bridge the gap left by their lack of foundational knowledge, which put a hard ceiling on their total correct answers. Furthermore, their extreme caution severely inflated their completion times, putting them at a massive disadvantage whenever a tie-breaker occurred.

Consequently, they remained firmly entrenched in the lower ranks. While they rarely sank to dead last like Ibuki, they could never quite manage to break out of the bottom two or three spots.

By the time all five trials had concluded, a gradual yet undeniable gap in the token counts had emerged between the classes.

In the first round, differences of one or two places had been no more than margins of error. But with each repetition, those small differences accumulated. Eventually, they turned into a gap that could no longer be ignored.

The divide wasn't overwhelmingly dramatic, but that was precisely what made it so difficult to overturn. More than anything, it was a perfectly accurate reflection of genuine ability.

In other words, success here wasn’t determined by one standalone win, but by who could keep performing under pressure and produce results consistently.

It ultimately boiled down to one single metric: the fundamental ability of the students.

And those who failed to meet that standard were quietly and inevitably left behind.

1

Up until now, the uninhabited island exam had been a primarily physical ordeal. Following this abrupt shift to intense mental exertion, the exhausted students simply collapsed right where they stood the moment a break was called.

Unlike the sharp, burning ache of physical fatigue, this prolonged mental strain left a dull, lingering heaviness in the back of their minds. Unable to immediately shift gears and plan their next move, everyone simply surrendered to the brief, heavy silence.

During this respite, the students naturally gravitated toward their own classmates, keeping a wary distance from the other groups. The class representatives then began the meticulous work of distributing the tokens earned from the tasks, adhering to their own pre-established rules.

Our Class C was no exception.

I took our total earnings and divided them by four, handing out the respective shares to Yoshida, Morishita, and Sanada. I intentionally opted for a completely even split, choosing not to stagger the distribution based on individual performance.

“Ike keeps glancing over here,” Yoshida muttered.

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “It isn’t just us. He’s curious about all three classes.”

After all, the distribution of tokens was far more than a simple payout of rewards. It was a display of one's contributions laid bare as a numerical value. Naturally, people couldn't help but unconsciously fixate on the shares their peers were taking home.

“It is a battle against the fear of ending up last, after all,” Sanada said.

Perhaps his lenses had become dirty, as he quietly removed his glasses and wiped them with the edge of his shirt.

“I have no idea who’s getting how many tokens,” Yoshida said after checking the amount he had been given. His eyes drifted, casually toward the other three classes. “Even looking at it by class, it’s getting harder to tell how much of a gap has opened up.”

2

Since most of our focus had been devoted entirely to the tests themselves, it wasn’t surprising that nobody had perfectly tracked who placed where in every round.

“I’m starting to feel a little anxious myself,” Morishita said. “Please give me five extra tokens for emotional stability.”

3

I decided to ignore her unreasonable demand.

1

More than the rankings themselves, what lingered in everyone’s minds were fragmented impressions and half-seen results. People tried piecing those fragments together to grasp the larger picture, but there simply wasn’t enough information to arrive at certainty. And that looming ambiguity only fanned the flames of everyone's anxiety.

“Katsuragi-kun, Wang-san, and Kushida-san all seemed to be steadily taking higher places,” Sanada said. “So if we look at it by class, there may not actually be as much of a gap as we think.”

Sanada, who had a clearer grasp of the situation than Yoshida, answered with calm precision.

His words merely traced the facts. Even so, there was more behind them. On one hand, they carried the reassurance that, at this moment, no decisive gap had yet formed. On the other, they implied that precisely because things remained close, the next move could cause everything to shift at once.

1

Of course, it was true that the gaps between classes were widening little by little.

But each task offered only a limited number of tokens, so the difference had not yet opened dramatically. That much was also true.

However, that applied only when looking at the whole. When viewing the results by team.

Since each individual’s performance appeared directly as numbers, the situation within each class was different. Even among classmates, differences had begun to spread quietly, but surely.

If we turned our attention to the individual level, the gaps were probably reaching the point where they would begin to widen faster than expected.

“Wait a second!” Ibuki’s voice suddenly cut through the break. “What do you mean I only get two?!”

Under normal circumstances, the exact number of tokens someone received was not information that should be allowed to leak to other classes. It was strategic data, the kind of thing better kept hidden.

But in a class where distribution itself was based on comparing individual contributions, complete secrecy was rather difficult to maintain. And when the result was one a student could not accept, dissatisfaction had a way of spilling out before anyone could contain it.

Ibuki, furious, seemed to have no thought at all for the information she was exposing. She rounded on Katsuragi and began shouting loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.

Her emotions had overtaken her. Profit, loss, risk, none of that seemed to matter in the moment. The only thing driving her actions was the fact that she could not accept the result.

“I told you from the very beginning,” Katsuragi replied firmly. “Tokens would be distributed fairly, based on your performance. The tasks thus far have centered entirely around academics, which is your weak point, and you significantly dragged us down. You finished last every time. If anything, I could say I judged you leniently by giving you a reward at all.”

His words contained no visible emotion. But for that very reason, they allowed no ambiguity. Katsuragi did not try to soften the truth or dress it in comfort. He simply placed the facts before her and, by doing so, closed off any room for rebuttal.

The remaining two members of Class B seemed to have no objection to his reasoning. If anything, they appeared to agree.

As long as the standard for distribution was clear, introducing personal feelings into it would only create the possibility that they themselves might be disadvantaged later. There was no reason for them to deny Katsuragi here.

They had seen it themselves. Ibuki had finished last in every round.

In other words, the number of tokens Ibuki had personally earned was zero. From that perspective, giving her even two tokens could only be described as Katsuragi’s generosity.

"Are you trying to make me come in last or something?" Ibuki snapped.

1

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Katsuragi replied. “I have not the slightest desire to see anyone from our class expelled. However, if I distributed tokens equally even to a student who dragged us down, I would be causing trouble for Sonoda and Morofuji.”

His gaze remained steady.

“This is a special exam where expulsion is at stake. I absolutely cannot endanger those two with an unfair judgement.”

For Katsuragi, too, this was a bitter decision. That was the part he emphasized.

To protect someone, another person had to swallow their dissatisfaction.

That structure remained constant throughout the entire exam. This situation was no exception.

“Then…” Ibuki said, her voice lower now, though the anger had not disappeared. “If I actually contribute properly, you’ll give me more, right?”

“Of course.”

Katsuragi answered without the slightest hesitation.

Ibuki clicked her tongue sharply, then turned and walked away.

Her back showed her dissatisfaction and frustration plainly. But at the same time, she understood the reality in front of her. If she wanted to overturn Katsuragi’s judgment, words would not be enough.

She would have to do it by producing results.

The sun was already high overhead, and the air across the island was beginning to feel humid.

The clock had only just passed nine in the morning, yet the quiet hours of dawn already felt strangely distant.

A breeze slipped through the gaps between the trees, brushing faintly against our sweat-damp skin. Under normal circumstances, the sensation might have been pleasant. Now, it only seemed like one more thing dulling the mind.

After so many mentally demanding assignments in a row, everyone’s concentration had clearly been worn thin. The brief silence before the next physical task felt stretched out far longer than it actually was.

Nobody could fully relax while waiting for the next task, and everyone remained where they were carrying an awkward lingering tension.

“From this point onward,” Urushihara announced, “you will be taking on several physically oriented tasks.”

The atmosphere among certain students visibly lightened. After being forced through round after round of mental battles, the prospect of a physical challenge offered relief to those who had been bottling up frustration.

For anyone who had fallen behind in academic contests, this was finally their chance to show what they were truly capable of.

“This will also be a Team task,” Urushihara continued. “Each class will form pairs of two. Just like before, the pairs will be selected randomly by us. This task will test your core strength. The pair that can stand on one leg the longest without putting a foot down will win. The class with the first-place pair will receive ten tokens, second place will receive five, and third place will receive three. The class with the last-place pair will have two tokens withdrawn from their representative.”

1

The rules were simple enough.

If either member of a pair placed both feet on the ground, that pair lost.

It was classified as a physical challenge, but there was room for strategy. As long as one foot remained raised, students were apparently allowed to hold hands, link shoulders, or use whatever method they preferred. The details were left to each pair.

At a glance, it looked like a straightforward test of physical endurance.

However, it demanded compatibility and coordination between partners.

Individual ability alone wouldn’t be enough. Victory would depend on whether each pair could adjust to the other’s condition and distribute the strain properly.

“Huh? Pairs? Why isn't it individual...?”

For someone as confident in her physical ability as Ibuki, being forced to cooperate with another person was a clear disadvantage.

Depending on her partner, she might end up carrying a heavy burden, or worse, being dragged down entirely.

It was only natural that she wasn’t pleased.

The more confident someone was in winning alone, the more they hated uncertain variables like other people.

For Ibuki, this kind of cooperation was less an advantage than a restriction.

Meanwhile, I was paired with Sanada, and Yoshida ended up with Morishita.

1

Considering Sanada’s build, his higher center of gravity, and the likely limits of his endurance, trying to support each other evenly would be unwise. The most stable approach would be for me to serve as the axis while absorbing as much of the strain as possible.

Ibuki, who had already been muttering complaints, made no attempt to hide her disappointment and anger once she learned that Morofuji would be her partner.

Given Morofuji’s temperament, it was obvious that any emotional instability would directly affect her posture.

For Ibuki, it was probably one of the pairings she least wanted to draw.

“So, what would be the optimal approach here?” Sanada asked. “There’s a bit of a height difference between us, so linking shoulders seems like it would throw off our balance… Also, to tell you the truth, I’m not very confident.”

If the rules allowed one person to drop out while the other continued, then the best strategy would simply be for me to stand alone.

In fact, I’d prefer not to have unnecessary support or cooperation at all.

But if Sanada went down, I’d automatically be eliminated with him.

Since there was no point in only one of us remaining, everything came down to how we designed the load distribution.

“We should avoid clinging too tightly to each other,” I said. “That kind of strategy only works when both people are at high risk of falling.”

“So you’re confident in standing on one leg?”

“More or less.”

I shifted my weight lightly.

“Think of me as an object fixed in place, like a tree. Do whatever you need to stay balanced on one leg for even a second longer.”

“You mean I can hold on or lean against you however I like… Are you sure?”

1

“Yeah. As a pair, that’s probably the optimal solution available to us.”

By taking on Sanada’s burden myself, we could extend our total endurance.

It was a setup to prevent a collapse in the long term, rather than seeking short-term stability.

“Now then,” Urushihara called. “We will begin the task. Ready— start.”

At the supervisor’s signal, all sixteen students lifted one foot into the air at once.

While everyone moved at the same time, the real differences wouldn’t reveal themselves immediately. The question was how long each pair could hold out.

At the start, there was no major gap between any of the pairs. Some supported each other. Some kept their distance. Some rested their weight against each other’s shoulders. Their chosen methods differed, but none of their postures looked fragile enough to fall apart right away.

The real problem lay beyond that. After several dozen seconds, or once the first minute passed, the tiniest distortions in posture would begin to accumulate.

Those distortions wouldn’t be large enough to be noticed at a glance, but they would definitely become the seeds leading to a collapse. If they failed to correct their posture in time, a chain reaction would send them tumbling to the ground.

The strain concentrated in the supporting leg increased steadily with every passing second.

The sensation of the sole against the ground began to blur. The ankle, which had been quietly making tiny adjustments, could no longer fully suppress the tremors.

The balance they had initially maintained through conscious effort eventually gave way, plunging them into a desperate, agonizing struggle just to stay upright.

The transition from merely maintaining a pose to desperately enduring it. How quickly a student could adapt to that shift would dictate how long they could survive.

“S-sorry, Kikyō-chan,” Ike said, “You know… we kind of ended up pressed close together like this.”

1

Whether it was for the tokens, or because the task had given him a legitimate excuse to press close to her, Ike tried his best to sound calm.

His voice betrayed him anyway. An unmistakable pitch of excitement had already slipped into it.

Under the pretext of maintaining their posture, Ike’s shoulder touched Kushida’s. It was obvious that he was far too conscious of the sensation carried through that contact, and of the distance, or lack of it, between them. His eyes weren’t focused on the task in front of him either. They kept drifting toward Kushida beside him.

The moment his attention had strayed from where it ought to be, the risk had already taken root.

The problem was that Ike himself didn’t realize it.

“That bastard Ike…” Yoshida muttered beside me while struggling together with Morishita. “Honestly, I’m kind of jealous…”

1

Perhaps he had imagined himself paired with Shiraishi, the girl he had his eye on. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t stand the fact that Ike had been paired with a cute girl at all.

“You’re legally allowed to touch my body right now, you know,” Morishita said. “Deep down, you are actually thrilled about it, aren’t you?”

“Who the hell would be thrilled, idiot?!”

1

His denial came out too forcefully.

Whether that brief outburst disrupted his core or threw off his focus, Yoshida’s balance faltered. Morishita, dragged along by the movement, ended up putting her foot down as a result.

They were eliminated.

But perhaps realizing that raising their voices might disturb Sanada, who was still fighting to hold on, both of them immediately sealed their mouths shut.

A single reaction from the losers could break the concentration of those still remaining. Their silence came from understanding that much.

Kushida, meanwhile, showed no sign of rejecting Ike’s behavior. Nor did she give him any special encouragement.

She simply smiled naturally, treating the closeness as nothing more than part of the cooperation required for the task.

Her sense of distance was exquisite. Not too close and not too far. She maintained a position that allowed the other person to mistake it for permission. He was not being rejected at least. That alone was enough for someone like Ike to interpret the situation positively, and perhaps that thought accelerated his awareness of her even further.

He nearly lost his balance for a moment, but somehow managed to recover.

“Uwooooh! I'm not done yet!”

Shinohara, who was paired with Mii-chan, glared sharply at Ike as he got carried away. But perhaps because she had no room to carelessly call out to him, she remained silent.

Even so, her gaze carried unmistakable emotion.

She was desperately enduring, trying not to lose her balance, yet part of her attention remained fixed on Ike and Kushida. She should not have had any spare room to be distracted by something unnecessary, but the sight in her field of vision was impossible for her to ignore.

As a result, subtle disturbances began creeping into Shinohara’s posture.

She tried to correct it, but Mii-chan was pulled along as well, her own concentration chipped away by the movement. The situation grew increasingly difficult for both of them.

As long as they were a pair, one person’s instability would inevitably spread to the other.

Here too, the very burden they shared became their weakness.

Unaware of the strain those two were suffering through, Ike kept his arm around Kushida’s shoulder and whispered near her ear.

“Heh… Maybe we’re actually more compatible than I thought.”

2

“Mm, maybe so,” Kushida replied with a soft smile. “You’re really good at this, Ike-kun, so that helps a lot. Let’s keep going as long as we can.”

“O-of course. I’ll keep going… even one second longer…!”

2

A single compliment was enough to warp his concentration even further.

What he needed to maintain was his posture, but his attention had already been pulled somewhere else entirely.

2

One minute passed then two.

A one-legged stance that would never last long alone was being prolonged through cooperation between partners.

From this point onward, it was no longer a contest of stamina, but of how long they could postpone collapse.

Still, standing on one leg was never something the human body could maintain indefinitely. Even with mutual support, the time gained wasn’t dramatic. As the three-minute mark approached, one pair fell. Then another.

Limits did not arrive equally for everyone. The moment of collapse in a person came suddenly and often chained down the other one as well.

The next pair to fall was, as expected, Shinohara and Mii-chan.

The instant one of them lost balance, that tremor propagated directly to the partner, and they collapsed in a chain reaction without any room to correct it. The choice to support each other was effective, but at the same time, it carried the risk of falling together.

Conversely, pairs that kept too much distance soon began to drop out as well. Relying on individual stability alone made the opening moments easier, but as time passed, the burden of standing alone accumulated. Once one person reached their limit, if support did not arrive in time, the end came immediately.

The remaining pairs all occupied the space between those extremes.

They didn't completely support each other, nor were they completely independent. They only made contact and distributed the load when necessary. Whether or not they could make those adjustments became the difference here.

“Get it together,” Ibuki snapped. “Don’t you dare put your foot down until I say it’s okay. We’re absolutely winning this!”

In contrast to Ibuki’s fierce determination, Morofuji’s face was already twisted in pain.

“This is… actually really tough…”

Mental pressure and physical exhaustion were hitting her at the same time.

Sanada, who was gripping onto me, was in a similar state. The strain on the sole and ankle of his supporting right foot had clearly become too much to bear, and little by little, more of his weight began shifting onto me.

“Sorry,” Sanada said, his voice strained. “I think this is starting to get a little hard for me too…”

“Just hold out as long as you can.”

“But Ayanokōji-kun…” His small tremors had begun to increase. “Are you still all right?”

2

I answered only with a slight glance.

Of course, supporting an unstable Sanada meant I could not continue indefinitely either. No matter how steady I kept myself, absorbing another person’s shifting weight would eventually consume stamina.

The pairs still holding on were Ibuki and Morofuji, and Amikura and Minamikata.

Third place wouldn’t have been a bad result, but this was probably the moment to make a move. If there was a chance to raise our ranking by even one place, it was worth taking.

The question was how to make that happen.

“Morofuji.”

4

I deliberately called out her name.

There was no rule forbidding students from speaking while standing on one leg.

The moment she heard her name, Morofuji’s shoulders jolted, and her gaze, until then fixed desperately on her footing, snapped toward me.

All I needed was to divert her attention.

That alone was enough to disrupt balance.

“W-ww-what?”

The fear Morofuji had carried toward me ever since our group first formed was still there.

I said nothing more. Instead, I simply held her gaze and continued staring directly into her eyes.

She seemed to have a strong sense of discomfort around me, that was enough.

Fear, by itself, places a burden on both mind and body.

And what she was supporting now wasn’t only physical weight.

“H-hey, Morofuji, you’re wobbling!” Ibuki snapped.

Ibuki herself still had some room to spare. But once her partner’s core began to collapse, the burden on her increased sharply. A disturbance on one side led directly to collapse.

Meanwhile, Sanada no longer had the room to pay attention to an opponent’s movements.

“Why is this so tough...ugh…”

The surrounding noise no longer seemed to reach him. His awareness had turned inward, toward the battle with his own body.

Core strength mattered, but the calves and ankles bore more strain than most people imagined. In an extreme state, outside information was discarded. Only the battle within remained.

Sanada’s weight gradually leaned toward me.

Each time it did, I used a small amount of strength to correct it. A slight adjustment of the shoulder. A minor shift through the hip. A quiet compensation through the leg acting as my axis.

None of it was large on its own.

But the accumulation of those small corrections rapidly whittled away at my physical strength. The limit of an individual.

Before long, Sanada reached his limit and put his foot down.

Fortunately, Morofuji had done the same just moments earlier.

Thanks to that, we managed to slip into second place.

5

Chapter 3 Ends. Chapter 4 comes Tomorrow. Join our Discord (https://discord.gg/v9kBpcCH2Y) to get information on release dates and to have fun with fellow cote fans!