Chương 388: 176. Busy Day 1

Akari Flak. Just having that name resting on the paper was more reassuring than the entire original process combined. It was pathetic, but it was also reality. The Seitokai had spent the entire day coordinating rules, traffic routes, equipment, calibration times, and suspension authority, and in the end, the only thing that actually offered any peace of mind was a single name.

It wasn't the system guaranteeing she could hold the line; it was the fact that she had enough sheer weight to keep the system from looking like a joke. In other words— The truly strong are what you use to stop a process from bleeding out. As for the guy I was on my way to see now, he was probably more the type to use the process for a blood transfusion. Thinking about that, I couldn't help looking down and laughing.

A second later, I realized that categorizing people this smoothly was probably a sign of deteriorating mental health, and not the kind of headspace the protagonist of a normal youth-academy novel ought to be in. Then again, this school was never built to foster normal youth.

It was more like a deluxe military-academy psychiatric ward that shoved "administrative torture," "class nausea," and "responsibility dodging in group ops" into your syllabus at age sixteen, and then slapped a label of growth and honor on the cover. And today, I, Hoshino Shimo, had been dispatched to check on a patient living in the luxury ward who still thought he was perfectly healthy. The Upper House training block was in a different sector.

Unlike the Lower House—where people looked like they were on the verge of dying from overwork every day, yet the buildings stubbornly maintained an atmosphere of "at least we're still breathing"—the Upper House sector was unreasonably immaculate, right down to the architecture and the lighting. The corridors were long, straight, and bright. The floors were polished enough to shoot a recruitment video on.

The past records, team flags, and commemorative photos hanging on the walls all carried the same effortless vibe: We were born to stand in the front row. Honestly, the most terrifying thing about places like this is never how good they are. It's how they slowly make the people living inside them forget that most things in the world don't naturally go this smoothly. I followed the signs toward the shooting range. Before I even reached the main floor, I spotted two Upper House students chatting by the doors.

Their uniforms were crisp enough to cut paper. Their boots shone like they'd just been polished. And their tone carried something I was deeply familiar with, and deeply wanted to smash with a wrench—the specific, effortless ease of people who have already arranged a respectable exit for themselves before they even step onto the field.

"... I hear they're forcing a few Lower House kids up this year too."

"Well, they have to put on a show."

"True. Wouldn't look good to the outside otherwise." I didn't break my stride as I walked past them. One of them glanced at me, seemed to recognize I was from the Seitokai, and gave her mouth a polite little twitch. It was a very cultured smile. And highly punchable. Not because she was being malicious, but because she didn't need malice. From start to finish, she was simply standing on the side that benefited her, taking it for granted, and didn't even think it was something worth hiding.

As if the Lower House needing to be "forced in" was just a graceful charity the system extended to the weak, rather than the reality that someone out there could actually shoot them to pieces. I suddenly missed Akari's chronically sleep-deprived dead-fish eyes. At least when people like that look at you, they don't sugarcoat the hostility. I walked into the shooting hall. There were already people inside. Not many. Three or four.

Looked like the Upper House had caught wind of the selection early and someone was already warming up. The electronic lanes stretched out in neat rows ahead, the lighting cool, the ceiling high enough to make every sound hollow. It didn't smell much like gunpowder; it was mostly gun oil, metal, air conditioning, and a highly disciplined, aesthetically pleasing scent of competition. I recognized the candidate almost immediately. It was hard not to.

Not because he looked particularly unique, but because some people stand in a way that practically broadcasts, I have been raised very, very well by a lot of people. He was tall, with a good shoulder line. He wore the uniform exactly to standard, the overlap between his cuffs and his protective gear as neat as a textbook illustration. His shooting jacket was high-end custom, tailored so well it barely showed a wrinkle. His rifle case leaned to the side, every metal clasp and leather strap immaculate.

If you asked me, his first impression wasn't so much "shooter" as it was "the cover of a report that already has its preamble written by the judges." In short, he looked like he would win. But that kind of "looks like" is usually a bad sign. Because people who actually win rarely rush to look the part. I stood near the entrance, watching him raise the rifle, aim, and fire. Clean motion. Really clean.

Not the clean of someone coasting, but the clean of someone who had undergone incredibly comprehensive training, his posture polished layer by layer. Breath control, stock placement, shoulder pressure, sightline acquisition—everything was right. At least, it looked right. A younger student stood beside him, ready to hand over a data pad, while another checked the return scores, wearing a highly cooperative expression of as expected of our Senpai. —Ah. I get it.

I stood there, my mood suddenly settling into something almost funny. Not because he was weak. Exactly the opposite. Because he wasn't weak. But that was exactly the problem. If someone is just an empty suit, they aren't a threat. The best thing about empty suits is that they blow themselves up the second they hit the field; you don't even have to clean up.

The truly annoying ones are this type—solid fundamentals, excellent environment, a whole team of people smoothing out their margins of error along the way, until they slowly confuse "my performance is stable" with "the world naturally adjusts itself for me." He fired another round. The electronic target fed back the score. The two guys next to him murmured a cooperative "nice shot." I looked at the number and said nothing. A normal student would probably just think it was a great score.

But if you were the Vice President of the Seitokai, and you had just finished running through the three separate hells of the Disciplinary Committee, the equipment room, and the range duty desk, looking at this scene didn't make you think, Wow, impressive. It made you ask entirely different questions: Which specific rifle setup is he used to? Which specific lane is his favorite? Is the wind simulation locked exactly into his most comfortable bracket? Has his calibration time ever been cut short?

Are these two guys just helping out today, or is there always someone prepping everything to the "just right" point for him? More importantly— If you pulled away all these "just right" conditions and dropped him into Maki's newly overhauled, strictly regulated process, how much of him would actually be left? I stepped a little closer. My shoes didn't make much noise on the floor, but in the quiet hall, it was loud enough. The guy holding the data pad looked back first.

Then the candidate lowered his rifle and looked at me. For the first second his eyes landed on me, there was no displeasure. No guard going up. He identified me first. Then he decided on his expression. I'd seen plenty of this type. It wasn't that he was fake. It was that he had grown up in an environment where he constantly had to verify whether the person in front of him was worth dispensing the corresponding level of courtesy. So his reaction was incredibly mature, and incredibly correct.

Correct to the point of being a textbook.

"Vice President Hoshino?" He spoke first, his voice pleasant, carrying exactly the right amount of politeness.

"A rare guest. Is the Seitokai taking an interest in the shooting division today?" I stopped and gave him a brief nod.

"We're taking an interest in the team selection. Not your division's ego." The younger student next to him instantly went stiff. The candidate himself didn't get angry. He just smiled. A highly standard smile. Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Standard enough that I wondered if he practiced it in the mirror three times every morning just to perfectly calibrate the subtext: I hear you taking a shot at me, but I am too well-bred to stoop to your level.

"I see." He took off his goggles and handed them to the guy next to him, the motion as natural as if having someone there to take his things was a fundamental law of physics.

"So, what did the Vice President come all this way to confirm?" I looked at him. It was even more obvious up close. This guy wasn't trash. But his problem wasn't that he was trash. It was that he was too smooth. So smooth that even when he asked "confirm what," the underlying tone sounded like: Since the rules are coming, it's best we confirm what I'll need on my end, so we can fully prepare for my official debut.

I suddenly understood why Maki had said earlier that some problems can be processed, and some can only be quarantined. Because if this guy had zero skill, the Seitokai could just cut him by the book. But he did have skill. And he had the background, the manners, the looks, and the perfectly correct posture to make it seem entirely natural that he was standing in that spot. That was the headache. It wasn't that he couldn't hit the ten-ring.

It was that, from childhood to now, he had lived his entire life inside a ten-ring that other people had drawn for him in advance. Coaches corrected his posture. Senpais yielded their slots for him. Juniors caught his data pads. The system preserved the "most appropriate-looking" justifications for him. Even the compliments from bystanders felt pre-configured, landing exactly in the sweet spot to maintain his confidence without sounding too sycophantic.

Over time, he'd probably genuinely come to believe that every time he stepped up to the firing line, the bullseye was naturally supposed to be sitting right there waiting for him. And standing there, looking at his flawlessly unassailable face, I suddenly felt the urge to laugh. Not because he was ridiculous. But because I finally realized that the truly difficult thing to handle in this selection wasn't a glaring idiot, or a troublemaker, or a process drafted like a disaster simulation.

The truly difficult thing was this type—someone who looked like he did nothing wrong, but was fundamentally wired to expect the world to calibrate itself around him first. Seeing I hadn't answered immediately, he spoke again, perfectly cultured:"Vice President?"

"... It's nothing." I pulled myself back and offered a smile that was equally polite, but absolutely not friendly.

"Just here to confirm a few things."

"And the result?" I looked at him. The sentence was already fully formed in my head. Some people don't miss the target. They just spend their whole lives living inside a ten-ring someone else drew for them. People like this were a nightmare to deal with. Because you couldn't just say he wasn't good enough—he clearly was. You couldn't say he didn't belong—he looked the part perfectly.

What you actually had to do was strip away every single wire other people had laid down for him, and see if he could still stand on his own two feet. Thinking about that, the cold air in the hall suddenly didn't feel so biting anymore. Because at least now, I knew exactly how to take this back to Maki. I wouldn't say: This guy is strong. I wouldn't say: This guy is trash. I would say: This guy is the kind of problem that, once dragged out of his pre-drawn ten-ring, requires complete re-verification.

I looked at him and finally flattened out the trace of a smile on my lips.

"The result is," I said, "the Seitokai is going to be very busy." He paused, slightly taken aback. The two guys next to him clearly didn't get it either. Good. Because I never planned on finishing the conversation here anyway. Some things are a waste of breath to tell the person involved. Telling Maki—that was the actual job. I gave him one last nod, didn't linger, and turned for the exit.

I could feel his gaze on my back for a few seconds, probably trying to calculate whether I had just come to say hello, or if I actually meant something by it. Too bad that wasn't his problem anymore. At least until the Seitokai officially put the roster on the table, his effortless grace, his clean technique, and his correct posture were nothing more than an unverified sample. When I pushed the doors of the shooting hall open, the cold wind hit me in the face again. Perfect. Just right.

Right enough to clear my head, right enough to permanently burn every ounce of his "taking it for granted" into my memory, and right enough to confirm that calling it a day here was the best move. Any further, and it wouldn't be observation. It would be a declaration of war. And today, I wasn't planning on wasting ammo. When I pushed open the door to the Seitokai office, the first thing that hit me wasn't the heat, but the familiar smell of paper, coffee, and the continuously operating hellscape of the Seitokai.

The sky outside had gone completely dark. The glass reflected the room's light, making the whole office look like a broken ship that hadn't sunk yet, but where everyone on board knew they were working unauthorized overtime. Roy was still in the chair by the window, head down, fighting a budget spreadsheet. He was fighting it so hard his expression had reached the final stage of a male finance officer losing all remaining faith in civilized society.

Lan had her newly drawn traffic map pinned to the desk, using a ruler to adjust the last few diversion lines; the faint crease between her eyebrows looked as straight as the ruler. Hedwig sat next to Maki, currently drafting the formal notice for the once-and-only-once revised process. Her handwriting was so immaculate it gave off the vibe that she could write a death threat and make it look like royal correspondence. As for Maki— She sat behind the center desk, the red pen still in her hand.

Like a judge who had just finished handing out one batch of death sentences and was preparing to review the next. The second I walked in, all four of them looked up. For a split second, I felt the absurd sensation that I hadn't just gone on an errand, but had been sent to the front lines for enemy reconnaissance, and was now returning to report: The target isn't an idiot, but he's also not a talent worth writing songs about. Maki spoke first.

"You're back."

"Yeah." I shrugged halfway out of my jacket, walked up to the desk, couldn't be bothered to circle around it, and just dropped the line exactly as I'd thought it.

"Some people don't miss the target. They just spend their whole lives living inside a ten-ring someone else drew for them in advance." The office went quiet for a second. Roy stopped his pen. Lan looked up. Hedwig's pen paused on the paper. Maki didn't answer immediately. She just looked at me, as if verifying whether that sentence was just me complaining, or if it was a fully categorized, packaged, and tagged operational conclusion that only needed her stamp of approval. Unfortunately, it was the latter.

I was being entirely serious. Which, for someone who still hadn't eaten dinner, was nothing to be happy about.

"Elaborate," Maki finally said. I pulled out the chair in front of her desk and sat down, tossing my gloves onto the corner. The moment my shoulder blades hit the backrest, I realized just how much ground I'd covered today. From the Seitokai to the Disciplinary Committee, from the equipment room to the range duty desk, then from the Lower House range to the Upper House training hall, and all the way back.

In a normal youth-academy story, the heroine would probably be picking out desserts at a convenience store right now, or bickering with someone on the walk home. Meanwhile, I was sitting in the Seitokai office, preparing to brief the President on exactly which brand of privilege and resources produced a candidate most likely to drop the ball in a live match. The Federation's education system really had a bright future.

"He's not an empty suit," I said.

"Posture, breathing, handling, trigger pull—he's got the foundation. The scores aren't bad either. You could even call them impressive. The problem isn't that he can't do it. The problem is he's too used to having everything calibrated for him." Roy leaned back in his chair, looking like he'd just caught a whiff of something highly unfriendly to both his budget and on-site order.

"Meaning," he asked, "he can fight, but only inside his comfort zone?"

"Pretty much." I nodded.

"And it's not just the standard 'only performs well when he's feeling it.' It's the more annoying kind. You look at him and realize his entire periphery is perfectly smooth—familiar equipment, his favorite lane, someone next to him catching his data, people playing hype-man, even the compliments hit at exactly the right volume." Lan looked down at her traffic map and added, voice flat:"So he's not standing in the ten-ring alone. An entire environmental setup is carrying him into it."

"Right," I said.

"That's why this type is the worst to deal with. You can't say he's unqualified, because he does have skill. You can't just call him a poser, because he isn't. But the second he steps out of that pre-calibrated environment, you have to re-verify exactly how much of him is actually left." Hedwig set her pen down and looked up at me.

"Is he aware of this himself?" That was a very precise question. I thought about it, then shook my head.

"Probably not. Or rather, he might know he's always been treated well, but he doesn't register it as special treatment. To him, it's just normal. It's the baseline configuration appropriate for his status, training, and position." Roy let out a soft sound through his nose.

It was the sound of a male finance officer trying very hard not to say, Rich and powerful people are uniquely talented at interpreting preferential treatment as the bare minimum, because saying it out loud would force the Seitokai to write three more self-reflection reports.

"That's a headache," he said.

"It is." I looked at Maki.

"Because this type is perfect for being used as a storefront display. The Upper House just has to put him out front, and everyone's first glance will be, Yes, this looks very respectable, very representative of the team." Maki finally moved. She set the red pen down gently, leaned back in her chair, and looked at me with eyes as calm as if she were reviewing a spreadsheet that had finally been filed in the correct column.

"Usable," she said. Roy raised an eyebrow. Lan looked up. Even Hedwig paused slightly. I just stared straight at her.

"Usable?"

"Usable. But we strip his armor." Maki's tone didn't shift at all; she could have been discussing the weather.

"It's not that this kind of person can't make the roster. It's that we can't let him bring his existing comfort conditions onto the roster with him. Throw him into unified calibration, unified rotation, unified equipment rules, and unified spectator conditions. Then we look at him again."

"And if his score drops massively?" Lan asked.

"Then it proves he wasn't shooting on skill. He was shooting on configuration," Maki answered instantly.

"And if it doesn't drop?" Hedwig followed up.

"Then he's genuinely usable, and was just raised a little too comfortably." I looked at her and couldn't help wanting to laugh. This was one of the reasons I liked talking to Maki. Assuming, of course, she wasn't currently using me as expendable equipment. She rarely wasted words. You hand her a tangled mess that looks complicated but is fundamentally clear at its core, and she usually just peels back the most critical layer and throws the rest back into the system to verify itself.

In other words, she didn't like trying to persuade people. She liked letting the rules expose them. It was brutal. And highly effective.

"So which column does he go in for now?" I asked. Maki reached out, pulled the blank roster I'd brought back over to her, and added a new note next to the standby section: Upper House Candidate — High-environment-dependency type. Re-verify outside existing configuration. I stared at that line. It was beautifully cold-blooded. Roy leaned over to look, lowering his voice.

"President, this categorization system of yours really belongs in a Seitokai underworld practical manual."

"You can submit a proposal for it," Maki said.

"Even if I did, you wouldn't approve the printing budget."

"Glad you know." Lan finally laughed out loud, head down. It was short, but real. Hedwig looked away from the line, the corner of her mouth moving faintly. On anyone else, that kind of smile would be polite; on Hedwig, it was practically royal-tier relaxation. Sitting there, I suddenly felt a very distinct sensation. We could call it a day. Not because the work was done. Seitokai work is never done.

It just gets categorized, tagged, and sorted, and right when you think you can finally breathe, it crawls back in a shape that looks a little more human. But at least today, we knew what kind of person Akari was, and we knew what kind of person the Upper House candidate was. The former was the real deal, capable of stopping a process from bleeding. The latter was a sample that needed its armor stripped before we could see what it was actually made of. That was enough.

As an end to the day, it was educational enough. Any more, and the Ministry of Education ought to be paying me overtime. I leaned back against the chair and let out a long breath.

"So, we're done here for today?" Maki looked up at me.

"You want to get off work?"

"I want to survive getting off work," I said.

"At this school, those aren't exactly the same concept."

"There's still the final version of the forms."

"That's your final version." I pointed a finger toward the door without blinking.

"I've already run a full set of human observation samples for the Seitokai today. Push me any further, and I might start categorizing the candidates into 'edible' and 'inedible' on the spot." Hearing that, Roy finally put his pen down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"If we're categorizing by that, I suggest putting the Upper House guy under 'Not Recommended for Raw Consumption'."

"You're awfully energetic today," I looked at him.

"That's because I'm starving to death." Roy answered with an incredibly honest male justification.

"Once a person hits a certain threshold of hunger, they suddenly lose the energy required to polish their social interactions."

"You've always been pretty consistent on that front," Lan said flatly. Roy shot her a look, clearly wanting to argue, but ultimately chose to save his strength for dinner. Very wise. One of the most important survival skills in life is knowing which wars can be postponed until you're full. Hedwig stacked her drafted documents neatly and pressed the corners flat.

"If no new conditions are added tonight, I can have this notice finalized before tomorrow morning."

"No more additions," Maki said.

"That's it for today." The moment she said it, the air pressure in the entire office seemed to drop a notch. Not slacking off. Liberation. I could practically hear the microscopic celebration of Roy's sanity snapping back from the brink. Lan put away her ruler, organizing her blueprints as she asked:"Should we just go eat together, then?" It was asked so naturally, but it still made me pause. Because Lan said together.