Chương 375: 165.Second Semester Begins 1

Sitting in the school auditorium for an opening ceremony should be a perfectly ordinary thing. Provided you're not being treated like a free exhibit from every direction at once. Provided you're not being subjected to a continuous barrage of whispers that their owners apparently believe are quiet, but which are, in fact, considerably louder than the projector fan. The UIMA auditorium was large — large enough that the word order might as well have been dissolved into the concrete and poured directly into the walls.

Rows of seats. Walkways too straight to be accidental. Stage lighting white enough to qualify as an interrogation room. And the school crest hanging above, large enough to discourage the development of a normal personality. Everything in the room was reminding you: today isn't a first day of school. It's the launch ceremony for a new cycle of collective domestication.

And I, Hoshino Shimo, was sitting somewhere in the middle-to-rear of this large-scale domestication event, spine straighter than usual — not because I'd suddenly developed respect for the administration, not because the ceremony atmosphere had moved me — but because if I relaxed even slightly, I was going to turn around and personally remove every whispering first-year behind me from their seat. Up on stage, Maki Kushima was delivering a steady output.

As second-year student representative and newly appointed Student Council President, she stood at the front of the podium in a way that should probably be filed as a violation. Not a literal rule violation. The kind where you look at someone and think: if this person stands in front of power, power looks like it has better taste. Her uniform was immaculate today. Shoulder line clean.

Voice unhurried and steady — not the performed kind of steady, but the kind that comes from actually knowing how to pull an entire room's attention without making it look like effort. The stage lights hit her face and made that particular brand of too-composed beauty more visible than it had any right to be. I stared at her for two seconds, then forced my eyes back. Couldn't help it. If I kept looking, my brain was going to start generating things that had no business appearing during an opening ceremony.

Like how close she'd been yesterday. Like the breath at my ear when she spoke. Like certain memories that didn't need to be queued up alongside the school anthem. So I dragged my attention back to the present. The present being: Hedwig, sitting in front of me, was also being stared at. Understandable. She was a special recruit with a sensitive background and a presence that had never once considered blending into a crowd.

She was just sitting there — silver-gold hair compressed by the auditorium light into a pale, cold gleam, back straight, the line of her neck and shoulders clean enough to feel like a personal insult to ordinary people. By princess standards, she was practically practicing restraint today. Her being looked at: completely understandable. Me sitting directly behind her: considerably less normal.

Even less normal: the first-years behind me had apparently decided their appreciation didn't need to stay limited to Her Highness.

"Princess Hedwig is so beautiful..."

"Right, right, it's insane."

"The one sitting behind her with the silver hair is so hot too..."... Hm? Hot? Who? I swept the rows to my left and right and ahead. Nobody. Not a single male in the vicinity who warranted the word hot. More precisely, the male population in this seating block was currently split between two states — either sitting like a model specimen of correct posture, or sitting like someone forced to attend their own funeral.

"Did you notice? His legs are so long, like a model..."

"Hey, keep it down."

"Actually, I saw her last year. She's a girl. She was small and kind of cute when she first arrived." Oh. So the unfortunate hot person was me. I didn't even have the energy to react. Because what this world had been doing to me was no longer fixable with a single fuck. This was more like a long-term chronic experiment targeting personal dignity: drop you into a school full of weirdos, then at age sixteen, arrange for you to be mistaken for a decorative male specimen by a group of first-year girls you've never met.

And the voices kept coming.

"But getting this hot should be illegal..."

"Seriously."

"I want to lick her feet." Excuse me. That particular student. Your commentary has moved past normal adolescent turbulence into territory that probably warrants a private session with the school counselor. My temple twitched. Up on stage, Maki was still speaking.

Her voice moved steadily through the microphone, packaging words like new term, community, responsibility, and self-discipline — the kind of words that, once arranged into sentences, automatically emit a faint antiseptic odor — into something a human being could actually swallow. Down here, I was being jointly assaulted by seven or eight first-years wielding misassigned gender and unspecified fixations. God. If you're actually watching, could you please put your sense of humor away for one morning.

I couldn't take it anymore. I turned around. Seven or eight first-years were clustered in the same seat block, heads close together, wearing the expressions of people sharing classified intelligence. The intelligence in question: my legs, my face, and one individual who had apparently begun drafting a foot-related plan. I looked at them, using what I hoped was my most unimpressed and most effective shut-up voice.

"Underclassmen. Keep it quiet." This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. All of them went rigid. Two of them straightened immediately. One nearly dropped her program. Another stared at me with eyes so wide she looked like she'd just been called out of a poster by the person in it. Good. Silence. I turned back to the stage, thinking: maybe the world hadn't fully bottomed out yet. They were quiet for approximately three seconds. Three.

By the fourth, the whispering was back — lower now, and somehow more enthusiastic.

"Did you see that?"

"I saw, I saw — she's actually so much hotter..."

"Up close it's even worse."

"Didn't you say she was a girl?"

"Yes, that's why it's worse."

"Men can just die at this point." I sat there, expressionless. I finally understood why certain military organizations developed psychological numbness training. Because sometimes, if you don't let your soul take a brief leave of absence, the only alternative is doing something that violates the school code of conduct. What made it worse: I was now picking up stares from other directions. Some from the rows behind. Some from the diagonal front. Several, very clearly, from the boys nearby. I knew that look.

The general meaning: why. On what basis. Whose side are you even on. And could you stop cornering the market on female attention. God. I'm just here for the opening ceremony. I didn't sign up to be the central sample in a Federation youth gender-perception and aesthetic-crisis study. I pressed the irritation down. Not because I'd suddenly matured — because the person currently speaking on stage was Maki Kushima.

If I lost it now and turned around, the entire auditorium's attention would swing over in three seconds, and she'd be able to see from the podium exactly what kind of low-grade theater was playing out in my row. Not that she probably hadn't already noticed. The thought made me look up at the stage involuntarily. Maki was turning to the next page of her notes, unhurried. Her gaze swept from the front rows toward the middle-rear — the kind of routine scan that looks like general stage awareness.

But I would bet my entire semester's conduct record that when it passed over my row, it held for less than half a beat. Less than half a beat. Too short for any observer to catch. But I knew she'd seen it. Because I knew her too well. Well enough that she didn't need to say anything, and I could still translate that half-beat into three separate messages: What now. You'd better sit still. We'll talk after.... Irritating.

She looked at me from a stage across a full auditorium, and I decoded the whole thing without a second's delay. That kind of familiarity was unreasonable — the same category of unreasonable as feelings themselves, the kind that quietly strip away your strategic advantage before you notice it's gone. Hedwig, in the row ahead, had apparently also registered the disturbance behind her. She tilted her head slightly — not enough to fully turn, just a small angle to one side.

"Lively back there," she said, voice low. Flat. Like commenting on the weather. I stared at the back of her neatly arranged hair and had a strong urge to press my forehead into the seat in front.

"Not lively," I murmured.

"I'm about to be classified as a campus-exclusive attraction." She was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed, very faintly. Brief and light — but I heard it.

"Is this one of the perks of being a special recruit?"

"If it is, I'd like to return the enrollment."

"Unfortunately, I doubt UIMA offers a seven-day return window."

"That line is especially inhumane coming from you."

"Thank you for the compliment." There it was. That's the most infuriating thing about her. She runs cold most of the time, and then occasionally drops one of these lines — not quite sarcasm, not quite warmth — and the precision is impeccable. Like the knife isn't permanently in you. You almost get used to the pain, and then she adds the second cut. The first-years behind us clearly noticed I'd spoken to Hedwig. Their breathing spiked again in unison. Great. Now I had the princess as a witness on top of it. Enough.

Whatever you've decided we are, you're only half right. The other half is currently standing perfectly straight on stage, in front of the entire school, discussing the responsibilities and obligations of student self-governance in her most official voice. If I disclosed the actual relationship right now, this auditorium would upgrade from opening ceremony to riot rehearsal. Maki's remarks moved toward their close.

"—May everyone in this new term not only fulfill what is asked of them, but learn to carry the weight for each other." The hall went quiet for half a beat, then filled with applause. I clapped, and smiled privately at nothing in particular. Carry the weight for each other. Very nicely put.

The same person who had me pinned by the shoulder last night, telling me not to move, was now on stage talking to the entire school about carrying weight — a tableau so morally elevated it could probably be submitted directly to the school archive. The Federation's real talent has always been packaging. Even a girlfriend can switch to Student Council President in under a second and deliver the whole performance like she has absolutely no private life.... Though, to be fair.

I could still tell she was in a good mood today. Not the kind that shows in a smile — the kind where the rhythm is right, the breathing is even, and the way she stands makes it clear the room belongs to her. Maki in that state was dangerous, because you'd look too long without meaning to and start thinking: right, that woman really does belong up there. The school staff at the side of the stage began preparing the next segment. Applause faded. Chairs scraped the floor in scattered bursts.

I was almost convinced the first-years behind me would finally redirect their attention toward the ceremony itself — when a small folded square of paper poked against the side of my seatback. My eye twitched. Who. I kept facing forward, reached back with two fingers, pulled it over, and unfolded it slightly in my lap. It read: Senior, sorry for being too loud earlier. But you're really so cool. Could I ask what hair products you use? I stared at that note for a full two seconds. Not moved.

Just genuinely uncertain whether this counted as harassment, slander, a pickup attempt, or a straightforward hair-care consultation. I picked up a pen and wrote on the back: Learn to be quiet first. Then ask about hair. I folded it and passed it back. A moment later, a strangled little gasp came from behind — suppressed so hard it was actually louder than if she'd just reacted normally. Good. Clearly I was not getting out of this.

And worse — the boys nearby had now upgraded their stares from this isn't fair to I'm considering challenging you to something on the field. One of them had even straightened his posture and appeared to be contemplating whether dyeing his hair silver might restore his dignity. Please don't. UIMA is already chaotic enough without a wave of failed silver-hair imitations. Right then, the ceremony moved to the new student introduction segment. Hedwig was called to stand and acknowledge the room.

Every gaze in the hall naturally converged on her. She rose with the kind of grace that was almost cruel — like someone who had been taught from childhood, with thousands of eyes on her, exactly where to put her shoulders, how far to lift her chin, where to let her gaze rest so she appeared neither arrogant nor diminished. Applause. The first-years behind me joined in, clapping with particular enthusiasm.

Then someone added, very quietly:"A princess in front and a prince behind — what kind of blessed seating arrangement is this..." I closed my eyes. Three seconds. Just three seconds. Let me mentally leave this room for three seconds, and I can still function as a person. The universe apparently felt my suffering quota for the day was unmet.

Because once Hedwig sat back down, the MC's next line moved directly into another special-recruit announcement — pulling me back into the room's collective awareness whether I wanted it or not. Several more gazes swept over. From the front, the sides, the back.

Even the boy who'd been glaring at me from the diagonal rear was now wearing an expression somewhere between shock and grievance, like fate had just personally delivered the message: I'm sorry, but for the foreseeable future, you may have to come to terms with the fact that the cool one is a girl, and she's more popular than you. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Because the next second, a voice from the back row murmured:"I'm doomed. I like her even more now." Right. Sympathy revoked.

The Federation is beyond saving. The ceremony continued its roll through applause, boilerplate, introductions, pledges, and chair-scrapes. But for me, the point had long since shifted from term begins to how do I get through this without turning around and strangling a freshman. I looked up again. Maki had stepped back from the podium, standing in line with the other campus officers. The distance was long, the light too white, everyone forced into the kind of posture suitable for school brochures.

But in a gap between segments, when the MC was talking, she glanced our way once more. Brief. But something in me eased. Which was irritating. I hate that. Hate that I can sit here getting driven insane by the way everyone's looking at me, and still calm down just because she checked in from across the room. Love has zero military value. If anything, it's a high-risk, low-reward personal catastrophe that significantly degrades judgment during formal events. Too late now. I signed for it.

So I sat there, spine straight, pretending not to care about the first-years' worshipful looks, the increasingly hostile male glares, the princess-effect attention drift, and the way the Student Council President on stage was throwing me glances half-warning, half-steadying, that only I knew how to parse. The ceremony had barely begun.

And I was already wondering whether this term was going to be about coursework at all, or about staying remotely human-shaped under everyone's misconceptions, jealousy, crushes, and attempts at management. Perfect. Day one, and once again, the school had reminded me: this place doesn't cultivate talent. It just lines up everyone who hasn't died yet and tests who can sit under every eye in the room without breaking first. And my question of the day, apparently, was: Hot guy.