Chương 385: 173.Running My Legs Off 2

By the time we left the Seitokai office, the corridor traffic had already picked up. The brief looseness of the lunch hour had been reclaimed and recycled by the school into something that looked like afternoon operations normal. Outside the windows, the snow was still falling, the light coming through cold and white, like the entire building had been soaked in disinfectant and left out to dry. I carried the folder with the committee contact list inside.

Hedwig walked beside me, unhurried, quiet in a way that suited this kind of hallway a little too well.

"First stop is the Disciplinary Committee," I said as we went down the stairs.

"Fair warning — not because I enjoy looking for trouble, but because this kind of thing is better addressed early. Go later and they'll assume the Council was trying to ambush them." Hedwig glanced over.

"You sound experienced."

"I am," I said, flat.

"I've been caught too many times. You develop a working knowledge of predator behavior." She seemed to want to laugh, held it back, gave a quiet sound instead.

"I see."

"That I see sounds like you're observing wildlife."

"That wasn't my intention."

"Good." We passed through the covered walkway connecting the buildings, a draft slipping in through the half-open glass and hitting my shoulder. I shifted the folder against my chest, and found myself glancing sideways at the woman who'd been carrying a nine-compartment bento this morning and pushing people into administrative holes with an educated tone.

"By the way."

"Hm?"

"That breakfast this morning. Did you actually make it yourself?" Hedwig looked at me.

"You already ate it."

"That doesn't answer the question. I ate it, doesn't mean I'm not suspicious."

"And your current conclusion?"

"My current conclusion is that if it was a strategy to win people over, it worked very well." This time something genuinely shifted in her expression. The layer of composure that usually sat too cold in her eyes loosened, just slightly.

"Noted."

"Why are you noting that?"

"Reference."

"... Don't say reference in that tone. It sounds dangerous." She didn't answer, just walked quietly beside me. That silence was inconvenient, honestly. Not awkward, not unfamiliar, not the kind that needs filling. Too natural. Natural enough that I started wondering — was Maki assigning her to me only because a Secretary should know the campus, or had she quietly handed off something harder to manage along with it? I decided not to think about it.

Thinking too hard does nothing useful for someone in a high-wear position like Vice President. The Disciplinary Committee's office was in the back of the north block's first floor, near the connector to the school gate and the field. In plain terms: positioned so that if you needed to intercept someone, you could cut off their exits in the shortest possible time.

That kind of spatial logic was very Disciplinary Committee — no romance, pure efficiency, factoring in students' survival instincts right down to the routing. Before we reached the door, I saw the plaque. Disciplinary Committee — Enforcement Office Clean font, metal frame polished bright, so orderly it announced immediately that this room had no faith in human nature, only in records and rules. I stopped in front of the door and knocked twice. A flat, cool voice from inside.

"Come in." I pushed the door open. The first thing that hit wasn't a person. It was the air — clean, cold, the kind that made you feel like this school intended to pickle every rule-breaker in discipline and store them indefinitely. The room was immaculate. So immaculate that for a second I had the irrational sense my shoe soles might be contaminating the place just by tracking in real-world dust.

On the walls: duty rosters, patrol routes, violation statistics, and a map titled This Week's Campus Uniform and Conduct Violation Hotspot Distribution.... Genuinely unwell. The graphing kind of unwell. Freya Nikaido stood by the window. Today she looked, as always, like the physical embodiment of institutional discipline. Uniform pressed to a standard that bordered on hostile, silver-white hair not a strand out of place, posture so straight you had to wonder if her bones had been measured for angle.

She was holding a patrol log, and when she looked over, the cold in her gaze made me briefly wonder if the snow outside was actually a relative.

"Hoshino Shimo." She said my full name first, then shifted her eyes.

"And Hedwig von Wittelsbach." She said the full name completely, precisely, like running a formal confirmation. Then, mild: "Unusual."

"What's unusual?"

"You're here without having violated something."

"That opening line is very warm," I said.

"Truly, Chair Nikaido." She looked at me, face unchanged.

"If you'd like, I can start checking your uniform right now."

"No need — we're here on actual business." I held the folder out like a talisman.

"Seitokai, preliminary contact for the Representative Team Selection." I pulled out the contact sheet and handed it over. Nikaido took it, scanned it, and her eyes went a shade colder. Not directed at me — the Chair of the Disciplinary Committee's automatic response to seeing the words large-scale event, Upper House–Lower House Rivalry, crowd management, temporary cordons all on the same page.

"They're really reviving this," she said, low.

"Apparently we're not the only ones asking that."

"The Disciplinary Committee received a pilot draft last year. It was shelved." She set the sheet on the desk.

"If it goes ahead formally this year, gate controls, spectator flow, House routing splits, incident response — all of it needs to be rebuilt from scratch."

"This is why I prefer talking to you," I said, meaning it.

"You don't pretend this is just a wholesome youth event."

"Wholesome youth event?" She repeated the phrase like it carried mild toxicity.

"Both Houses on the field together, with preliminary rounds open for observation — how orderly do you expect that to be?"

"I feel genuinely understood right now."

"You don't need to feel that." She looked at me.

"I simply have a working knowledge of mass stupidity." Very Disciplinary Committee. Warm as a rulebook to the face. Hedwig had been quiet since we came in, watching the patrol chart and the weekly distribution map. When her eyes stopped on the High-Risk Conflict Zones column, her brow moved, barely. Nikaido noticed.

"Something to ask, Secretary?" Hedwig looked up, tone even.

"I was just surprised you'd done sectoral statistical breakdowns."

"That's standard practice."

"The Disciplinary Committee does this routinely?"

"When necessary," Nikaido said.

"Rules aren't decorative. Discipline without data is self-reassurance." That landed hard. Hedwig didn't look offended — she gave a small nod instead.

"Understood." I might have imagined it, but something in the way Nikaido looked at her shifted slightly — not warm, just slightly less purely glacial. Like she was checking: this new Secretary isn't just here to carry bento and look presentable. I pushed forward before the atmosphere had a chance to reset.

"Bottom line — the Council needs to know what support the Disciplinary Committee can offer. Gate access control, spectator crowd-splitting, inter-House routing, incident response, and—" I checked the list — "pre-event order maintenance and temporary cordon assistance." Nikaido had already opened a drawer and pulled out a blank form.

"Workable," she said.

"But with conditions." My eye twitched.

"Knew you weren't going to make it easy."

"The Disciplinary Committee's staffing is limited." She tapped the form.

"If you want us at every session, you need to send us the schedule, spectator caps, estimated group sizes, and high-risk matchups first. Without those, I'm not releasing anyone."

"That's reasonable," Hedwig said before I could.

"Without projected scale, Disciplinary can't set a duty rotation." The man looked at her. Gave a short mm. Turned back to me.

"Also." There it was. I knew it wasn't going to stop there.

"Since the Rivalry is using shared subjects, Disciplinary is requesting expanded on-site reporting authority for the marksmanship range and Bladed Combat Training Hall." If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. I frowned.

"To what extent?"

"If deliberate provocation, dangerous conduct, or unauthorized contact occurs on the floor, Disciplinary can suspend that group immediately."

"That's a significant amount of authority."

"Because when things go wrong, we're the ones writing the reports." Flat delivery.

"The Council wants the event to run. Disciplinary wants no one to get hurt. Those aren't in conflict." I didn't answer right away. Because she was cold, and direct, and not wrong. The worst part of anything this big is never the thing itself — it's the moment it goes wrong and smooth turns into a new word for cover your ass. Nikaido pinning this down now, ugly as it sounded, would save everyone later. Hedwig glanced at my materials, then at Nikaido.

"If the Council is putting together the public-facing pack, I can fold Disciplinary's conditions into the limitations section."

"Good," Nikaido said.

"I want clarity. Not an attractive layout."

"On that," Hedwig said, "our positions align." Watching the two of them, I had an unpleasant realization. On paper, they had nothing in common — one was a blade, the other a needle wrapped in silk. In practice, when the topic was rules, boundaries, and jurisdiction, their speech patterns matched alarmingly well. Not great. A Secretary who can cook is already too strong. If she starts syncing with the Disciplinary Chair on process, the Vice President's odds of survival drop sharply.

I cleared my throat and dragged us back.

"We'll get you the details and run them through the President and General Affairs for routing." Nikaido nodded. She was setting the pen down when she seemed to recall something and looked back up.

"One more thing."

"You've had a lot of one more things today."

"Because your Council likes to drop information at the last minute," she said.

"So I'll say this now. Once word gets out, Lower House will mostly complain. Upper House will complain and then start invoking qualifications and dignity. Disciplinary doesn't care how you argue it out. But if anyone starts trying to freeze people out at the registration stage, I'll interfere." I blinked. Not because I was surprised she'd say it — because she'd said it that bluntly. Hedwig's eyes shifted toward her too. Nikaido closed the file.

"The rules are written. They're for everyone. This thing's volatile enough as it is. I have no interest in watching someone drag their status into it and make it dirtier." That landed, and the room went quiet for half a beat. I couldn't help it.

"If you said that out loud outside this room, you'd sound like a spokesperson for fairness and justice."

"Shut up."

"Yes, Chair Nikaido."

"Hoshino Shimo."

"Here."

"Call me that again and I'm inspecting you first."

"... Understood." Hedwig dipped her head. I'd thought she was holding back a laugh. Instead, she spoke — as politely as if we were in a formal debrief.

"Thank you, for today." Nikaido gave her a look.

"I'm doing my job." Very Nikaido. Like unsweetened black coffee — harsh, but at least it's hot. I slid the sheet back into my folder and jerked my head toward the door.

"We'll get a first-draft flow to you. Thanks."

"Don't bring it to me on the last day," she said.

"You make me sound like a repeat offender."

"Aren't you?"... Couldn't refute that fully. Out in the corridor, the air felt half a degree looser. I looked down at the fresh notes in my folder and exhaled.

"Well?" I asked Hedwig.

"That's the first ring of the Academy's administrative hell. Worth the ticket?" She looked at me, that faint light from earlier still in her eyes.

"More interesting than I'd expected."

"If you genuinely mean that, I'm worried about your neural architecture."

"It was interesting," she said.

"Because you were explaining it." I stumbled.... Flagrant foul. Not big. Still a foul — the kind of thing that, stated that plainly, lodges in your ears for an extra beat whether you want it to or not. I looked away and pretended to check the list.

"Thanks. That should get me through at least two more committees."

"Only two?"

"Let's not overreach." I said.

"We've got a lot of hell to tour." She nodded lightly and walked with me toward the next stop. One look at the list said it all. After Disciplinary, the next block was Equipment and the ranges. Logical. Uncomfortable. One side keeps students from letting it blow up. The other keeps the tools from doing the same when it does. This school has always had a distressing artistic sense when it comes to aligning human suffering.

"Next, Equipment Management," I said as we walked.

"Then the shooting-range desk. Those two are a package deal — if equipment and venue don't line up now, the event day turns into a live exhibition of mutual blame."

"Does the Council always deal with this much?" Hedwig asked quietly.

"On a normal day, no." I shook the folder.

"Once something gets the school-wide stamp, the Council acquires a mysterious superpower — everything that technically isn't our job still manages to become our problem." She considered that, then nodded.

"Sounds similar to certain Imperial departments."

"That, somehow, is reassuring." I said.

"At least it's not only the Federation that specializes in offloading everything onto whoever looks most likely to survive it." The back of the north wing bled into the training block, and the air changed. Teaching halls smelled of paper, coffee, chalk dust, and half-hearted heating. The training side smelled of metal, oil, worn vinyl flooring, and a faint trace of spent propellant. Before we even reached the door, the schedule board on the wall came into view. Packed.

Bladed Combat Training Hall, sim ranges, live-fire lanes, maintenance stations, equipment checkout, fault reporting — every block filled. It looked like someone had taken all the school's violent tendencies and color-coded them into a weekly grid. I sighed, honestly.

"One look at that and I feel young and foolish." Hedwig followed my gaze.

"Because it's full?"

"Not because it's full," I said.

"Because it's full in a particular way. This kind of loadout means if one block goes wrong, the rest of the line goes with it." She watched a moment and nodded.

"Agreed." Right. She really had switched into admin mode fast. I knocked. Metal clinked inside, followed by a voice that sounded like it had had enough:"Yeah?" I opened the door and was greeted by a wall of shelving. Protective gear. Training blades. Practice weapons for live drills. Different calibers of training rifles. Electronic sensor helmets. Wrist recorders. Cones. Barrier tape. Portable displays.

Everything categorized along the walls with the precise chaos of a system built by someone who'd long since given up on perfection and settled for not letting it burn down. Behind the counter stood a man in dark-gray overalls. Older than us by a good stretch. Probably a tech specialist or permanent facility staff. His hair was honest in its disarray. His right hand held a partly disassembled training rifle; the left was stained with oil.

His face had that flat look of someone who's both sleep-deprived and been abused by students enough times to stop expecting joy from life. He saw me and frowned.

"Seitokai?"

"That fast is hurtful," I said.

"Folder under your arm. Expression of someone recently stabbed in the back by the Academy. And a person with you who definitely wouldn't be here voluntarily." He set the rifle down.

"There's only one group that combination fits." For once, I didn't have an immediate comeback.

"Fair." I set the folder on the counter.

"Vice President, here with your regularly scheduled catastrophe." He took the summary page and scanned the header.

"Capital District Representative Team Selection..." The tired flatness on his face gained an extra layer of genuine dislike.

"Oh. They're actually going through with this."

"Why does everyone say that first," I asked.

"Because the rumor made rounds last year and then died," he said.

"Every time they float this, we die first. Venue reshuffle. Checkout rules reworked. Wear-and-tear estimates redone. And if leadership comes back with 'let's think about it next year,' all of that was a waste."

"Putting it that way, I suddenly feel compelled to offer my condolences."

"Save it." He shoveled the sympathy aside.

"What does the Council need." I liked him immediately. No patience for bullshit or theatrics. Even his hatred of the hassle was practical. I flattened the checklist.

"First, an honest estimate whether the shared-subject gear can survive round one of quals. Second, which events will need locked-down time blocks. Third, we need to know where you expect things to blow up so we can build that into the schedule." He tapped the desk twice, then pulled the time sheet off the wall.

"You want the easy-kill points? Fine. Three." Pen. First tap.

"Shooting range. Especially moving targets and paired moving-fire. It's already tight. You put both Houses into that rotation, just swapping groups and re-zeroing eats your day." Second.

"Bladed Combat Training Hall. Not for lack of gear. Protective rigs and sensors are old. Normal classes, rotating through, we can get by. Under formal match load, one bad call and you'll be writing reports until spring." Third.

"Ground Operations Simulation Zone. Biggest space, looks most flexible, most likely to screw you. Obstacles, markers, hit-detection kits, temporary cordons — one major reconfiguration is half a day." He finished and looked at me.

"Now you know why I don't like this kind of project."

"Yeah." I nodded, sincerely.

"Because it's not an event. It's a multi-point synchronous disaster." Hedwig finally spoke.

"If it's just the first round, won't the event count be constrained?" He glanced at her.

"In theory."

"In theory," I echoed, already smelling the blood under it.

"In theory," he said again, dropping the pen, a little more fatigue in his voice.

"Once this crosses to the Upper House, someone is always too proud to lose face. Once it crosses back to the Lower House, someone always thinks the spec's been deliberately cramped. Leadership, wanting to look fair, loves to 'let everyone try everything.'" I shut my eyes briefly. Of course. Hedwig stayed calm.

"If someone insists on running every event?"

"Then you get to watch the gear and the venues bleed together," he said.

"Also — training weapons and sensors are capped. You cannot run dozens of groups parallel. If any of you writes a timetable assuming that, I'm sending it straight back." I put a hand up.

"Can I quote you on that and tape it to the President's desk."

"Be my guest. And tell her this: don't trust any plan that reads theoretically feasible. That's never something we say on this side."

"Agreed." Feasible on paper is the romance of administrators. Feasible in practice is the only dignity tech staff get. I scribbled the key points down. Next to me, Hedwig had taken out a small notebook and was already structuring the same list, her handwriting as tidy as a font file. He noticed, frowned.

"You're the new Secretary."

"I am."

"Your handwriting's good."

"Thank you." The compliment came out rough, like he didn't quite know how to praise someone, so he defaulted to the lowest-risk ground — legibility. I nearly laughed, but kept my face straight. In rooms like this, the only things that regularly get compliments are clean guns and readable forms. I was about to tug us back when he beat me to it, pulling a much older form from under the counter.

"One more thing," he said.

"Besides space and gear, the Council needs to get the checkout chain locked down now."

"Why."

"Because once this kicks off, all those I'll sign later habits die." His tone stayed flat, words sharp.

"Who checked out, who issued, who logged, who eats the damage — write it down now. Especially with both Houses in the same pool. The classic post-incident anecdote is always the same: something broke, and every single person says it wasn't them."

"Deeply relatable," I said.

"You have an intimate grasp of student nature."

"Not intimate," he said, pushing the form toward us.

"Statistical." Right. Hard numbers. Again. Hedwig picked up the form, scanning it once before asking: "On match day, if we need emergency replacement, who decides priority?" His gaze on her sharpened.

"We call the hardware. Floor Chief decides if it's replaceable. The Council can argue order all you want. You don't override." He paused.

"You want to remember that. I don't care who comes begging."

"I understand," she said. Standing there, I had to admit it — she really was built for this job. Not because of the handwriting. Not because of the politeness. Because she picked exactly the right questions. She wasn't asking to show she understood. She was looking for the lines that, if not drawn now, someone would try to bend later. Maki, clearly, had not thrown her into this run on a whim.... Damn it. That woman is always two moves ahead on the board, whether I see it or not.

I filed the last points into my notes and closed the folder.

"Alright. That's it for today. We'll send our first-draft flow your way — please feel free to highlight everything that's unreasonable." He snorted.

"There'll be a lot."

"I'm actually looking forward to it."

"You're sick."

"Occupational hazard of being Vice President." For the first time, he sounded half amused.

"Call first next time. I might be elbow-deep in something."

"Got it." We stepped back out into the hallway; the door shut, and I let out a long breath.

"Well?" I asked.

"Administrative Hell, Ring Two. More oil smell than the first one, right?" She looked at the folder in my arm, thought a moment.

"More... honest."

"That's an interesting choice of words."

"Because they didn't sound like they were trying to prevent students from acting out," she said.

"They sounded like they were trying to keep the system from detonating." I blinked. Then laughed.

"That is uncomfortably accurate."

"Is it."

"Yeah." I slotted the folder back under my elbow and started walking.

"Disciplinary stops students from killing themselves. Equipment stops the school from using the rules to drag everyone into the grave. Both look busy."

"And our next stop?" she asked. I checked the list. Range desk. Scheduling window. Then the Broadcasting Committee — the kind of place that sounds harmless and can absolutely wreck the school's rhythm on match day with one mistake. I looked toward the deeper part of the training block. Light from the high windows slashed across the floor, cold and colorless as a bank of stadium lamps.

Somewhere out of sight, target machines thunked and whined, someone shouted a command — the sound of a system warming up its bones long before the event had even started. I sighed.

"Next is the range desk," I said.

"Let's see if I can salvage the last of my illusions there."

"And if you can't?" Hedwig asked.

"Then I convert them directly into spreadsheets." She gave a soft laugh. Hearing it, I felt, against my better judgment, like this tour was not entirely without perks. Then I reminded myself that feeling was dangerous. The Selection had only just opened. We had the whole campus circuit ahead. If I started letting my mood improve every time she laughed, consequences were guaranteed. Still — logic is logic. People are people.

Sometimes, in a cold, busy, curse-worthy afternoon, having someone beside you who can keep up with your rhythm makes you just a little less inclined to drag the entire world into your blast radius. I shoved that thought down and led her toward the range.