## **Chapter 5: The Game Begins**
The classroom buzzed with conversation as I stepped inside. The teacher had yet to arrive, leaving the students free to chatter among themselves. I scanned the room—faces filled with curiosity, nervousness, excitement.
I found a seat near the middle, next to a boy with sharp eyes and an observant demeanor. We exchanged glances for a second, neither of us saying a word.
Then, the door creaked open.
Silence.
A man entered—**broad-shouldered, his frame more suited for a soldier than a teacher.** He had the look of someone who had seen countless battles, both in life and in the classroom. His eyes, cold and piercing, swept across the room like a predator sizing up his prey.
The air turned heavy.
He sat down at his desk and folded his arms. "Welcome to Class 1-C," he said, voice low but firm. "I am your homeroom teacher."
No name. No introductions.
His gaze lingered on each student, his stare unwavering, as if measuring our worth. A few students shifted in discomfort.
Then, he smirked.
"We'll begin with a **start-of-the-year test**."
Murmurs spread through the room. Some students looked at each other in confusion.
"A test?" a girl asked hesitantly. "But classes haven't even started—"
The teacher's smirk widened. "Did I ask for your opinion?"
The girl immediately shrank back.
I remained still, watching. This wasn't just a test. **It was a statement.**
The teacher leaned forward, his presence suffocating. "Let me explain how things work at NIFL. Your **class points** and **individual points** determine your privileges. Shops across campus offer goods and services—everything you could need. The better you perform, the more points you get. And points…" His eyes gleamed with something unsettling. "Are everything."
A wave of excitement rippled through the students. The idea of having access to **thousands of points** at their disposal had them hooked.
And the teacher? He just **smirked.**
Almost like he was waiting for this exact reaction.
"Now then," he said, standing up. "Let's begin the test. Your results will arrive in one week."
---
The test ended without much difficulty. The students whispered among themselves afterward, their main focus on the **individual points they had received**.
"Did you see how many we got just for enrolling?" one student said.
"This system is amazing," another grinned.
The teacher simply watched, arms crossed, before finally saying, "Next week, your **other periods will be finalized**. Enjoy your first week."
Then, he left—without another word.
I tapped my fingers lightly against my desk.
**Something was wrong.**
---
An hour later, I wandered the school halls, aimlessly exploring. The excitement of the other students didn't interest me. I preferred silence—**but I found something else instead.**
Passing by the **teachers' lounge**, I heard something strange.
Laughter.
I slowed my steps, instinct kicking in. Carefully, I positioned myself behind a nearby pillar, listening.
"It's almost pathetic how easily Class C and Class D fell for it," a deep voice chuckled.
I recognized it. **Class 1-C's teacher.**
Another voice, equally amused, responded. "They really think they have freedom and happiness. Watching them play right into our hands is almost entertaining."
Class 1-D's teacher.
My grip tightened slightly against the pillar.
"The students in Class B are catching on," the first teacher continued, his tone turning more thoughtful. "They've already started questioning things."
"And Class A?"
"Already figured it out. They're just **watching**."
Silence.
Then a quiet laugh. "This year is going to be interesting."
I stepped back slowly, ensuring I wasn't heard. Then, without hesitation, I left.
My mind processed their words. The manipulation. The deception.
**What is this school really trying to do?**
One thing was clear—**NIFL wasn't as it seemed.**
And I was going to find out why.
---
### **End of Chapter 5**
## **Chapter 6: A Dangerous Game**
The morning sunlight streamed through the cafeteria windows as I picked up my tray and scanned the room. Students were still in their honeymoon phase—chatting, laughing, completely unaware of the reality that awaited them.
I spotted my target.
A third-year student sitting alone, eating plain toast and drinking cheap coffee. **Not a meal fit for someone at the top.**
I approached and sat across from him. He looked up, confused.
"…Do I know you?" he asked.
"No," I replied smoothly, taking a bite of my food. "But you've been here a while, haven't you?"
His expression turned guarded. "Yeah. Third year."
"Then you must understand how this school works," I continued, setting my fork down. "And judging by what you're eating, I'd say you don't have many points left."
His eyes widened slightly.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice just enough. "That means you're in **Class 3-A**, aren't you?"
His grip on his cup tightened. **Nailed it.**
"You must have mistaken me," he muttered, glancing around. He stood up, ready to leave.
I pulled out my phone.
Instantly, his body tensed. His eyes flicked to the screen, and I saw it—**fear.**
A video played. **Him. Class 3-A students. The humiliation. The bullying.**
"Sit," I said.
He did.
I met his shaken gaze. "I've been gathering information. You're being used by Class 3-A, aren't you? Forced to follow their rules, yet still treated like nothing."
He exhaled slowly, as if realizing escape was impossible. "…What do you want?"
"The truth."
He hesitated but then spoke, his voice low. "This school isn't what it seems. At first, it makes you feel safe—comfortable, even. But by the end of the first month, when the class points are **evaluated**, you'll understand. This place isn't about joy. It's about survival."
I said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"If you stay in **Class C**, you'll be fine. You'll struggle, but you'll survive. If you move to **Class B**, you'll have to fight Class A head-on. And if you drop to **Class D**…" He looked away. "You'll be treated like garbage. No rights, no respect. Walked over like you don't exist."
I processed his words carefully. "And Class A?"
His jaw clenched. "They're untouchable."
I nodded. Then, without another word, I got up and left.
What he didn't realize… was that my **phone had been recording the entire conversation.**
---
A minute later, I sent a message.
**[Unknown Number]**
**1 Attachment: Voice Recording**
**Delivered.**
I leaned against the wall outside the **student government office**, waiting. Watching.
It didn't take long.
Inside, through the glass panel of the door, **Ichika** checked his phone. He listened. His smirk widened as his gaze lifted—**directly at me.**
For three silent seconds, we locked eyes.
No words. No gestures.
But the meaning was clear.
**The game had begun...