"Senpaku, I am Sakamoto. What brings you here?"

"Senpaku, I am Sakamoto. What brings you here?"

Author: Sunny Little Qi

Introduction:

In Class 1-A of Tokyo Advanced Nurturing High School, there is a student who becomes a popular figure throughout the school from the very beginning.

Even doing chores is done with such ease, eating lunch is so effortless, even standing as punishment in the hallway is still so graceful—this person exudes confidence in every gesture.

Cool!

Cooler!

Coolest!

The student who embodies both handsomeness and dashingness to the extreme is named—

Sakamoto casually pushed up his glasses:

"My name is Sakamoto. What brings you here?"

First Year Enrollment: Chapter 001: I am Sakamoto

The April wind swept through the carriage. The bus swayed and lurched as it drove toward Gaodu Yucheng High School.

I, Kiyotaka Ayanokouji, sat by the window, my gaze habitually sweeping across the carriage. On the first day of the new semester, the "characteristics" of those around me were already beginning to emerge.

My neighbor was a girl with long, straight black hair, a thin braid tied with a white ribbon hanging down her left side. She was looking down at a book, her demeanor cold. As my gaze swept past her and looked away, she spoke without looking up, her voice hard and cold:

"Your gaze makes me feel like I'm being watched, it's disgusting."

I apologized and looked away. Sharpness was my first impression of her.

Across the aisle, by the window, sat another boy, also wearing a burgundy school uniform. He was striking. Beneath his black-rimmed glasses, a dark brown beauty mark was clearly visible at the corner of his left eye; he was handsome and had a tall, upright posture.

He sat quietly, his posture itself seemingly representing a serene elegance.

At that moment, he was playing with a silver fountain pen. Between his slender fingers, the pen flew, leaped, and hovered, his movements fluid and natural, without the slightest artifice, exuding only a serene beauty. This uniqueness attracted the attention of many, including myself.

He simply stared intently at the street scene flashing past the window, as if his surroundings were irrelevant to him.

I don't have high expectations for the so-called "paradise" life over the next three years.

Just look at this carriage: a cold, aloof girl with long, straight black hair; a handsome man with a beauty mark who nonchalantly displays his fingertips with an air of aloof elegance; and the guy in the front row admiring his dazzling blond hair in the mirror with a self-satisfied smile. The environment and the people all exude a strange atmosphere.

The sound of brakes rang out; the bus had arrived at the station.

The train door slid open, and an elderly woman with silver hair, leaning on a cane, shakily shuffled in. She glanced at the crowded carriage, sighed, and gripped the aisle handrail tightly with her withered hands. As the train swayed, her figure appeared exceptionally frail.

The air seemed to freeze for a few seconds. Some turned their faces away, others scrolled through their phones, while the blond man in the priority seat continued to admire his reflection in the mirror. A silent indifference spread.

"Everyone?"

A clear, worried voice broke the silence. It belonged to a blonde girl with short hair, a pretty face, and a full, firm bust. She glanced around, her gaze settling on the blond man, her tone earnest:

"This elderly lady is in a lot of pain, young man, could you please give me your seat?"

The blond man snapped the small mirror shut, his expression languid yet forceful.

There is no reason for me to do this.

A fleeting, almost imperceptible stiffness crossed the girl's face, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper worry. She clasped her hands together:

"Although the law does not stipulate that you must give up your seat in a priority seat, it is still a social contribution and a way to help others."

"Social contribution?"

The blond man chuckled and snapped his fingers.

"Unfortunately, I'm not interested."

He leaned slightly forward, his mocking gaze sweeping over the passengers.

"Why are you only targeting me in the priority seat? Shouldn't the people sitting over there give up their seats? If you really want to respect the elderly, just give up your seat."

His words pierced through the pretense, and the atmosphere in the carriage suddenly became awkward.

The girl seemed to have been thrown off balance by the counterattack, and quickly adjusted her strategy, looking at the crowd:

"Please, everyone! Is there anyone willing to give up their seat for this elderly lady?"

Her voice was urgent and strained.

Just as a woman next to the old lady was about to get up—

A very soft cough broke the tension.

It's that boy with the beauty mark under his eye.

He had already put away his pen without anyone noticing, and stood up gracefully.

Without looking at anyone else, his gaze was fixed on the handrail pillar that the old lady was gripping tightly.

Then came a dazzling display of movements: his right hand precisely inserted a silver pen into the gap above the pillar; his left hand magically produced two small, sturdy umbrellas; with a few soft "clicks," the umbrella handles and ribs were cleverly fixed to the pillar, forming a stable triangular mechanical support. The whole process took no more than three seconds.

He calmly took off his burgundy uniform jacket, folded it in half, and laid it out on the makeshift "seat" like a cushion.

After finishing, he turned to the astonished old woman and bowed slightly.

"Grandma, please sit down. This seat may not be a VIP seat, but it is sturdy and can help in this urgent situation."

His voice was calm, devoid of any condescension, conveying only pure composure in his ability to solve problems.

The entire carriage fell silent instantly, stunned by this incredible yet precise and practical operation.

The old lady hesitated for a moment, then carefully sat down. The support frame didn't budge. She breathed a sigh of relief and thanked them repeatedly.

The blonde girl's expression was priceless. Shock, a hint of surprise at having her limelight stolen, and annoyance at her plans being disrupted flashed across her eyes. She forced a sweet smile as she looked at the boy who had come to her aid:

"Ah...you...you're so amazing! Thank you for your help! My name is Kikyo Kushida, and I'm a first-year student this year!"

Her self-introduction was enthusiastic, an attempt to regain control of the social interaction.

The boy with the beauty mark under his eye simply nodded slightly, offering no response. He stood up straight again, his gaze fixed on the window, his composure restored.

"Humph."

A cold, questioning voice came from beside her, from the girl who was reading. She had already closed her book, her gaze piercing the man with the beauty mark like a blade:

"Don't you think it's a bit too deliberate to 'perform' like this in public? Or are you simply enjoying these attention-grabbing antics?"

She made no attempt to conceal the “performative” nature of the attack.

The focus has shifted back.

The boy with the beauty mark under his eye slowly turned around, pushed up his black-rimmed glasses, and the lenses reflected a cold light precisely.

His movements were devoid of any anger, but rather possessed a sense of ritual. A barely perceptible smile curved at the corner of his lips, as if he had firmly accepted some kind of truth.

Faced with the girl's sharp, incisive questioning, his gaze remained calm, and his voice was as gentle and clear as ever:

"I just wanted to make my mother-in-law as comfortable as possible. I apologize if this has caused any misunderstanding."

His words contained no rebuttal, no boasting, only a statement of his goals and an apology for any potential impact on others' feelings.

He adjusted his glasses again, as if to confirm his words, and then bowed slightly:

"My name is Sakamoto. What brings you here?"

"..."

The entire carriage fell into a deeper, almost shocking silence.

I looked at the bespectacled man with a beauty mark who called himself Sakamoto, who had just solved the problem of giving up his seat in an unbelievable way. Then I glanced at the long-haired girl with black hair next to me, whose face had turned even colder after being choked by his words. Finally, I looked at the short-haired blonde girl, Kikyo Kushida, whose smile was frozen on her face and whose eyes were filled with complex and unfathomable depths, and the blonde man who was still admiring his own reflection.

The scenery outside the window is moving.

I observed with a blank expression.

Advanced Nurturing High School—it seems that extraordinary people gather here.

The arrival of Sakamoto made the already "strange" situation even more unpredictable. This school might be more interesting than expected. I wouldn't say I like this potentially chaotic situation, but I don't dislike it either.

First Year Enrollment: Chapter 002: Sakamoto's Late Arrival

The echoes of the opening ceremony still lingered in the corridors, but a completely different atmosphere had already settled in Class 1-A. A sharp, elite aura permeated the air.

Thirty-nine students were all in their assigned seats, except for the one by the window, whose nameplate was clearly visible but which remained empty, abruptly announcing its absence amidst the neatness.

With a few minutes to go before the bell rang for the first class, whispers drifted among the desks and chairs, eyes repeatedly scanning the empty seats, and curiosity and speculation quietly grew.

"He was absent on the very first day; he's got quite the attitude."

A deep, serious voice came from the front row. The speaker was a burly, bald young man who sat as still as a rock, with the word "discipline" etched between his brows. His sharp eyes were fixed on the empty seat, clearly displeased with the disorder.

"Perhaps they're lost?"

A cheerful voice responded. The speaker was a striking blond boy, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed posture, a sunny smile on his face, chatting with the person next to him, his eyes also fixed on the empty seat out of the corner of his eye.

On the other side of the classroom, towards the back, sat a slender, fair-skinned girl quietly. A dark wooden cane leaned against the desk, her posture serene. Her uniquely textured silver hair flowed like moonlight, illuminating her delicate and lovely face. She didn't participate in the discussion, but merely glanced at the empty seat with her insightful eyes, a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on her lips, as if she were intrigued by this unexpected little incident.

A girl with waist-length purple hair stood beside her, resting her chin on her hand and gazing out the window, seemingly uninterested in the undercurrents and empty seats in the classroom. Her purple hair cascaded down, almost completely obscuring her delicate profile, silently radiating an aura of "keep away."

Homeroom teacher Tomoya Mashima walked into the classroom with steady steps.

He was well-built, his teacher's uniform impeccably tailored, and his hawk-like gaze swept across this territory that held the highest expectations—order and rigor were his guiding principles. The classroom fell silent instantly.

Mashima nodded, preparing to begin his instructions. But his movements suddenly froze as his gaze swept over the last row.

The window seat was empty. The nameplate with the words "Sakamoto" caught the eye.

Class A? First lesson of the new semester? Late?

A hint of displeasure pierced Mashima's calm.

Class A represents the highest standards; being late is not only a breach of etiquette but also a disregard for collective honor. He quickly reviewed "Sakamoto's" file in his mind—unremarkable, yet this act of being late left a less-than-glorious first impression on him.

Mashima frowned slightly, her stern gaze sweeping over the entire class:

"Dear students..."

He plans to identify those who are absent.

"Tuk, duh."

Two clear, steady knocks landed precisely in the gaps between his words.

All eyes instantly focused on the doorway.

The door was pushed open.

A tall figure stood against the light, his outline blurred. He took a step forward, stepping into the classroom light—black-rimmed glasses, a clear dark brown beauty mark under his left eye, a handsome and calm face, and a neatly pressed burgundy school uniform that accentuated his upright posture.

He adjusted his breathing slightly, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead, yet his breath remained steady and calm, devoid of any panic, instead carrying a strange composure. His gaze met Mashima's with unwavering calm.

"I'm so sorry, teacher,"

The voice was clear and sincere, without any evasiveness.

"On the way back, I encountered a teacher with mobility issues who had accidentally scattered important documents. I helped her tidy them up, which took a little time, so I was unable to sit down earlier. Please forgive me."

He bowed slightly, his posture respectful but not servile.

Help me organize the files? That seems like a reasonable reason.

However, to Majima, who emphasizes that "punctuality is a basic quality of elites," this is still a kind of "misjudgment" of the priority of Class A.