Inside Ashkara Castle, the heart of the Fiester Kingdom, silence ruled—not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, grinding quiet of responsibility.

  The king of Fiester sat behind a massive oak desk carved with ancient sigils of authority. Parchment covered nearly every inch of its surface. Stacks of reports leaned precariously against one another, wax seals broken, ink smudged from long hours of reading and rewriting decisions that would ripple across kingdoms.

  He rubbed his temples.

  “How many left?” the king asked, his voice calm but tired.

  A subordinate seated at a nearby table adjusted his glasses. “Six trade petitions. Twelve military reports. And… three diplomatic notices from Valenreach.”

  The king exhaled slowly. “Set the Valenreach notices aside.”

  Another subordinate, a woman with neatly tied hair, looked up from her own paperwork. “Your Majesty… Crestfall has sent a second inquiry regarding supply routes.”

  The king’s pen paused mid-stroke.

  “So,” he said quietly, “they’ve noticed.”

  The room fell silent.

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the tall window overlooking the city. Fiester bustled below, unaware that its king stood at a crossroads.

  “If we continue supplying Valenreach,” he said, “we risk appearing complicit should conflict erupt. If we favor Crestfall, we anger Valenreach.”

  “And if we support both?” the first subordinate asked carefully.

  The king shook his head. “That only delays the inevitable.”

  He straightened, decision settling like stone in his chest.

  “Draft an order,” the king said firmly. “All supply transports to Valenreach and Crestfall are to be suspended indefinitely. Fiester will remain neutral. We will support neither.”

  The woman hesitated. “Your Majesty… this will strain relations.”

  The king met her gaze. “Better strained relations than blood on Fiester’s hands.”

  The pen struck parchment.

  “Send the order.”

  Morning sunlight spilled across the marble hallways of Fiester Academy, illuminating groups of students chatting, laughing, and rushing toward their classes.

  Kaoru walked through it all with her usual gentle composure.

  Students bowed or waved as she passed.

  “Good morning, Vice President!”

  “Kaoru-senpai!”

  She smiled warmly at each of them.

  “Good morning,” she replied again and again, her tone soft but reassuring.

  Eventually, she turned down a quieter path leading toward the academy’s garden.

  “I should check if the Gardening Club finished pruning the roses,” she murmured.

  The iron gate creaked softly as she entered.

  Rows of vibrant flowers greeted her—lilies, irises, roses in careful bloom. The air smelled clean and fresh.

  But she wasn’t alone.

  An elderly woman stood near the central fountain, hands clasped behind her back, observing the flowers with sharp, discerning eyes.

  “Headmaster,” Kaoru said, surprised but pleased. “Good morning.”

  Itsuki Shiraishi turned, her expression softening. “Ah… Kaoru. I thought I sensed optimism approaching.”

  Kaoru laughed lightly. “May I ask why you’re here so early?”

  “I came to inspect the flowers,” Itsuki said. “A garden reflects the state of an academy.”

  Kaoru nodded. “Then we’re here for the same reason.”

  Itsuki studied her carefully. “You’re always optimistic. Even now.”

  Kaoru smiled—bright, practiced, unwavering.

  “If I’m not,” she said, “then I’d be a poor example as vice president. I have to smile. I have to serve as an image of a perfect student.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Itsuki’s gaze sharpened. “That mindset… you’ll need it for the next year entrance examination.”

  Kaoru blinked. “The next… entrance examination?”

  Itsuki turned away. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Headmaster?” Kaoru asked.

  But Itsuki was already walking away, her footsteps slow and deliberate.

  Kaoru watched her leave, unease stirring beneath her calm exterior.

  “…That didn’t sound reassuring.”

  Later that morning, Kaoru stood before the Student Council Room door.

  She knocked.

  “Come in,” a familiar voice said.

  Kaoru opened the door—and stopped.

  Renji Kurogane was lounging in the President’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded like a self-appointed ruler.

  Airi Tachibana sat nearby, arms crossed.

  Noa Fuyuki leaned against the window, arms folded, expression unreadable.

  And beside them sat a tall boy with ash-brown hair and sharp green eyes, calmly sipping tea.

  Kaoru blinked.

  “…Renji.”

  “Yes?” he replied smugly.

  “Why,” she asked slowly, “are you sitting in the President’s chair?”

  Renji shrugged. “Didn’t see a sign saying it was hers.”

  Airi snapped, “Renji—”

  “And besides,” Renji continued, “I’m sure the president wouldn’t mind if I warmed it up for her.”

  Kaoru sighed. “That’s not how chairs work.”

  Renji leaned forward. “So, Vice President, what brings you here?”

  “I was looking for the Student Council President,” Kaoru replied.

  Renji waved a hand dismissively. “She’s on break. But don’t worry—I can help you.”

  Noa’s eye twitched.

  Kaoru hesitated, then asked, “I wanted to ask about the Fourth Year Entrance Exam.”

  The room went still.

  Renji froze.

  Noa stiffened.

  “…Why,” Renji asked carefully, “would you ask about that?”

  “The headmaster mentioned it,” Kaoru said. “She said I’d need a positive mindset.”

  Noa pushed off the window. “She told you?”

  Kaoru nodded. “What is it?”

  Noa exhaled slowly. “The Fourth Year Entrance Exam… is a death game.”

  Kaoru stared. “A… death game?”

  “It’s designed,” Noa continued, “to see whether students can surpass their limits.”

  Kaoru’s voice trembled slightly. “What kind of game?”

  Renji shook his head. “No one knows. It changes every year.”

  “That’s…” Kaoru whispered. “Isn’t that too brutal?”

  Renji scratched the back of his head. “Technically, no real deaths are supposed to happen. Teachers monitor everything.”

  “But,” Airi added quietly, “accidents happen.”

  “…Some students die,” Noa finished.

  Silence fell.

  Kaoru clenched her hands. “That’s…”

  Renji suddenly stood up. “Welp! This conversation has reached its emotional quota!”

  “Renji,” Kaoru said sharply.

  “I just remembered!” he said quickly. “I left something extremely important somewhere extremely far away!”

  “Renji—” Noa began.

  “I’ll be back later!” Renji declared, already heading for the door.

  He paused, turned back, and pointed dramatically.

  “Stay optimistic, Vice President! You’ll need it!”

  And then he ran.

  “…He ran,” Airi said flatly.

  Kaoru stared at the door.

  “…He ran.”

  Noa sighed. “Every year. Same reaction.”

  Kaoru inhaled deeply, forcing her smile back into place.

  “Then,” she said softly, “I suppose I’ll prepare.”

  But beneath that smile—

  Fear had begun to bloom.