Chapter 3: Class D's Objective

Chapter 3: Class D's Objective

Chapter 3:

Class D’s Objective

W E BEGAN MAKING comprehensive preparations for the sports festival, which was only one month away. The teachers said we could use the weekly two-hour homeroom period as we wished.

There were two things we needed to decide upon before the actual event: our arrangement for the all-participant events, and our players for the recommended-participant events. Those two decisions would have a major impact on whether we’d win.

Hirata, who was the closest person we had to a leader, took the initiative. Chabashira-sensei moved toward the back of the classroom and didn’t say a word. She probably intended to watch.

“Before we start practicing, we need to decide the order we’ll participate in, and who will enter the recommended-participant competitions. I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” said Hirata.

“Okay, but when you say ‘decide,’ how exactly are we going to decide?”

A rather uninteresting discussion was about to begin, from Sudou’s perspective.

“Good question. For example, in the events for all participants, we—”

Hirata took a piece of chalk and began writing on the blackboard as he spoke. He seemed to be good at this sort of thing. He put two headings on the board: “Raising Hands,” and “Ability,” then explained what those meant as he wrote down supplemental information.

“This is a rough outline, but I think that everything boils down to these two approaches. The ‘raising-hands’ system lets people nominate themselves to participate in competitions. The ‘ability’ system identifies everyone’s individual talents, and seeks to assign them to maximize efficiency.”

Hirata continued, “Both approaches have their pros and cons, of course. The strength of the raising-hands system is, naturally, that everyone gets to voice their wishes. The downside is that, if people’s choices contradict each other, well, not everyone is going to get what they want.”

Adopting a system that allowed everyone to freely decide when and where they wanted to participate would be more satisfying to those involved. However, he was right about the contradictions.

“The strength of the ability system is that we can expect a higher chance of victory than we would with the raising-hands system. It’s also quite simple. However, because the ability system favors the most athletic people in the class, it reduces the other students’ chances of winning at something. That’s the gist of what I’ve come up with so far, but if you happen to have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them.”

Hirata thus concluded his explanation. Even the least intelligent among us could understand each system’s pros and cons from the details he’d explained and written. Most everyone was ready to go along with Hirata, especially since no other proposals had been made.

“We should obviously decide based on ability, shouldn’t we? I mean, the only one who knows a person best is himself, right?” said Sudou. It seemed as though he had absolutely no intention of choosing any other option.

“If I win, then it’s more likely our class wins. That puts us way ahead.”

His words were confusing, but true. Sudou’s athletic ability would be integral to winning the sports festival. There was definitely logic there.

“Well, it makes me kinda mad, but I suppose you’re right,” a girl muttered in apparent approval.

The boys also murmured in agreement with Sudou. “I’m really not that great at sports. If Sudou’s okay handling the recommended-participant events single-handedly, I’m fine with that.”

Students who specialized in academics, like Yukimura, weren’t all suited for athletics.

“Then it’s decided, right? I’ll do all the events for recommended participants,” Sudou declared, his voice firm and resolute. The students supported his decision; he would cover for the people who lacked athletic talents and get us that much closer to victory.

“If everyone’s okay with that strategy, then I suppose the recommended participant in every category will be—”

“Wait.” Horikita cut in just before Hirata approved the proposal. “I’ve got a supplementary proposal.”

The other students turned to look at her.

“If we have to choose between these two approaches, then I agree that we should go with the ability system. However, that single tactic isn’t guaranteed to carry us to victory,” explained Horikita.

“Sure, that’s true,” said Hirata.

“I agree that the most athletic students should take part in events for recommended participants. But, even in events for all participants, we should group the people who have the best chance of winning. That way, we maximize everyone’s potential. Put simply, the strongest, fastest students should be grouped together,” said Horikita.

The point she was making was that if both Hirata and Sudou were fast, they should be teamed up during the competition whenever possible. It was one winning strategy, of course, but it would be ruthless to cut out all the weaker participants.

“Hold on a minute. Won’t that leave slower people high and dry?” Shinohara was the first to object.

To aim for the top, you’d have to have stronger players matched up against the weak. However, the opposite would also be true, meaning the weaker students were at a huge disadvantage.

“I don’t agree with it,” she went on. “If you don’t excel at sports, then you’re doomed. Privileges only go down to third place. I don’t want to throw away my shot.”

“Your personal feelings are irrelevant. It’s for the sake of the class,” replied Horikita.

“I know it’s for the class’s sake, but I don’t want to lose out on private points.”

“If the class wins, the reward will be ample—easy to divide among us. Is that not enough for you?”

“I don’t want to miss out on individual rewards, like earning test points!”

“I understand your desire. However, your logic confuses me. If you just studied ahead of time, before an exam, you wouldn’t need to rely on those privileges,” said Horikita. “Besides, you probably wouldn’t win anything anyway. I mean, with your lackluster athletic ability, it’s not as though you’ll place in the top three.”

Neither of them showed any sign of backing down. Especially Horikita, wielded her logic like a weapon as she went on the offensive.

“Not everyone is as smart as you , Horikita-san. Don’t just lump all of us together,” snapped Shinohara.

“Then just study longer every day. I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s right!”

Supporting voices rose throughout the classroom, all in favor of Horikita’s logic. The athletes, like Sudou, students aiming for Class A, and those who were mediocre at sports were clearly on board with her plan.

Shinohara looked annoyed, but she didn’t seem like she’d put up much more of a fight. There were probably other students like her who hoped to slip into third place. Whether they were fighting alongside strong students like Sudou or paired up with unathletic students in the cavalry battle and three-legged race, seizing victory would be a faraway dream.

“Enough already, Shinohara. If we lose because of you, will you take responsibility? Huh?” Sudou, normally the worst in terms of academic ability, now beamed with hope and a sense of leadership. Thanks to the sports festival, athletic students had a leg up on the rest. Horikita’s ability-centric plan was all but law now; Shinohara had no more room to object.

“That’s…ugh.”

“Honestly, what a pain,” Horikita muttered in my direction. “It’s like you’re not even paying attention. Instead of messing around on your phone, how about you try coming up with ways for us to win?”

“Well, if I just leave it to you and Hirata, you’ll sort out our problems, right?” I replied. Still, I turned my phone off and placed it in my pocket. The discussion appeared to be over—or so I thought.

“Hey, excuse me? I object to this, too. You’re okay with sentencing the unathletic students to lose, like Shinohara said? You think we can all come together in a situation like this?” Karuizawa spoke up, supporting Shinohara. She glared at Horikita.

“I’ve said as much. Do you understand my logic?”

“No. I don’t get it at all. Hey, what do you think, Kushida-san?” asked Karuizawa.

Kushida had been strangely quiet during the meeting. She seemed slightly surprised, but spoke after a moment. “It’s tough. I’ve been thinking about how both sides feel. Like Horikita-san, I want us to succeed as a class. But, just like Shinohara-san said, everyone should have a chance to win. If there were some kind of middle-ground solution, that would be ideal. A strategy we could all get behind, no matter where you stand.”

Once Kushida was done, there were a lot of noises of assent. Horikita seemed to have anticipated this idea.

“Of course. I have a compromise that should be agreeable to both sides. Students who place at the top, and don’t need to boost their test scores, will use the private points they win to boost the test scores of students who place at the bottom. The entire class will share in the gains and losses of private points from the festival. I trust there will be no complaints?” asked Horikita.

So, in exchange for lowering our chances of victory across the board, we less-athletic students would also offset the risks in case we were defeated. Some of the students who’d opposed the earlier plan would probably be convinced. The bottom ten students across each grade level would still be in trouble, though.

“Oh, yeah, that’d be fine, right? Cuttin’ corners ain’t gonna make us suffer that much,” said Sudou with a disdainful snort, as if he were calling the opposition pathetic whiners.

“But that’s just for points. We’re still losing out on chances to win the big prize. What does everyone think about that?” Karuizawa wasn’t letting this go. She looked over to her group of girls.

“If Karuizawa-san objects, then so do I, I guess.” One after another, the girls followed her lead.

“You’re objecting just because she objected? That’s completely illogical. This is an exam. It’s only natural that we focus on a winning strategy. The other class definitely isn’t weighed down by morons like you,” grumbled Horikita.

“You just don’t get it, do you, Horikita-san? I hate this plan, and the other girls hate it, too. So, you need to take our opinions into account. We have to make these competitions fair,” said Karuizawa. She had united the girls so strongly that all the support for Horikita’s plan had vanished completely.

“Calm down, both of you,” said Hirata, trying to smooth things over. “If we can’t agree, then we’ve got to have a majority vote.”

This had probably been inevitable.

“A vote would make the decision much less subjective,” continued Hirata.

“If Yousuke-kun says so, then I agree,” said Karuizawa.

“Fine. This isn’t the time to fight amongst ourselves. At any rate, I’ve offered my opinion. I hope you’ll all make the right decision,” said Horikita.

She sat down in frustration and glared at me. “Ayanokouji-kun, can’t you tell Karuizawa-san to shut up?” she huffed.

“Uh, no. There’s no way I could do that,” I said.

“You’ve been talking to her lately, though. Haven’t you? Isn’t that why she’s getting carried away?”

“No. Karuizawa’s always been like that,” I replied.

“That’s certainly true,” Horikita muttered. She couldn’t hide her irritation with Karuizawa, whose opinion lacked logic, or with the girls who let someone else lead them around.

“Now then,” said Hirata. “We have Horikita’s proposal, which focuses on ability, and Karuizawa-san’s, which prioritizes the individual. How about we decide which plan we prefer by a show of hands? If anyone finds choosing a side difficult, they can abstain.”

Horikita wanted to prioritize athletes to win, while Karuizawa wanted everyone to feel valued. The class’s future would depend on whether people used their heads or their hearts. Of course, I myself had zero interest in the outcome.

“All right. All those in favor of Horikita-san’s plan?”

“Yeah. I agree with Horikita’s plan, of course,” said Sudou. “It’s about winning. When winners win, we all win. Ain’t that a good thing?”

Sudou raised his hand. Those who had no confidence whatsoever in their athletic abilities, like Yukimura and Sakura, followed his lead. But the more capable students, along with Karuizawa’s group, didn’t raise their hands.

“Sixteen votes, then. Thank you. You can put your hands down.”

Whether that was a big number or a small number would be determined by how many people abstained from voting.

“Wait a minute, Ayanokouji-kun. Don’t tell me you agree with Karuizawa-san’s plan?” said Horikita, who realized that I hadn’t raised my hand.

“Relax. It’s my policy to abstain from voting.”

“In that case, you could just have voted for my plan,” she growled.

“Your plan isn’t necessarily right, is it?” I asked.

“I can’t understand you. Giving the class the best-possible chance of winning will ultimately result in netting a lot of private points. Even if we only won a few matches here and there, the points would be significant. If you say that’s wrong, perhaps you can give me a clear reason why?”

“I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just saying it’s not the only answer,” I replied.

The students used as sacrificial lambs, sent out to be destroyed by strong opponents, would finish the sports festival without earning any points at all. Horikita did understand that much, at least. But she also thought it was a necessary sacrifice in order to win.

“The other students aren’t all as ambitious as you,” I told her.

“All right. Next, we have Karuizawa-san’s plan. Anyone in favor of this plan, to win when we need to and have fun when we want to, please raise your hand,” said Hirata.

Along with Karuizawa’s group, other students began raising their hands.

“And the results of the majority vote are…sixteen votes for Horikita-san’s plan, and thirteen votes for Karuizawa-san’s. It’s safe to say that everyone else abstained from voting?”

The counts were tallied up without any objections. Karuizawa hadn’t won votes with a well-articulated plan. Rather, she relied on her installed support base to do what it could. Apparently, most students believed that Horikita’s plan was realistic and efficient.

Class D’s strategy would be, not to participate as individuals, but to win as a class.

“…………” Since Karuizawa had approved a majority vote, she couldn’t complain now.

“Then it’s decided,” said Horikita. “Now, Hirata-kun, I’ll leave the rest to you.”

I didn’t think we’d necessarily made a bad choice. Unathletic students wouldn’t be taking the initiative and volunteering for events right now in the first place. Inevitably, those asked to fill the recommended-participant positions would be jocks like Sudou and Hirata.

“So, regarding the number of participants for recommended-participant events…” Hirata continued.

“I’ll participate in every competition. If anyone’s got something to say about that, then they can meet me outside, and we’ll talk face-to-face,” Sudou declared. He had one card, and he was playing it all the way. Furthermore, he apparently intended to force anyone who complained to surrender. Too aggressive, but the strategy seemed effective, since no dissatisfied grumbling could be heard.

We’d resolved to go with assigning the best students, as originally planned, so Sudou’s participation was a no-brainer.

“I will also compete in as many events as possible.” As expected, Horikita volunteered herself. Karuizawa’s face stiffened slightly. The girls around her quietly whispered in one another’s ears, and I wondered if they were badmouthing Horikita.

The self-nominations and recommendations began pouring in, one after another, and soon the recommended participants were decided. Sudou would compete in every competition, just as he’d declared. Other students who were good at sports, like Kushida and Onodera, also offered to participate, in addition to Horikita and Hirata. However, we had only filled about a third of the events for all participants. The rest of the spots remained open.

“Hey, Kouenji. Ain’t you gonna cooperate?” asked Sudou, glaring daggers at him for keeping silent. Even Sudou recognized that Kouenji possessed potential equal to, if not greater than, his own. If Kouenji were to take this seriously, he’d easily snag first place in the individual competitions.

“You didn’t raise your hand earlier.”

“I have no interest in this. You people do what you like.”

“Stop screwing around, you jerk.”

“I assure you, I am not ‘screwing around.’ Whatever authority you think you have, I’ve got no reason to let you bully me into anything,” replied Kouenji. Yep, he was never going to change.

“We don’t need to decide everything right here and now, Sudou-kun. We can’t force him. Kouenji-kun must have his reasons.” Hirata tried to deescalate the situation. “At the very least, we’ve decided what the class’s strategy will be, and who wants to participate in individual competitions. I think that it would be best to take our time with the rest.”

With that, the discussion came to an end. But surely some students felt like the whole conversation had been incomprehensible. Why did Karuizawa continue to oppose Horikita’s plan? She wasn’t a stellar athlete, but she wasn’t terrible at sports either. In that regard, she should’ve been fine with Horikita’s idea, where everyone would share in the highs and lows in our race to victory. I wondered how many other people felt the same as she did.

3.1

A FTER CLASS , I had some free time. I decided to contact a certain person before heading back to the dorm. As I rose, I exchanged looks with Karuizawa. Well, it wasn’t entirely intentional. I’d been looking for an opening to steal a glance at her, but she had immediately noticed my gaze.

She must not have understood my intentions, because she left the classroom with two of her friends. As expected, she wouldn’t get it unless I spoke to her directly. Giving up, I grabbed my bag and started to head back to my dorm alone, like always. I left roughly one minute after Karuizawa.

Upon descending the stairs, however, I found her seemingly waiting for me, standing alone by the main entrance. “Wait,” she said.

“I thought you left.”

“I thought you had something you wanted to talk about, so I waited. Was I wrong?”

I couldn’t help my surprise. “I do, I suppose.”

“Well, I have something to talk to you about, too. Mind hearing me out?”

“Go ahead.”

“That message you sent me… What are your real intentions?”

She showed me her phone. The text displayed on the screen read, “No matter what, object to Horikita’s plan. Then ask Kushida for her opinion.”

I’d instructed Karuizawa to do that in the middle of class.

“When it comes to improvising, you’re quite fast on your feet. You did very well,” I told her.

“Really? You know, I actually agreed with Horikita-san’s plan. I don’t understand why you had me call on Kushida-san, either. What are you playing at?” she asked.

“If you worry over each and every thing I do, you’ll never know peace. Besides, I’m under no compunction to answer your questions. Understand?” I asked.

“So, I should just do as I’m told, like a loyal dog, and never ask why. Got it.”

“Exactly.”

Karuizawa didn’t seem pleased, but she was reasonable enough to refrain from further objection. “One more thing. You didn’t raise your hand. Which choice did you think was right?” she asked.

“They could both be right, I guess. Everything depends on the individual, anyway.”

“That’s not an answer. You never said what was on your mind.”

“I have a policy of ignoring questions trapped in the limited ‘either-or’ binary,” I said.

“Huh? I don’t get you. What do you even want , anyway? Are you just trying to wreak havoc on everyone? Or are you seriously thinking about getting from Class D to Class A?”

“Horikita seems to believe I’m fighting for the latter, at the very least.”

Karuizawa glared, as if to say, That’s not what I asked. “I wasn’t asking what Horikita-san thinks. I want you to knock off the space-cadet act and just tell me what you’re after.”

“I see. Well, I’m not personally interested in reaching Class A. It’s just that I think it might benefit me if our class rises to the top,” I said.

“Wait, what does that mean? What’s the difference? How condescending could you possibly be?”

I decided not to mention my bargain with Chabashira-sensei.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. So, I’m taking several precautions to make you believe down the line. One of our classmates will betray us during this sports festival. They’ll leak internal information from our class,” I said.

“Wait, what?! Are you being serious right now?!” Karuizawa was incredulous.

“When the time comes, you’ll understand…what I’m seeing, what I can see,” I told her.

“Huh?! Tell me what’s going on!”

“I can’t right now. But when the time comes, I will. Right now, you should go. We’re drawing too much attention here.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. If I were seen hanging out with a weirdo like you, my social cred would plummet. But…even if someone does betray the class, we’ll be okay. Right?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ve prepared.”

I showed her my phone, although she probably didn’t understand why. Looking dissatisfied, Karuizawa turned and left. I watched her walk away and sighed to myself. Class D’s strategy was in motion, as was my own personal plan.

Now then, I wonder what Class A has in mind? Considering Katsuragi’s personality, their strategy would be solid. But Sakayanagi would be good for the White Team, of course, and also for Class D.

Imagine a hypothetical situation with two people and only one life-saving apparatus—let’s say a life jacket, meaning that only one of the two people can live. One person is able-bodied, and one disabled. Naturally, each has the right to their own life. If the able-bodied person chose to save themselves, they could probably take the life jacket by force with relative ease, due to the other person’s disability. The world is cruel. A crisis tends to bring out the worst in us.

That said, just because Sakayanagi wasn’t physically active didn’t mean she was harmless.

“Even so…”

Karuizawa was better at reading people than I’d imagined, probably because of her past. More than anything else, the fact that she could carefully craft her public image earned her high marks. Satisfied with the completion of some rather unexpected business, I decided to head back.

3.2

T HERE WAS A LOT TO DO before the sports festival, even beyond choosing the participants. We needed to practice marching on and off the grounds, for example. Everything had to go smoothly. Our physical education classes would be free periods from here on out, granting students permission to practice however they wanted to.

“I borrowed this.”

Hirata submitted a request to the school and obtained a device for measuring grip strength, which he brought to our P.E. period the next day. In line with Horikita’s plan, we would prioritize ability. Hirata’s device was simple, but should help. Quite a few of the boys’ competitions would require pure power.

“Okay, let’s line up. How about we measure the grip strength of our dominant hand? I’ll record the results. I borrowed two of these, so we can split up to save time.”

Hirata handed the devices to the people standing at his left and right: Hondou and Yukimura. It seemed like he had decided to take measurements for the group by having one machine passed clockwise and one counterclockwise. Sudou, who apparently didn’t like that, snatched one device for himself.

“Let’s start with me, Hirata. That’ll set a high standard,” he said. His logic didn’t track, so he probably just wanted to showcase his own strength.

“Um… Well then, let’s have Sotomura-kun stand next to you and take his measurement simultaneously, Sudou-kun,” replied Hirata.

With the order forcibly changed, the starting point for the measurements had been adjusted accordingly.

Sudou let out a confident laugh, ready to show off as the most powerful person in the room.

“Check it out, Ayanokouji. This is what a real man looks like. Uraaah!” said Sudou, with a suitable bellow.

His shoulders shook while he tightly gripped the device in his right hand. The numbers on the digital readout shot up rapidly. In an instant they climbed to 50, then 60, then over 70. In the end, the number on the digital display was 82.4 kilograms. Everyone around us went crazy.

“What the heck, dude? You’re stupidly strong!”

“Heh. It’s just ’cause I train all the time. Only natural. Hey, come on. You do it, Kouenji.” Sudou displayed his score to Kouenji, almost as if trying to provoke the other boy.

“I’ll pass. Ignore me.” Kouenji polished his fingernails and blew on them.

“What? You scared of losing to me or something? Guess that’s understandable after seein’ what I can do. Heh!” It was an obvious jab, but Kouenji didn’t respond. “Tch. Oh, hey. Ayanokouji.”

Sudou shoved the device into my hand.

“No thanks. I’ll do it later.”

“Huh? Come on, don’t mess around. We gotta do it in order.”

I would’ve preferred not to hear that from the guy who had stolen his turn in the first place, but it was true that I was next in line. Couldn’t say I was looking forward to it, though.

82.4 kilograms was a considerably high number. I wondered what the average value was for a first-year high school student. I’d used grip strength measurement devices hundreds of times before, but never once had I heard the average for people my age. I only had my own personal records.

“Hey, Sudou. What do you think the average would be for a high school student?” I asked.

“Huh? I dunno. Maybe, like, around 60?”

“Around 60, huh?”

I grasped the grip strength measurement device so that I could see the monitor. Grip strength wasn’t simply proportional to your arm’s thickness, though of course, it wasn’t completely unrelated, either. A bunch of muscles known as the “flexor carpi radialis” and the “brachioradialis” in your forearm were most important. The forearm muscles contracted, pulling on the tendons, and thus bending the fingers. The idea was to improve grip strength by training those muscles.

If you had a certain amount of muscle mass, depending on your degree of training, you could exceed a grip strength of 100 kilograms. Of course, you would need to spend a lot of time training to achieve that.

I gripped the lever, slowly applying force. Once I passed 44, I started to make minute adjustments to my grip strength. Once I passed 55, I further adjusted my grip, and once my grip strength reached just slightly over 60, I stopped adding any more force.

“That’s it. I can’t go any further.”

I released my grip on the device and handed it over to Ike, who stood next to me. Then I went to give Hirata my result.

“My grip strength was 60.6.” I delivered my report casually.

“Heh. You’re pretty strong, Ayanokouji-kun,” replied Hirata. He gave me a smile, as though he were impressed.

“Huh? Was it really that good? Wait, isn’t that around average?”

“I think the average is lower than that, actually. 45 or 50?” mused Hirata.

“Hirataaaa. I got a 42.6. Can you give me a few tiny bonus points and make it 50?” asked Ike. That wasn’t a tiny bonus.

Hirata, smiling wryly, wrote down 42.6 in his notebook. Sotomura got 42, and Miyamoto, who went afterward, got a 48. There were certainly a lot of people scoring under 50.

“I see. So, 60 was high, then.”

I shouldn’t have asked someone like Sudou what the average was, though I supposed he wouldn’t have known it offhand anyway. I’d thought that by placing my strength squarely in the middle, I’d be able to avoid participating, but I made a serious miscalculation. At this rate, I might be required to enter some recommended-participant events.

Kouenji aside, I ended up placing second in the class. I’d definitely screwed up. Next came Hirata in third place with 57.9. Of course our jack-of-all-trades had done well at this. Still, Sudou couldn’t hide his disappointment in our classmates.

“Man, I can’t rely on a single one of you. The next best is Ayanokouji? This might as well be over.”

His casual rudeness could be stunning sometimes.

After the boys finished taking their measurements, we handed the devices to the girls. Since there would be mixed guy-and-girl competitions, knowing everyone’s strength would be necessary.

Hirata filled out names for recommended-participant events based on the results he collected in his notebook. “Okay, so we can simply go in order, based on grip strength, for the tug-of-war and the four-way tug-of-war. That’ll be Sudou-kun, Ayanokouji-kun, Miyake-kun, and me.”

“What exactly is a four-way tug-of-war, anyway? I ain’t ever heard of that,” said Sudou.

“I haven’t heard of it before, either, so I looked into it. It’s pretty much exactly what its name says. It’s a tug-of-war competition in which four people are chosen from each of the four classes, for a total of sixteen people. It sounds like it’s a tug-of-war contest where those sixteen people pull simultaneously,” said Hirata.

Unlike in a normal game of tug-of-war, where you could just rely on your strength, some tactics would be necessary. Hirata wrote down the four-way tug-of-war participants in his notebook.

“Hey, Hirata, are we not getting any more chances to enter events?”

“Oh no, it’s not like that. It’s just, well, I think that competitions like the scavenger hunt are based more on luck than athleticism,” replied Hirata.

“Luck? So, how are we going to decide that?”

“Simple is best. How about we go with rock-paper-scissors?” Hirata suggested.

I would’ve thought that suggestion seemed unbecoming of the serious Hirata, but his proposal was surprisingly reasonable. Luck played a significant part in a person’s life. While there was a factor of uncertainty, it was possible that a spot of good or bad luck could flip someone’s life upside-down. For example, some skilled workers could live as pencil-pushers their whole lives, whereas others could climb to the position of company president despite their incompetence.

That much proved that luck was somehow involved. Generally speaking, though, other factors caused these kinds of outcomes. As for the scavenger hunt during the sports festival, deciding on the participants through rock-paper-scissors should’ve been fine. People were divided into several groups, and we would narrow down the list of people who would participate.

Of course, I had no desire to play. I prayed I’d lose, but ended up winning in the first round. I prayed even harder that I’d lose as I went into the second and final rounds, but ended up winning again. Three boys, two girls: we had five students, picked by sheer luck.

“Ayanokouji-kun, Yukimura-kun, Sotomura-kun, Mori-san, and Maezono-san. You five,” said Hirata. Adding Sudou, that made six of us who would participate in the scavenger hunt.

“Alas! I-I have been chosen to participate in the scavenger hunt? Alack!” the Professor wailed with great dramatic flair. “Why, oh why did I throw rock at that moment? Alas.”

“Well, I suppose we’re in agreement there…”

At times like this, I wondered if it could be called good luck or bad luck. No, it was definitely bad luck.

“I’m so jealous!” whined Ike.

How interesting. What to someone was misfortune was a dream to another.

I would’ve been happy to give Ike my spot, but that would probably lead to an argument, so I decided not to bother. Besides, people like the Professor clearly didn’t want to participate.

Pretty soon, Hirata completely filled the roster for every event. “All done.” He closed his notebook, and the class let out a sigh of relief. The class had settled down once again. However, this roster was temporary. Depending on how practice went, and what we learned about other classes, we could still make changes.

“This information is top secret, so everyone, please only make note of your events and your partners. No photographs,” said Hirata.

He really had thought of everything. One careless picture of the notebook, and there was no telling how far that information could spread. As Hirata’s notebook was passed from person to person, Horikita spoke to me.

“What’s the matter, Ayanokouji-kun? You look more somber than usual.”

“Several participants were chosen against their will, so things are a little gloomy,” I told her.

“There’s nothing to be done about that. In our class, there’s an extremely wide gap between the athletic and unathletic students,” she replied.

“That’s certainly true.”

After a substantial amount of arguing, we’d finally decided upon the students who would be participating in the recommended-participant events. Just as expected, Sudou would be in all of them, which did make me worry about his stamina. As for the girls, starting with Horikita, many of them were participating in three events. On the other hand, though, my misfortunes had piled up, and it turned out that I would be participating in two events.

Of course, it wasn’t as though that was the final decision or anything. The placements were just temporary placeholders. But the roster wasn’t set in stone yet. If a more suitable participant appeared prior to the festival, I could probably switch with him or her. I’d be more than open to handing over my burdens. In fact, I’d absolutely love to hand them over.