Chapter 7: The Bronze-Tier Massacre and the RGB Cathedral
(Suzune POV)
I stepped out of the faculty room, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. Usually, the quiet of the hallway is something I cherish—a sanctuary of order where I can gather my thoughts and prepare my next tactical move.
But today? Today, the silence felt wrong. It felt heavy. It felt... boring.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the polished linoleum floor, and then it hit me like a flashbang to the retinas. The randomness was gone. The constant stream of "brain-rot" memes, the unnecessary Victorian accents, and the unsolicited commentary on the nutritional value of vending machine snacks had vanished.
Sunny was gone.
The idiot had run off to harass my brother or buy groceries or start a cult—I wasn't entirely sure which—and now the hallway felt like a slow-motion video with the sound muted. I realized, with a sharp pang of annoyance, that he had infected me. His "Sunny Energy" had become a physiological requirement for my daily functioning. Without his chaos to react to, my life had suddenly decelerated to the speed of a dial-up connection.
"I am going to destroy him tonight," I muttered to myself, my grip tightening on my bag. "I'll make him play Dark Souls with a dance pad while I roast his dodge timing. That should restore the balance."
Since I was currently unattached to my chaotic anchor, I decided to focus on my primary objective: The E-sports Club.
I followed the map on my phone toward the club wing. I expected a dusty room with a few outdated consoles and a lingering smell of unwashed gym clothes. What I found was a literal cathedral to the gods of frame rates and low latency.
The door was a sleek, matte black with neon blue accents. When it slid open, I was greeted by the holy glow of RGB lighting. It was everywhere. Strips along the floor, glowing peripherals, and rows of high-end PCs that probably cost more than a small car. There was a snack bar in the corner, private booths for streaming, and a center stage with a giant monitor.
In the original timeline—or at least the 2015 version of this world Sunny told me about—this shouldn't have existed. But we're in 2026 now. E-sports isn't just a hobby; it's a career.
And sitting right in the middle of it all, sipping from a one-gallon thermos of coffee that looked like it contained enough caffeine to restart a dead heart, was Ikuto Kiriyama.
He was frantically editing something on a triple-monitor setup, looking like he hadn't slept since the invention of the internet. Beside him were two third-years—a boy and a girl—who were managing the club's back-end with the intensity of stockbrokers during a market crash.
Kiriyama? I thought, my eyes narrowing. In the anime, he was a vice-president of the student council. Here, he looked like the overworked CEO of a tech startup. Sunny really did butterfly-effect this timeline into a chaotic mess.
"Are you lost, first-year?"
A second-year boy leaned back in his ergonomic chair, pulling off his headset. He looked like he'd just finished a six-hour livestream; his eyes were bloodshot and he had "gamer neck" that would make a chiropractor weep.
"Most people stumble in here looking for the art club or the library," he said, smirking as his eyes scanned my uniform. "This isn't a place for casuals. We're in the middle of a ladder climb."
I walked over to the center of the room, my heels clicking sharply against the floor. "I'm not searching randomly. I'm searching for a challenge. Though, looking at your posture, I suspect I'll find more of a challenge in a game of Tic-Tac-Toe against a pigeon."
The room went quiet. Kiriyama didn't even look up from his coffee, but the two third-years stopped what they were doing to stare at me.
"Ooh, we've got a feisty one," the second-year laughed, spinning his chair around. "I'm Sōta. I'm the lead DPS for our regional team. You want a challenge? How about we make it interesting? Since it's the first day, I'm feeling generous. You win, I'll double your starting points. You lose? You leave and never darken this doorway again. Deal?"
I looked at the point balance on my phone. 100,000 points. "Double? That's adorable. Let's make it real. Double or nothing. Every point I have against your pride and your surplus. I hear upperclassmen are loaded this time of year."
Up at the management desk, the third-year boy leaned over to the girl. "Every year they come in here thinking they're the main character because they won a few matches in Bronze. Poor girl is about to get liquidated."
"Let her play," the third-year girl replied, her eyes fixed on me. "If she beats Sōta, I'll personally double her points from the club's prize pool. If she loses? She becomes our permanent coffee runner for the month."
"We're playing Valorant," Sōta said, already booting up a custom lobby. "1v1, mid-only. First to ten kills. I'll even let you pick your agent."
"I don't need a head start," I said, sitting down at the station next to him. The keyboard felt like silk under my fingers. "I spend my evenings playing against a boy who uses 'Toon Force' to cheat the laws of physics. Playing against a mere mortal like you is going to feel like playing in slow motion."
The match started.
For the first three rounds, I stayed quiet. I was testing his movement. He was good—mechanical, precise, and fast. But he was predictable. He moved like a pro, which meant he moved like someone who followed a meta.
Sunny doesn't follow a meta. Sunny is the meta.
"Is that it?" I asked, my voice cutting through the clicking of our mice. "You move like you're afraid of the map. Are you trying to win, or are you just trying not to get embarrassed? Because spoiler alert: you're failing at both."
Round 4: Headshot. I didn't even look at the kill feed.
"You're over-flicking," I continued, my voice gaining that sharp, Sunny-inspired edge. "Your reaction time is decent, but your decision-making is like watching a loading bar stall at 99%. It's painful to witness. Are you sure you're a second-year? I've seen smarter plays from a roomba."
The room started to get livelier. Other club members were getting up from their seats, crowding around our stations.
Round 7: 7-0. I hadn't died once.
"Oh look, you're shaking," I whispered, my eyes fixed on the screen. "Is the big, scary first-year making your palms sweaty? You should probably alt-f4 now and tell everyone your internet crashed. It's a better story than 'I got absolutely dismantled by a girl in a skirt'."
The trash talk was working. Sōta's aim was getting jittery. He was tilt-peeking, making mistakes that even a novice wouldn't make.
Kiriyama finally looked up from his coffee, his eyes narrowing as he watched my screen.
The game ended 10-0. A total shut-out.
Sōta stared at the "DEFEAT" screen as if it were a death warrant. "I... I wasn't ready. Another match! Best of three!"
"Double the stakes again," I said, my voice cold. "I'm bored of playing with my food."
The third-year boy stepped down from the stage. "I'll take over. Sōta, sit down. You're embarrassing the grade."
He was better. Much better. But I had spent the last six months being roasted by a guy who treats every game like a psychological warfare experiment. I didn't just play the game; I played the person. I kept the insults coming—sharp, precise, and personally attacking their playstyles.
"Your crosshair placement is an insult to the genre," I told the third-year as I wall-banged him for the fifth time. "I've seen more life in a Victorian cemetery than I see in your gameplay."
By the end of the hour, the room was in a state of shock. I had moved from Sōta to the third-years, and finally to a small tournament bracket they set up on the fly just to see if they could take me down.
I checked my phone. My point total had spiraled into the stratosphere. 3.2 million points.
"I think that's enough for today," I said, standing up and stretching. My back popped, and I felt a surge of pure, smug satisfaction. "I have groceries to check on."
The third-year girl looked at me with genuine awe. "If our club leader was here, he'd probably try to recruit you on the spot. I've never heard vocabulary like that in a trash-talk session. Where did you learn to speak like that?"
"I have a very bad influence at home," I said, a small smile playing on my lips.
Kiriyama stood up, walking over to me with a folder in his hand. He looked exhausted, but there was a flicker of respect in his tired eyes. "You're talented, Horikita. We're always looking for high-level players who can actually represent the school in the inter-mural leagues. If you join, the perks are... substantial."
He handed me an agreement paper. "Read it carefully. You have a week to decide."
I took the paper, scanning the lines. It was standard club stuff—attendance, practice hours, tournament schedules—until I reached the financial section.
Clause 7.2: Earnings Redistribution.All personal points earned through e-sports activities (tournaments, livestreams, challenges) are subject to a 50/50 split. 50% will be credited to the student's personal point balance immediately. The remaining 50% will be transferred to a 'Graduation Trust.' This fund is only accessible upon formal graduation or official expulsion from the institution.
Clause 7.3: Social Isolation.Members of the E-sports Club are prohibited from engaging in competitive play with non-members or former members who have been expelled until the completion of the academic year.
"A graduation trust?" I murmured. "So I can't just spend the 3.2 million to buy Class A tomorrow?"
"The school doesn't want first-years breaking the economy in the first week," Kiriyama explained, rubbing his eyes. "The trust ensures that even if you fail the S-System, you leave this school with a significant financial head start in the real world. But it also keeps the point-balance in the classes relatively stable."
"Smart," I admitted. "I'll think about it."
I turned to leave, but as I reached the door, it slid open to reveal a girl entering. She had long silver hair, an athletic build, and an aura of absolute, bored confidence that reminded me dangerously of Sunny.
Fūka Kiryūin.
She stopped in the doorway, her eyes locking onto mine for a split second. She didn't say a word, but the air in the room suddenly felt a lot more electric.
The timeline really is a mess, I thought, stepping past her. Kiryūin in the e-sports club? What's next? Ayanokōji joining the track team for fun?
I walked out into the hallway, the cool air hitting my face. I looked at my phone. It was getting late.
"I wonder what that idiot is doing now," I whispered.
(Sunny POV)
"Ooh, spicy miso! And they have the limited-edition squid ink flavor!"
I was currently standing in the middle of the Keyaki Mall, surrounded by bags of groceries and wearing a hat I'd bought five minutes ago because it had a little propeller on top.
I had successfully navigated the mall, avoided three different groups of girls who wanted to know if I was a "pro model," and managed to find the exact brand of organic tea Suzune likes—all while keeping a perfect 100% win rate on my mobile gacha game in my left hand.
"Appendix C," I chuckled to myself, thinking of Manabu's password. "I wonder if Akane-chan has opened the folder yet. I hope she likes spreadsheets as much as she likes him."
I checked my watch. Time to head back. Suzune is going to be hungry, and I have a feeling she's going to have a lot to tell me about her 'First Day at School.'
"I hope she didn't roast anyone too hard," I said, picking up the bags. "Actually, who am I kidding? I hope she set the building on fire."