Chapter 32

"Listen up! This year's placement system is completely different from anything you've seen before!"

Instructor Shirata Masahiro stood atop the flag-raising platform, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping over Class A. His voice cracked like a whip.

"I know some of you have already greased palms, slipped requests to kōban officers, and tried to claim slots with back-door paperwork!"

"But as long as I'm the instructor here, that garbage won't fly. Talent gets the best posts; deadweight can rot in the corner!"

"So I'm scrapping the old system. We're doing this in the open, fair and square."

He produced a large ledger. Every kōban with vacancies was listed; two blank columns ran down the right side.

"See this? The cadet who tops the graduation exam picks first. The rest follow in rank order."

"The higher you place, the wider your choices—go wherever you want. The lower you land, you eat leftovers. Understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the class roared.

Fushimi Shika glanced sidelong. Outside the formation, Yoshimura Yu looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon.

Shirata rolled the sheet into a makeshift pointer and stabbed it toward the cadets. "I've told you: tomorrow's final exam will be the toughest test of your lives. Look forward to it."

"Yes, sir!"

After dismissal, Minamoto Tamako bounded over to Fushimi. They crossed the parade ground together, heading back to the dorms.

"Instructor Shirata's a saint! If we rank close, we can pick the same kōban!"

Tamako figured her steady effort would land her mid-table at worst. If she performed normally and still beat Fushimi by a mile, she could always "compromise."

Fushimi doused her optimism at once. "Not happening."

"Huh? Why not?"

"I've coasted before, but this time I need first place. If you're mid-rank, someone else will snatch the other slot." His eyes burned; every word rang like steel.

He'd enrolled only so he could laze away his days at a cushy kōban—short hours, high pay, near home, zero responsibility. If fate let him choose, he'd grab that dream post or die trying.

"Oho! That's the spirit, teammate!" Tamako rose on tiptoe and clapped his shoulder.

So the reluctant Fushimi actually wants to stick with me after all. Watson can't function without Holmes—partners should have gravity!

The more she thought, the brighter the future looked. One day, they'd drag the monster who scrawled "Heaven's Punishment" in blood to justice.

They chatted a little longer, then said good night at the dorm entrance.

No afternoon classes, but both decided to cram. One half of the cadets scribbled notes under lamplight; the other half savored their last free afternoon, trading yearbooks on the parade ground and making promises like teenagers at recess.

After reviewing the first-aid manual, Fushimi was about to turn in when someone knocked.

"It's me," the class leader called. "Instructor wants you in his office."

"Right now?" Fushimi glanced out: the moon hung high and cold.

"Right now," Yoshimura Yu confirmed.

The moon climbed and fell. At dawn, the assembly bell rang across the grounds.

Tamako showered, buttoned her crisp uniform, and felt energy fizzing in her veins. She'd turned in at eight sharp; only one sentence revolved in her head:

I'm ready!

Before leaving, she patted the rabbit doll on her pillow. "Go get 'em, Tamako. Ace that exam!"

In under ten minutes the entire class stood at attention. Instructor Shirata took the platform for morning inspection.

"Roll call!"

"Two absent, one excused!"

"Salute the duty instructor!"

"One no-show; remainder nominal!"

Instead of dismissal, Shirata ordered them into formation. They jogged onto a waiting coach. The driver turned the key, eased off the brake, and the bus rolled through the gates.

Cadets pressed their faces to the windows, puzzled whispers rising.

"Aren't we taking the graduation exam? Where are we going?"

"We're heading into the sticks—why?"

"Don't tell me it's a marathon..."

Tamako's stomach fluttered. She half-stood, craned her neck, and swept the aisle. Fushimi wasn't on the bus.

"Eyes front!" Shirata barked.

"Sir!" Tamako snapped back. "Cadet missing—"

"I know," Shirata cut in. "His test is different."

Huh?

Did Fushimi's injury earn him a harder exam? And what exactly were they testing today?

Her fitness scores were rock-bottom; if the exam was physical, she was toast. Forget a good placement—graduation itself might slip away.

Shirata didn't let her stew long. Once the bus was rolling, he laid out the scenario.

Class A would split into thirteen teams of four. They'd transfer to separate vans bound for the exam site.

Their destination: Daisetsuzan—49 % of the prefecture's landmass, almost all virgin wilderness. Now a police training ground for practical finals.

"Out there, remote as it is, crimes still happen. We've laid out real-looking victims—professional staging, one-to-one crime-scene reconstruction."

"Your mission: search the forest, find the body, deduce cause of death and identity, collar the killer, and report to the rendezvous on the north slope."

"Each team gets an accompanying instructor who grades your performance. Feel sick? Injured? Call for withdrawal. Note: withdrawal equals failure. Repeat the year or quit—your choice."

"Understood?"

The bus shuddered to a halt.

Tamako looked out: an abandoned parking lot, cracked concrete bristling with weeds, a dozen sedans parked in haphazard rows.

Hidenori raised a timid hand. "Um... is the person we're chasing an actual murderer?"

"Of course not," Shirata replied. "The 'killer' is played by cadet Fushimi—our serial murderer for the day."

Probably arranged by Tamako-chan's mother. A Higher-Up could set up entertainment for her daughter and test Fushimi's skill in one stroke. At that level, evidence is optional; a casual probe would suffice.

Shirata paused, then added, "His job is simple: don't get caught. First one to the north-slope rendezvous wins."

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