Chapter 36

"Who fired the flare?"

"No idea. Anyone seen Fushimi?"

"Nope. Checked the sighting spot, too..."

After a quick debate the group reached a consensus: the squad that had launched the flare wasn't here because they were probably chasing Fushimi Shika.

Whenever students cluster, an idea king always emerges. Someone suggested that Fushimi couldn't have gone far—he had to be close—so they should spread out in ever-widening circles. If anyone spotted him, they'd fire another flare in turn; the rest would sprint over to tighten the net.

Everyone liked the plan.

Minamoto Tamako, leaning on a makeshift staff, had been listening quietly. She raised her hand. "Um—why hasn't the squad that's chasing Fushimi kept firing flares?"

All the cadets stared at her in surprise. Hidenori and the girl with the braided pigtails looked even more uncomfortable than Tamako.

"Maybe they want the credit for themselves," somebody muttered.

The others nodded knowingly, glancing toward the accompanying instructors. More cadets kept arriving, and the instructors huddled together, murmuring among themselves.

"One cadet's missing. What if there's been an accident?"

"You've got a missing one too? I'm down to a single student."

"Setting traps near the sighting point—has the kid gone too far?"

They all looked at Shirata Masahiro.

He frowned, realizing his miscalculation. To limit Fushimi's mobility he'd deliberately chosen a ridge riddled with rock crevices for the "sighting point." He hadn't expected the boy to rip up turf and set traps... Petty revenge? How childish.

Shirata's resolve hardened: Fushimi would repeat the year.

"Remember, he's playing the murderer—he has to commit fully. This exam isn't just to grade the cadets; it's meant to harden them." Shirata swept his gaze across the staff; every instructor felt the chill. "If it's a crucible, the killer must be as cunning and vicious as possible."

"What if someone gets hurt?" an instructor asked.

"They're future cops—frontline personnel. Injuries while chasing suspects are routine. Any cadet who isn't ready for that doesn't deserve to graduate."

Shirata's voice turned savage. "One kid alone can't make waves. Let him run."

The instructors nodded in agreement.

Fair point—this was just hide-and-seek. Fifty-two cadets against one. What could go wrong? If it came to a scuffle, one squad plus an instructor should be able to subdue a single student.

The cadets split up and fanned out. The instructors stopped chatting and followed their squads.

Tamako had barely rested before she had to limp along again. "I've got a bad feeling about the class leader..."

Hidenori, leading the column, didn't look back. "You're overthinking it. If the leader needed help, he'd fire a flare."

"That's exactly the problem..."

Tamako spoke between breaths. "What if his flare gun was taken? Doesn't a single flare strike you as odd? If the squad wanted to hog the credit, why fire any flare at all?"

Hidenori shrugged. "They fired one to keep up appearances. Hoarding intel, chasing glory, lacking teamwork—any of those could cost them points."

He spoke without thinking, just to contradict her. Mostly he was tired and didn't want to hike back to help the leader.

Besides, with the leader gone, he was in command of two cute girls... Yoshimura Yu, the bossy type, could stay stuck in that crevice forever.

Tamako paused, leaning on her stick. Hidenori's explanation sounded plausible; she'd only been spooked by a faint scream.

On second thought, the theory fell apart. Fushimi had no reason to fire a flare—drawing other cadets only increased his risk. Pointless.

Reassured, she hurried after her teammates.

Half an hour later.

Fushimi Shika pushed through the underbrush, map in hand, and finally spotted the chain-link fence at the foot of the mountain.

The level-1 Tracking Technique worked better than expected; those who excel at tracking also excel at hiding tracks. He slipped downhill unseen. Cadets passed within meters, oblivious, while instructors glanced at his hiding spot, lips tight, as if biting back words.

The proctors looked ready to weep at the students' blindness.

"There it is."

Fushimi waded through tall grass, crossed a crumbling concrete apron, and shoved open a rusted gate.

A numbered sedan sat by the mountain road—the same cars that had brought the cadets up.

Fushimi wrapped his jacket around his elbow and smashed the driver's window. The alarm wailed; he calmly reached in and popped the lock.

"Scream all you like—no one's within earshot."

He slid into the seat, popped the hood, and located the wires from the battery to the ignition. He stripped the insulation with his teeth, sparked the cables, started the engine, then killed the klaxon.

When the motor growled to life, he grinned.

A client once told him stealing a car was as thrilling as stealing a lover. He hadn't believed it—now he knew the old man was right.

He rummaged and found a Swiss Army knife, a handheld radio, a pair of handcuffs, and a porn magazine wedged under the seat.

"Lucky day."

He whistled, cranked the wheel, and reversed down the track. At the next squad's starting point he didn't steal the car—just knifed the front tires.

Ninety minutes later every sedan that had ferried cadets or instructors was sitting on flats—even the buses ten kilometers away in the main parking lot.

Driving on a mountain road with blown tires is dangerous, so Fushimi left polite notes on every windshield: Your tire's flat.

Job done, he drove straight to the north-slope assembly point.

Two instructors sat bored in a tour bus, listening to the radio. Their job was to receive cadets exiting the "exam zone" and, alongside the accompanying instructors, tally final scores.

One instructor rolled down the window as the sedan pulled up. "What's the trouble?"

Fushimi parked, hiding his face behind the magazine. "Got something fun to kill time. Want a look?"

"Huh—let me see... Wait, who are you?"

The instructor stepped out. Before he could finish the question, Fushimi's knee shot up into his groin and dropped him. The second instructor lunged, then froze as Fushimi whipped out a gun and leveled it at him.

The man raised his hands. Only then did he realize it was a flare gun—unloaded.

While he gaped, Fushimi clubbed him with the butt. Blood spattered; the instructor hit the dirt. He recognized the cadate and snarled, "Fushimi! You attacked an instructor? What the hell are you doing?!"

"What Fushimi? The exam isn't over. Address me as the criminal suspect."

He twisted the man's arm behind his back and snapped on the cuffs.

If they wanted to play, the game could continue.

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