The Fujiwara estate. The enormous floor-to-ceiling windows sliced the morning sunlight into sharp beams, casting them onto the gleaming obsidian-black marble floor and reflecting back a cold luster.
The air was filled with the rich aroma of freshly ground premium civet coffee beans, mingling with the sweet fragrance of just-baked French butter toast drifting from the kitchen. It should have been the height of indulgence, but instead it only made the atmosphere in the dining hall more oppressive.
Beside the long dining table, the atmosphere was like deep winter.
Seiji sat at the head, dining in a relaxed posture.
On both sides of the long table sat his various "collectibles."
Kaguya Shinomiya, Ai Hayasaka, Miko Iino, Mahiru Shiina, Kei Shirogane...
These canaries, who had once shone in their own respective worlds and now had their wings broken and their feathers plucked clean, were all dressed in identical plain dresses without any superfluous decoration, heads lowered, quietly and mechanically eating the equally exquisite breakfasts before them.
No one spoke. The sounds of knives and forks meeting porcelain plates were deliberately kept to a minimum.
In this magnificent cage, silence at meals and at rest was the most basic, bone-deep reverence shown to the Master.
Kaguya's eyes were hollow. She merely reflexively brought a small piece of egg-coated pancake to her mouth. Her taste buds had long since gone numb. She couldn't even tell what the expensive ingredients actually tasted like.
Ai Hayasaka was like an exquisite robot running pre-programmed routines, her posture, the rhythm of her eating, the angle at which she drank water, all impeccable, yet without the slightest trace of vitality.
Miko bit her lower lip tightly. On that face which had once been filled with idealistic righteousness, there now remained only humiliation and numbness she couldn't conceal. Her eating motions carried a barely perceptible rebellious stiffness.
As for Mahiru, she seemed to have lost her soul entirely, purely executing the directive of "eating" to sustain life. Within those amber eyes was a death-stillness capable of swallowing all light.
"After breakfast, all of you go change into your school uniforms."
Seiji finally spoke.
He didn't raise his head. His gaze remained focused on his own plate, his voice calm, yet carrying the unquestionable tone of a command.
A clinking sound.
The silver fork in Miko Iino's hand fell from her grip at the Master's words, dropping onto her plate and producing a clatter that was especially jarring in the deathly silence.
The atmosphere at the dining table instantly froze.
All the girls' heads snapped up, and across all their faces appeared, in unison, expressions of shock, confusion, and extreme unease.
School uniforms?
That thing they had long since sealed deep in their memories, that symbolized "the past," symbolized "a normal life," symbolized the "everyday" they could never return to?
A barely perceptible flame of "fantasy" quietly ignited in the dead-still lakes of their hearts.
Could it be... he had grown tired of playing?
This mercurial demon king, weary of this game of imprisonment?
So he was going to let them go?
He was going to... let them return to school?
The thought was so absurd, yet carried a fatal allure.
Especially Kaguya. Her breathing instantly became rapid, and her fingers gripping the knife went white at the knuckles from the force.
Returning to Shuchiin, that place she had once felt constrained and bored by, but which now seemed beyond precious in her memory.
She carefully raised her head and looked at the man sitting at the head of the table, trying to find even the slightest clue from that face as handsome as a god's.
The other girls held their breath too, gazing at Seiji with eyes mixed with fear and hope.
However, the same teasing, unfathomable smile remained on Seiji's face.
He wiped the corner of his mouth slowly with his napkin, then stood up.
"You have an hour to prepare."
Dropping these words, he turned and left the dining hall.
He left behind a roomful of girls thrown into massive confusion and agitation by this sudden command.
After he left, the silence broke.
Kaguya looked first at Ai Hayasaka, her eyes carrying inquiry and entreaty.
She hoped to find even a sliver of affirmation in the eyes of her most trusted attendant.
But Ai Hayasaka avoided her gaze, lowered her head, and resumed her doll-like posture.
She understood more clearly than Kaguya that the man would never do anything without deep purpose.
This was absolutely not a gift, but the beginning of another, more cruel game.
Miko Iino's face turned flushed red, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she fell silent, only her eyes flickering slightly.
...
In the study.
Seiji stood before the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the several slender figures in the garden who had once again put on their school uniforms and now appeared somewhat at a loss.
In his eyes flashed a barely detectable trace of weariness.
He was bored.
Truly, somewhat bored.
The "gilded cage" of the estate, while splendid, was too small.
Watching these thoroughly tamed birds move about in a fixed space every day, even the most beautiful posture, once watched for long enough, would lose its freshness.
His gaze pierced through the barriers of space and cast itself into the distance.
Shuchiin Academy.
That ivory tower that gathered Japan's top elites and carried the youth and dreams of countless heroines.
That was the perfect stage.
He would erect there a new, larger, more splendid cage with countless "spectators."
He would transplant his harem directly from the private estate to the public campus.
The unbridled depravity of imposing his private desires upon the public order was a new game that could excite him again.
...
Meanwhile.
Within an old-fashioned, elegant Japanese-style conference room at Shuchiin Academy.
The academy's board of directors was holding its regular meeting.
This was a group composed of old nobility, political elders, and academic luminaries.
Each of them represented the glory and tradition of Japan's old era.
At this moment, they were sipping fine Gyokuro, leisurely discussing the budget for the school festival.
The atmosphere was harmonious.
"By the way, the young Miss of the Shinomiya Family, and Councilman Iino's daughter, have both been on leave for quite some time, haven't they?"
A director with a meticulously groomed handlebar mustache, descended from old aristocratic lineage, said languidly while swirling his teacup.
"The rumors on campus lately don't sound very pleasant."
The chairman of the board, an elderly, white-haired former Minister of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology, frowned displeased at his words.
"It's nothing more than the silly antics of young people. The Shinomiya Family has already greeted us, saying their young Miss is suffering from poor health and needs extended rest. There's no need to pay it any mind."
"As for the rumors..."
He let out a cold snort, an arrogance deeply rooted in old-era elitism appearing on his face. "That young man from the Fujiwara Family is enjoying considerable momentum recently, but he's ultimately a 'nouveau riche' who doesn't understand the rules. He may be able to stir up some waves in the business world, but to shake the foundations of our Shuchiin? Hmph, he's a hundred years too early."
The directors present all let out knowing, contemptuous laughs.
In their view, Shuchiin was not merely a school. It was even more a symbol of Japan's old order and tradition.
The "connections" and "tradition" they wielded were a true power that money could not move.
They were utterly unaware that a storm capable of crushing both them and the "tradition" they took such pride in had quietly descended.
And at the center of that storm, in the Student Council Room.
Chika Fujiwara was somewhat irritably tapping her cheek with the end of her pen.
Kaguya and Miko's "extended leave" had turned the entire Student Council into a place of deathly stillness.
Yu Ishigami, ever since witnessing that terrifying scene the last time, had grown more sullen, wearing headphones all day, cutting himself off from the world, not speaking unless absolutely necessary.
The Student Council that had once been filled with laughter, sometimes noisy, sometimes warm, no longer existed.
On the campus forums, the gossip and rumors about the "missing" princess and prefect had never stopped.
The various versions of speculation grew more bizarre, each one darker than the last.
Although Chika kept saying out loud "they're absolutely just rumors," the unease in her heart of hearts grew by the day.
She vaguely sensed that the "everyday" they were familiar with, that they had taken for granted, was being eroded and torn apart, bit by bit, by an unseen force.
...
...
The leisurely time of the Shuchiin board of directors did not last long.
The day after the regular meeting ended, a document was delivered to each director's desk in an extremely "rude and impertinent" manner.
It did not pass through secretaries, there was no appointment. Instead, men in black suits delivered them directly, one by one.
It was a wholly-owned acquisition offer.
From the Fujiwara conglomerate.
The terms of the offer were simple and crude to the point of being almost insulting:
The Fujiwara conglomerate would acquire all shares and land rights of Shuchiin Academy in cash at three times market value, and "suggested" that the current board of directors collectively resign within 48 hours in order to "preserve their dignity."
"Outrageous!"
At the emergency secret meeting called urgently in response, the handlebar-mustached descendant of old aristocrats slammed the copy of the offer in his hand viciously onto the table, his rage shaking him.
Fine cigar ash scattered across the table. "What does he take us for? A roadside vegetable market? A cash acquisition? Preserving our dignity? This is an insult to our Shuchiin!"
In the conference room, emotions ran high, like a swarm of hornets provoked.
"A merchant reeking of copper coins, daring to lay his hands on this sacred ground of education? What does he know about cultivating people?"
"Standing behind us is the cultural foundation of the entire nation, the countless pillars who have walked out from here. Does he think that with a bit of money, he can do whatever he wants?"
"We must teach him a lesson! Have the media dig up all the filthy details of how he made his fortune! Let him know there are some things that money cannot buy!"
The directors traded words back and forth, their language filled with disdain for the "nouveau riche" and blind self-confidence in the "tradition" they represented.
They didn't even engage in much discussion before unanimously passing a resolution.
Refusal.
And in the most resolute, most unforgiving manner, to publicly refuse this "absurd" offer through the media, in order to display their unshakeable position and dignity.
...
The next 72 hours were, for these once-lofty directors, 72 hours of hell.
A silent, devastating blow descended from the heavens.
That descendant of old aristocrats with the handlebar mustache, the textile industry that his family had passed down for over a hundred years and depended on, suddenly had all its overseas orders cancelled on grounds of "violating human rights clauses."
Domestic raw material suppliers collectively announced they were cutting off supply due to "environmental issues."
The banks they had worked with for decades, citing "upward adjustment of risk assessment," withdrew all loans overnight.
His family enterprise, within a mere 24 hours, fell to the brink of bankruptcy and liquidation.
Calling those former business partners, all he heard was busy signals.
...
That highly venerated luminary of the academic world saw his key research project suddenly hit with the explosive scandal of "fabricated core data" exposed by a top foreign journal. One piece of irrefutable evidence after another, like high-explosive bombs, nailed him to the pillar of academic shame.
Overnight, he went from luminary to fraud, expelled from all academic institutions.
That elder with deep roots in political circles had his carefully cultivated son, the one prepared to inherit his mantle, suddenly exposed by the media for participating in illegal money laundering through secret overseas accounts and a video of soliciting minors for prostitution, with a chain of evidence so complete it was beyond refutation.
His political career, along with his family's future, ended completely the moment that video was exposed.
...
One piece of bad news after another, like assassins' swift blades, struck precisely at each director's vital points.
Banks withdrawing loans, raw material supply cut off, overseas markets blockaded, political scandals exposed, the deepest dirt on family members detonated with precision...
The "industries" they took such pride in, before the vast commercial empire of Seiji Fujiwara, were like sandcastles on a beach, smashed to fragments by a single wave.
To their horror, they discovered that all those they turned to for help, their business partners, their political allies, all were avoiding them like the plague.
When they called, the other party would either stammer something about "being in a meeting" or hang up directly.
They had been thoroughly, cleanly isolated.
As if overnight, the entire world had become their enemy.
One of the directors, at the end of his rope, remembered a "reliable ally," Councilman Iino, who was rising fast in politics and was famed for his integrity.
He felt that even if everyone else surrendered, this man who treated justice as his creed would never join in the mire.
With trembling hands he dialed the phone, recounted his ordeal to the other party, denounced Seiji's tyranny, and begged him to step forward, if only to speak a single word of justice.
Councilman Iino on the other end of the line listened patiently to his lamentations, not interrupting once.
Then, in a cold and flat tone, he slowly said:
"Mr. Yamamoto, this country, right now, has only one voice."
"And that voice is Mr. Fujiwara's voice."
"Times have changed. Submitting to him is the only path of survival for you and your family."
After saying this, he hung up the phone.
Listening to the busy tone coming from the receiver, the director's phone slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a sharp clatter.
The blood drained from his face, leaving only fear and despair.