007. Sigh, daydreaming again.

In Japanese classrooms, each student typically sits at an individual desk, leaving an aisle’s distance between one another.

So, when the teacher gave instructions, Yuzuki Nagumo had no choice but to pull up a chair and sit next to Mutsumi Wakaba’s desk corner.

Mutsumi slid her textbook slightly toward him, then used one arm to hold down the left page that wanted to flip.

Seeing this, Yuzuki pressed down the right page with a finger as well.

The two of them, heads bowed, began to study the same textbook.

Swish—swish.

The teacher spoke animatedly at the front while the students flipped pages beneath her.

On the other side of the classroom, Sachiko Toyokawa turned her head and glanced at the pair sitting together.

“How strange, Mutsumi looks like she’s known him for a long time already,” she thought, then quickly turned back to her seat.

“I’ll ask her after class,” she decided.

Believing her sneaky glance had gone unnoticed, she was unaware that at the very moment she settled down, Yuzuki caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“?”

What was that about?

A flicker of confusion crossed Yuzuki’s mind.

Teacher Daisho’s unspoken rules:

“Stop whining,” “You are the one who needs to practice the most,” “Randomly shift the topic to a teammate who’s not currently engaged.”

Finally, it was time to start sprinting.

He had never heard of her having a habit of peeking at others.

As he pondered this, Mutsumi poked him gently.

“Classical poem.”

“Oh, right.”

Only then did Yuzuki realize it was time to turn the page, and he quickly flipped to a new one.

The teacher continued enthusiastically, clearly passionate and well-versed in the subject.

Moonforest Girls’ Academy was a prestigious old school; even the junior high teachers were quite competent. Unfortunately, the students’ attention was lacking.

The teacher closed her book on the podium, paused, and slowly surveyed the classroom.

She was satisfied with her explanation just now, but… the students below showed little interest.

Most were engrossed in their own affairs: secretly playing on their phones, resting their chins in thought, or chewing on pen caps, pondering what to eat for lunch…

Anything but paying attention.

If this continued, the school’s academic atmosphere would degrade to resemble that of Hanazakigawa Girls’ Academy.

The teacher, who had been teaching for three years, inwardly lamented but, kind-hearted as she was, quickly sought an excuse for the students:

Perhaps the concept of Tokyo University was just too distant for them.

History lessons felt like foreign films, and the imagery of poetry had nothing to do with their daily lives.

Only a rare few remained attentive.

Her gaze settled on Mutsumi Wakaba.

The girl still sat upright, eyes fixed on the textbook, her slender fingers resting quietly on the page, without any unnecessary movement.

She was one of the few truly engaged in the lesson.

The teacher nodded slightly, then shifted her gaze a little to the boy beside her.

Yuzuki Nagumo.

He seemed to be listening too?

The teacher was a bit surprised.

He was a newly transferred student, and usually, newcomers took time to adapt.

Moreover, the lesson was about Chinese classical poetry unfamiliar to junior high students, yet he appeared to absorb it?

She felt a flicker of relief.

Just then, the lesson moved into its second phase — explaining a Chinese classical poem.

This was the highlight of her preparation and the part she most wanted her students to understand.

After a moment’s thought, she looked back at Yuzuki and said:

“Next, we will study a very classic poem from Tokyo University.”

She paused, then smiled gently and called on him directly:

“Yuzuki Nagumo, please read it aloud.”

Suddenly!

Yuzuki stood up instantly, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

At that moment, his mind was utterly blank.

He had been daydreaming and had no idea what to read.

His standing was purely instinctual, like muscle memory etched into his genes.

Just as in his previous life, when called upon in a Tokyo University classroom, he had to stand immediately to answer — a survival reflex ingrained deep in his bones.

…

Silence fell for two seconds.

Yuzuki’s eyes flicked down to the book subconsciously, a polite but awkward smile playing on his lips.

He hadn’t been paying attention and had no clue which part to read.

But now that he was standing, he couldn’t just stand there awkwardly.

Just as he prepared to look up and smile awkwardly at the teacher again,

Snap.

A slender, pale finger gently tapped the page.

Yuzuki froze for a moment, following the finger’s lead, only to find Mutsumi Wakaba had already found the passage for him.

She remained seated upright, eyes lowered, as if this was a trivial favor.

Understanding immediately, Yuzuki composed himself, cleared his throat, and began reciting:

“Before my bed, the moonlight glistens,
Like frost upon the ground.
I lift my head to gaze at the mountain moon,
Then lower it, thinking of my hometown.”

After the poem was introduced to Japan, the Japanese had adapted its pronunciation and rhythm, making it more natural to their language, though the core imagery remained unchanged.

For Yuzuki, this level of content was hardly difficult.

His tone was steady, his pace neither rushed nor slow, with just the right modulation.

When he finished, the room was silent for a beat.

Then, applause—clap, clap, clap.

The teacher led the clapping with a look of approval.

Sparse but genuine applause echoed through the room, at least a form of response.

Yuzuki exhaled in relief, returning to his seat with a hint of lingering enjoyment.

Like an international student at Tokyo University casually acing a basic Chinese language elective, that effortless mastery was intoxicating…

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Mutsumi, who still sat as before, her finger resting on the page without movement.

Yuzuki adjusted his seat and resumed listening.

The teacher lightly pushed her glasses up, opened new lesson materials, and continued:

“Next, we’ll explore the similarities and differences between the Chinese poem ‘Quiet Night Thoughts’ and the Japanese folktale ‘The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter’ featuring Princess Kaguya.”

She wrote two keywords on the blackboard.

“Li Bai’s moon is ‘frost’; Japan’s moon is ‘jade.’”

She scanned the class and posed a question:

“They’re both moons, but how are they differently portrayed in their respective poems?”

Yuzuki truly wanted to focus, but his thoughts drifted again.

Sigh, here come the associations.

Princess Kaguya?

Ah, that I recognize — it’s the supercomputer at Snakefork Eight Family, located on the 22nd floor of Genji Heavy Industries, equivalent to the Norma system at Kassel Academy headquarters…