The Mutant Club's Secret Weapon
Dick led Simon, Fitzgerald, and Toto on a tour of the surrounding club booths.
"I asked the minions to bring back some of the materials we need to decorate our booth," Dick said, draping an arm casually around Fitzgerald's neck. "While they're gone, we scope out the competition and figure out what we're missing."
"Understood."
"Feels like this is actually the first time we've properly introduced ourselves. My name is—"
"Overall Rank 20, Fitzgerald."
Fitzgerald's eyes went wide behind his glasses. Dick, clearly savoring that reaction as though he'd seen it a hundred times before, reeled off more intel without pause.
"Hobby: reading. Specialties: philosophical debate, and your pride and joy of late—a thirty-gold pair of designer glasses."
"...How did you—"
"Haha! This is literally what I do for a living, so no need to worry about it. Anyway!"
Dick stopped walking and swept his arm out to the side.
"Take a good look at the rivals you're up against. That goes for you too, Toto."
"Oh, okay!"
Fitzgerald's and Toto's gazes made one slow circuit of the club booths before returning to where they'd started. Dick smirked.
"Starting to get the picture now? Why those clubs are thriving—and why yours is dead in the water!"
"Not at all," said Fitzgerald, pushing his glasses up.
"Honest answer, no... not really," Toto mumbled.
Dick glanced back at Simon, mouthing the words, Are these guys always this hopeless? Simon quietly looked away and pretended not to notice.
"Alright, fine! No need to overthink it!" Dick pointed ahead. "The Gourmet Club. They run a full-scale restaurant on-site and hook the freshmen through taste and smell. They show you exactly what their club is about the second you look at them! Free meals for anyone who joins—nice touch, too."
He pointed to the opposite side.
"The Physical Culture Club is out there in nothing but shorts, slicked head to toe in oil, pulling everyone's eyes with the beauty of pure muscle. the Jet-Black Swordsmanship Club has a gorgeous sword collection on full display, stealing gazes left and right. And the Shapeshifting Club has members transform into cats and run a little game—guess which one's the real cat."
Dick shrugged.
"See it now? You put each club's defining traits front and center."
"That's strange," Fitzgerald tilted his head. "If that's the feedback you mean, we're already doing—"
"You're not talking about that revolting siren chimera paired with that barfing Death Worm, are you?"
Fitzgerald's face flushed with indignation, but Dick just shook his head and pressed on.
"Play to your club's personality, sure—but the key is adding elements that appeal to the general public too! Oh, you know, like the kind of thing girls go crazy for? Small, cute summons?"
"We have a miniature Abomination chimera assembled from the organs of rats and rabbits. It is small and ador—"
"Overruled, sir."
At how dire the situation actually was, Dick heaved a deep sigh.
"Let's set aside the whole 'club individuality' thing and talk about something more fundamental. Something essential." Dick clapped his palms together with a sharp crack! "What draws humans in?"
As if a topic finally worthy of his intellect had arrived, Fitzgerald's eyes lit up.
"The pursuit of truth, and boundless intellectual curiosity."
"...Someone shut this kid up."
Dick grumbled, then pressed on. "Fine, I'll make it even simpler. What draws teenage boys and girls in? The answer is interest in the opposite sex!"
Fitzgerald nodded. "The opposite sex. I agree."
"Oh, really? Now we're finally speaking the same language."
Dick shrugged and raised his voice. "I mean, come on—what would a bunch of fresh seventeen-year-olds care about? Romance! Butterflies! Freshness! Campus dates! Boys! Girls! Love! It's all that stuff! Look over there!"
Down the alley ahead, boys were handing out flyers.
Every one of them was immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, with chiseled, sculpted faces. They offered flyers to passing girls and struck up conversation with practiced ease, and the smooth, well-worn pickup lines sent waves of blush flooding across the cheeks of the shy noble girls of the first-year class, one after another.
There was even a girl who took a flyer, adjusted her hairstyle slightly, looped back around, and tried to get a second flyer from them.
"And over there too!"
On the opposite alley stood second-year girls. Some wore cheerleading outfits with daringly short skirts; a few had even brought maid uniforms.
When those goddess-like upperclassmen clung to the freshmen's arms and cooed—pleeeease join us—in their ears, the boys could do nothing but sign the enrollment forms with dazed, enchanted expressions.
A completely different world was unfolding over there.
"Wh-what is all this?!" Toto spluttered, his face contorting.
"Filthy. And vulgar."
Fitzgerald scowled in irritation. Simon, who had been quietly observing, snorted.
"And here you were agreeing about interest in the opposite sex just a second ago."
"That has nothing to do with reason. That's closer to animal instinct," Fitzgerald said, adjusting his glasses. "The name Elite Kizen weeps. First-years who would fall for tactics like that were never people I intended to recruit in the first place."
At that, Dick's eyes rolled back.
"YOU! Of all people! Have NO right to laugh at them! FITZGERALD!" he roared, jabbing a finger at one of the girls in a maid outfit. "You think they're out there doing that for fun? Everybody wants to do what comes easy, set the mood, and get treated well! The ones who go out into the field and run on their own two feet like that—they're the ones who actually KNOW! What works! What gets real results!"
Fitzgerald glared right back, unyielding. "The Mutant Club has its own philosophy. I would rather run on second-years alone again next year than accept first-years reeled in by tactics like those."
"Wrong! You've got it completely backwards! People have to come first. Only once people come can anyone be persuaded by this philosophy or value or whatever you call it! The way things are, you're just an empty 'zero'! No possibility, no future—zero!"
"...Dick, take it down a notch."
Simon tried to calm him, wondering what had gotten him so worked up this time.
"So you're telling me that the kids out there sweating it out in the field are filthy and vulgar? And then you lay out your precious, picky standards for the masses. Do you have any idea how arrogant and idiotic that is? The person who swallows a little embarrassment, works hard, secures plenty of members, and delivers results—and YOU, who just sat there sneering at them and produced absolutely nothing!"
Dick leveled his index finger at Fitzgerald and said coldly, "Which one of you is more Kizen?"
"..."
Fitzgerald's pupils wavered. He turned his head away and adjusted his glasses.
"I have little confidence in my looks or charm."
"Hoo."
Dick brushed his bangs back.
"That doesn't matter. Whether you wear a puppet mask or put on a costume, what counts is the willingness to draw people in! That, in itself, is everything."
With that, Dick strode ahead.
"Let's head back to the booth. The materials should be there by now, right?"
By the time they reached the booth, the minions had already delivered the goods. Under Dick's direction, everyone worked together to give the booth a complete makeover.
First they stripped off all the grotesque occult decorations and replaced them with a clean, tasteful interior design, then rewrote the word MUTANT on the roof in a far more readable style.
Amusing photos of their summons went up on the walls, and the smelly Death Worm was ordered by Toto into his subspace.
"Not bad!"
The siren summon, meanwhile, was performing a spectacular juggling act, rolling a ball around with all six of its arms. Fitzgerald, controlling it from behind with his thought-projection, pushed his glasses up.
"This much is elementary."
Then he bowed his head with an oddly crushed expression.
"And yet... why does it feel like I've lost somehow...?"
"Hahaha! In the name of commerce, anything that appeals to the masses and catches the eye is fair game!"
Just then, Toto poked his head out from behind the tent pole.
"Um, Dick? Are you serious about wearing this?"
"Of cour— huh?"
Toto stepped out, face bright red.
He was wearing a shapeless, flowing long dress, with a long-haired wig on his head. Even Dick let out a gasp of admiration—he hadn't expected it to suit him this well.
"Perfect! A frail, sickly-beauty girl down to the last measurement!"
"...Dick."
Simon sighed and shot Dick a glare. "Don't mess around with Toto like that."
"Messing around? I'm always serious. This is the only way to save your dying club!"
"...If our only path to survival is truly Toto in a dress, then I'd say we deserve to die."
"Ahem! Come on, don't say that! I had a tool for attracting girls, but nothing for attracting boys. It couldn't be helped."
Dick pressed half the flyers into Toto's arms and bellowed, "Go! Mutant Club's secret weapon! Target the first-year underclassmen!"
"No way! How am I supposed to—looking like THIS?!"
"Relax! You've got makeup on—no one will recognize you."
Under the sweet temptation of a full disguise and total anonymity, even Toto, who had refused over and over, began to waver.
"R-really, no one will know it's me? Right?"
"The Student Council President of Kizen guarantees it! Now get going!"
Toto shuffled off with a nervous, anxious look on his face. Then Dick turned to Simon.
"And you, Simon! How long are you planning to just stand in the back weighting scales? Your clubmates are busting their tails out here—the least you can do is lend a hand."
Simon blinked. "You know I'm Student Council President, right? It wouldn't look great if I openly helped one specific club."
"Heheh! I figured you'd say that, so I already sent the minions to ask Professor Jane. She said since this year's budget allocation criteria are crystal clear, a little light helping hand on the last day is perfectly fine."
Flap!
Dick drummed his fingers on Simon's Student Council President coat and flashed a knowing smile.
"The hero of that legendary entrance-ceremony rescue operation! Why not put that famous name to proper use for once?"
Simon felt a shiver of dread run through his whole body.
At the same moment, Princess Molly was wandering the central plaza alone.
"..."
The friends who had come with her to see Saywre's performance had scattered one by one to do as they pleased, and now she was the only one left.
Second-years who spotted Molly here and there closed in like hyenas.
"Your Highness, surely club activities are the very flower of Kizen!"
"It would be our honor if you joined our research society!"
"Your Highness, if you would allow us to serve you—"
Molly shook her head coolly and kept walking. "I'm sorry."
She had wanted to browse the booths at her leisure like the other first-years, to try out all sorts of activities. But seniors kept recognizing her at every turn and swarming in, and she hadn't had a moment's peace.
"All of you, get lost! Hey! Did I stutter?!"
Shoving aside the club members trying to whisk her away, a sharp-tongued second-year planted herself squarely in front of Molly.
It was Elisa Celine, head of the Noblesse club, with the rest of her members in tow.
"Princess Molly! We've been waiting for you! Come with us," Elisa said, bowing with impeccable courtesy. "Naturally, upon reaching your second year we guarantee you the position of Noblesse club president. Carrying on from Prince Andre—"
"...So it's my dear brother Andre you speak of."
Molly's expression went frost-cold. "The same brother who blackmailed a classmate into serving as his personal maid, abused school authority and budget, dragged the honor of the kingdom's Black Knights through the mud, and drove Senior Simon into misery?"
Wait—huh? This isn't how it was supposed to go.
Elisa's composure cracked. "B-but, Your Highness, that—"
"I'm sorry, but there is absolutely, absolutely no chance of me joining Noblesse."
Molly picked up her pace and fled into the crowd.
Elisa and the Noblesse members, who had naturally assumed Molly would join, froze as if they'd been struck from behind.
Let me just confirm one last thing and head back.
Molly weaved out of the crowd with a long-suffering look and walked on, pulling a booth map from her uniform pocket and concentrating on it—
Thud!
An elbow slammed into her face out of nowhere. She collapsed to the ground with a strangled urk.
?!
In all her life, no one had ever so much as slapped her cheek. Clutching her nose, she let out a silent scream.
"Oh, sorry."
A voice drifted down from above. When Molly looked up, she saw a girl perched on a tall chair, holding an enormous three-tiered cake.
"Didn't know you were standing there."
Short brown hair, pale, sugar-dark eyes sunk in shadow. And radiating from her, that unmistakably ominous aura.
...No way!
Still clutching her stinging nose, Molly stared up at her, face tight with tension.
The undisputed strongest of the first-year class.
Special Admission No. 1—Sasha Andrasil—stood before her eyes.