“I see. This option has hidden costs too.”
Noriko sat back down by the window.
She looked at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.
Her earlier piece had been returned by the club president.
“This isn’t an article.” “It’s just writing down everything you saw, one thing after another.”
Write a novel. What a pain.
The president rubbed her temples and pushed the rejected paper back toward Noriko.
“If you’re interested in the Literary Club, then write another one.”
Noriko frowned.
“Write what?”
“Anything is fine.” The president sighed. “As long as it’s an original short piece written by you. An observation, a reflection on daily life, or even part of a story would work.”
Original. She had to come up with it herself, too.
That sounded like an extra hidden quest.
Noriko pulled out her phone and searched.
“How to write?”
She looked through a few results.
Too long. Skip.
“How to write a short story?”
Still too long. Skip.
She kept scrolling until she found a search result that looked short.
Tap.
There was no long-winded theory on the page, just a few short lines arranged in neat, orderly formatting.
“…This one’s shorter.”
She looked at it a few more times.
“And it looks like an actual article.”
“Then I’ll write it like this.”
She didn’t pay the slightest attention to what the webpage actually said, nor did she care whose work it was.
By her logic, as long as it met three conditions—“the word count is sufficient, the formatting is neat, and it has a beginning and an end”—the quest was already one hundred percent complete. It took her only thirty seconds to memorize the format, after which she closed her phone.
Three minutes later.
She handed the paper back.
The president lowered her head and glanced at it.
Silence.
Then she looked again.
“…Where did you learn to write this?”
“Online.”
“Which website?”
“Don’t know.”
The president lowered her head and looked at the paper again.
“Do you know who wrote this?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you know this is English poetry?”
“Don’t know.”
The president raised her head.
“Then do you know you plagiarized it?”
Noriko froze for a moment.
“…That counts?”
“Of course it counts!”
“But I only used the format.”
“That’s still plagiarism!”
Noriko lowered her head and stared at her paper.
I see.
The Literary Club had a hidden plagiarism check, too.
She silently recorded the rule: high risk, high hidden costs, opaque review standards.
The president rubbed her temples and returned the paper.
“This one won’t do.”
“We need to think about whether you’re suitable for joining.”
Noriko frowned.
“So what’s the result?”
“Leave us your phone number.”
The president glanced at her.
“We’ll contact you after discussing it internally. If you don’t receive a message, that means you didn’t pass.”
Review time: unknown.
She still had to wait for a notification.
That didn’t fit Noriko’s scheduling efficiency.
Expressionless, Noriko picked up her phone, recited a string of numbers, then took back her application form and left without another word.
In the Computer Club classroom next door.
The Computer Club president glanced at the application form.
“Is there anything you want to ask?”
Noriko didn’t answer. She only looked at the notice on the wall.
—Activity hours: After school until exactly five p.m. —Activities: Basic programming and free computer use. —An in-club competition is held every Friday.
Noriko looked at the notice on the wall again.
“What if I don’t know how to program?”
“Then you start with the basics.”
“Do I need to prepare my own textbooks?”
“No. We have some in the clubroom.”
“Do I have to turn in assignments every day?”
“No.”
“What about the Friday competition?”
“It’s optional.”
“Will not participating affect my club evaluation?”
“No.”
Noriko nodded.
“What if I have something to do that day? Can I skip?”
“Just let us know ahead of time.”
“Do I need to submit a leave form?”
“No need to be that formal.”
“What if I just want to play my own games here?”
The Computer Club president blinked.
“As long as you don’t disturb anyone else, sure.”
Noriko’s gaze fell on the notice.
“Does that include online games?”
“Sure.”
“Single-player games?”
“Those too.”
“My own computer?”
“Sure.”
She was silent for a few more seconds.
“Then what are the club’s main activities?”
“Usually, everyone practices on their own, and we discuss things occasionally. If someone wants to make a program, they make a program. If someone wants to study hardware, they study hardware. If there’s a competition on Friday, whoever wants to participate can join.”
“So there are no fixed daily quests?”
“No.”
“And no daily performance requirements?”
“No.”
“Activities end at five?”
“That’s right.”
Noriko finally lifted her gaze from the notice.
She rapidly organized this new information in her head and performed a data comparison:
Literary Club: * Joining requirement: Submit an original short piece * Hidden mechanic: Plagiarism check (extremely high risk) * Results time: Unknown (must wait for notification)
Computer Club: * Joining requirement: No mandatory work * Hidden mechanic: None found so far * Review time: Response tomorrow (clear and controllable)
Compared to the Literary Club’s random events, where they accused you of plagiarism at the drop of a hat and made you leave your phone number just to wait for a notification…
The rules here were practically as clear as a tutorial.
She looked at the application form on the desk but didn’t sign it immediately.
“…Got it.”
The Computer Club president looked at her and casually slipped the application form into a folder on the desk.
“If you don’t have any other questions, just tell me tomorrow whether you want to join.”
Noriko nodded.
“I’ll respond tomorrow.”
“You still need to think about it?”
Noriko considered it.
“I need to compare them.”
“Compare what?”
Noriko thought for a moment.
“Which one is a better fit.”
With that, she put away the application form and headed for the door.
The door closed.
The Computer Club president glanced at the application form on her desk, then at the now-closed door.
“What a strange new student.”
But she didn’t think much more about it.
After all, lots of new students came by to check out the clubs every day.
Some wanted to make friends, some were just looking for a place to kill time, and some simply wanted to find a more relaxed club.
As for whether this underclassman named Noriko Sato would actually join…
She’d know tomorrow.
At the same time, in the Literary Club.
Evening.
The setting sun cast long diagonal shadows through the wooden window frames of the Literary Club classroom, while the air was thick with the scents of old paper and instant coffee.
The president sat at the desk, wearily rubbing her temples. Several applications and sample pieces they had received that day were scattered across the desktop.
Several students waiting for club activities to end were seated by the window. Among them, Yuma Takagi leaned against the edge of a desk, slowly spinning a ballpoint pen in his hand.
He wasn’t paying particular attention to the others’ conversation. It was only when he heard the surname “Sato” that he stopped moving and looked up at the application form on the desk.
“Oh, speaking of which…”
He paused, then reached out and pulled the application form free.
“I remember her name was Sato… Has the result come back for that underclassman, Noriko Sato?”
The president sighed and took a sip of cold coffee from her mug.
“I’m about to deal with it. Unless something unexpected happens, we can just send her a canned text message rejecting her.”
Takagi glanced down at the sample piece and smiled faintly.
“I don’t think it’s that bad. The structure was something she found at the last minute, but the formatting is pretty clean, and it’s actually kind of interesting to read.”
“Interesting?”
The president stared at him in disbelief.
“Takagi, are you serious? She didn’t even know it was English poetry, and when she got caught, she asked, ‘That counts?’ like she’d done nothing wrong.”
Takagi put the paper back on the desk, his tone still unhurried.
“But she really doesn’t seem interested in literature.” The president looked at the sample piece on the desk. “She didn’t even know she’d plagiarized English poetry.”
“Yeah.” Takagi nodded.
“And after she was called out, her first response was actually, ‘That counts?’”
“I think that response is what makes it interesting.”
The president raised her head.
“What’s interesting about it?”
Takagi thought for a moment, then said evenly, “Because she genuinely didn’t know.”
Yuma looked at the sample piece, then smiled. A trace of warm interest showed in his eyes.
“So I just want to see what she writes next.”
The president frowned at him.
“You really think she’ll join?”
Takagi considered it.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“At the very least, she seems pretty interesting.”
The president fell silent.
She lowered her head and looked at the rejected sample piece again.
> The sun is red, and the sky is blue. >
The president raised her head and gave Takagi a complicated look.
“…I still don’t see what’s interesting about it.”
Noriko pushed open the front door and changed out of her indoor shoes.
“I’m home.”
The living room was empty, with only the low hum of the refrigerator running.
She washed her hands. Instead of heading to her desk, she went straight to her single bed and collapsed onto it spread-eagle.
The soft mattress instantly enveloped her whole body.
She pulled out her phone and unlocked the screen.
The first thing that popped up was the mobile game interface. All her gathering troops had returned, and a notification for the resource-gathering results was waiting in her inbox.
Out of habit, Noriko tapped rapidly, opening resource chests, speeding up construction, and collecting her daily VIP login-point reward along the way.
Next, she opened the guild chat channel.
At the top of the screen, the alliance leader had just posted a long-winded announcement:
> 【Full Mobilization Order】 > “Allies, tonight at nine we’re launching a surprise attack on the enemy alliance’s engineering station! Everyone online must follow orders. Remember, when joining the rally, use only high-tier troops. Tomorrow, Friday night, there are more important fortress battles at ten and eleven! Make sure you participate today—let’s go, everyone!” >
A row of stickers and replies immediately flooded the chat: “Roger,” “We’ll give it everything we’ve got,” and “We support the alliance leader.”
Noriko stared at the wall of chat filling the screen, her expression unchanged.
Nine o’clock: surprise attack. Ten o’clock: fortress battle. Eleven o’clock: another one.
Noriko looked at the announcement.
This wasn’t a game anymore.
It was a work schedule.
She opened the option to leave the alliance.
Her finger stopped over the button.
She looked at her combat power again.
Then she looked at all the time she’d already invested.
If she left the alliance now, all that time would be wasted.
She silently swiped across the screen, scanning her phone’s home screen until her gaze landed on an icon that had been sitting quietly in the corner—the standalone computer building game she had been playing for years.
By her estimate, the virtual industrial city she had planned and laid out so perfectly had gone several days without being opened. If its time flowed at the same rate as reality, the production lines had probably already ground to a complete halt from a lack of coal. The warehouses would be overflowing with unprocessed resources, while the citizens suffered mass cases of frostbite and severe injuries, with some even losing limbs, after the generator tower shut down.
But the mobile game… Whatever. Just two more days of effort.