From the layout alone, minus the lack of windows, it looked exactly like an ordinary classroom.
I figured seating was open, but the moment I sat down—
The desk started flashing red.
Worried some trap was about to spring, I leaped up.
I checked the desk—turns out each one had a number.
The desk I'd picked had a tiny screen in the upper right corner.
It was scrolling a number: "Class 10, Student 462."
Wait—Class 10?
I was in Class 8.
My brain blanked for a second. Had I walked into the wrong classroom?
No wonder the desk was flashing red—I was in the wrong seat.
I turned and headed for the door.
In my hurry, I was walking fast and bumped right into someone.
"Shit!" the man muttered—I'd stepped on his foot.
I quickly apologized. "Sorry, I—"
The man was slightly taller than me. I looked up—and my eyes went wide.
What a stroke of rotten luck.
The man I'd stepped on was one of the two guys Harrison and I had tried to kill last night.
The skinny one.
Standing beside him was the other one—the square-jawed man with the beard.
They glared at me murderously.
My scalp prickled. I was on my own—vastly outnumbered.
If they came at me now, I wouldn't stand a chance.
I reflexively took a defensive stance, squaring off against them.
Even outmatched, I refused to cower.
Just as I was thinking I'd have to fight them—
Harrison's voice came from behind the two men. "Excuse me, you're blocking the way."
I'd been annoyed with Harrison before, but right now, he was my savior.
I squeezed past the two men and grabbed Harrison's arm. "Let's go—wrong classroom."
Harrison pulled me back. "It's not the wrong classroom. This is it."
I stopped. "But this is Class 10's area."
I'd just confirmed it—I couldn't have misread.
Harrison said heavily, "After this morning's assessment, each class lost so many people they couldn't field full rosters anymore. The game organizers combined several classes into one classroom. Ours has Class 8, Class 9, and Class 10."
His words reminded me of the horror from this morning.
Those weren't numbers—they were living people.
I asked Harrison, "How many are left in our class?"
He said, "Including you and me... twelve."
"Twelve—is that a disadvantage?"
If upcoming rounds involved class versus class, fewer numbers could mean a serious handicap.
Harrison shook his head. "Not really. We're about middle. I heard one class got wiped out entirely—twenty people plus their monitor, all dead."
I swallowed.
Harrison patted my shoulder. "It's a good thing. Don't psych yourself out. Come on in—we're running out of time."
He led the way inside.
I lingered at the door, gazing down the high-tech metal corridor, and exhaled slowly.
Then I followed him in, found my assigned desk, and sat.
I looked around at my neighbors. You've got to be kidding me.
In front of me was the podium. Behind me was Harrison.
On my left—Class 10's skinny guy. On my right—Class 10's bearded man.
I was surrounded by hostiles.
I stared at the front of the classroom, silently enduring the cold glares from both sides.
Praying that this round wouldn't be a mental test.
Maybe I had superpowers. Or maybe it was telepathy.
Every time I dreaded something, that exact thing appeared.
After the bell rang, a petite woman wearing a rabbit mask walked in through the front door.
The moment she stood at the podium, both doors slammed shut and locked.
The lights above the doors turned from green to red.
The Rabbit Overseer cleared her throat and spoke in a voice as sweet as her diminutive frame suggested. "Hello, students! You must be exhausted from this morning. This afternoon, no more physical activities—just two things: a mental test and a hands-on task."
She walked down from the podium, distributing test papers one by one.
"Our academy trains outstanding all-around talent. You need more than a strong body—your mind needs to keep up too. As the saying goes, nimble hands come from a nimble mind... Please don't start writing until the broadcast gives the signal. Oh, and one more thing—intelligence may be lacking, but your character mustn't be. Do not copy from others. If a Rabbit Overseer catches you cheating, you will face severe punishment."
She finished with a little giggle.
The classroom was dead silent. Goosebumps rose across my arms.
When she handed my paper to me, I looked up at her.
The mask covered most of her face, but I caught a glimpse of red light flashing in her eyes.
Red eyes—even more rabbit-like.
I was curious—was she wearing colored contacts, or was the person behind the mask a foreigner?
But even foreigners didn't have red eyes, did they?
Before I could look closer, she'd already moved past me with the papers.
I didn't dare turn around, terrified of being flagged for cheating. I sat in place with my doubts, waiting for the next instruction.
Soon, all papers were handed out.
The broadcast announced: "The in-class test lasts thirty minutes. All students must complete their answers within the allotted time. There are three major questions. After thirty minutes, papers will be graded on the spot. Any student who scores below sixty will face elimination. Take this seriously. The test begins now."
At the signal, I tore open the wrapper and started reading.
By the system's rules, thirty minutes for three questions meant roughly ten minutes per question.
I skimmed all three—they were all detective-style logic puzzles.
Then I picked up my pen and tackled the first one.
"A middle-aged woman, A, won five million in the lottery. She was later found dead in her bedroom, collapsed by the door, her throat slashed horizontally. Blood had already clotted and scabbed. The murder weapon lay beside the body. The victim's entire body showed purple patch-like subcutaneous hemorrhaging. An autopsy revealed non-coagulating blood in her abdominal cavity. Police ruled out suicide. Three people visited her on the day of her death: B, C, and D. Who is the killer?"
"B is the victim's best friend. Under A's bed, police found an earring belonging to B—old and dusty, stained with rust. Blood from A was found on B's shoe soles."
"C is A's ex-husband, a pastry chef. He'd been trying to win A back since the divorce. C was the one who called the police."
"D is A's boyfriend, the only person who knew about the lottery win. According to A's other friends, D is mild-mannered, treats A very well, and they have a good relationship—except for one vice: he's a gambler with some outstanding loans, though the amounts aren't large."
I read through the problem. It wasn't perfectly rigorous, but enough clues were there to deduce the answer.
First, looking at motives—B, C, and D all had reasons.
But D could be eliminated first.
Even though he had a gambling habit, his relationship with A was good. If he asked her for money and the amount was modest, she'd likely have lent it.
They weren't married. Even if he killed A, he wouldn't inherit the money.
So D had no reason to take that risk.
That left B and C.
As for B—the earring under the bed suggested she'd been having an affair with C, which led to the divorce.
The blood on B's shoe soles suggested she might have been the one who slashed A's throat, then fled in panic without cleaning up.
But B wasn't the real killer.
Because when police arrived, the blood on A's neck had already clotted and scabbed—meaning the throat wound wasn't deep enough to be fatal.
So with B and D eliminated, the only option left was C, the ex-husband.