Mao: The Quite One

Even with the new titles, Mao never forgot.

It was during a council meeting with Emi—minutes before it began—that the memory returned like a slap through the silence.

First year.

He had just transferred. Still quiet. Still learning names. He'd offered a suggestion during a group project, careful and thoughtful.

And Emi, sharp-tongued and confident back then, had waved it off with a smirk:

> "That's not how we do things here."

Dismissive. Cold. Like his ideas didn't belong.

She probably didn't remember it now.

But Mao did.

Back then, it burned. Now, it echoed—a quiet reminder of how far he'd come.

And maybe why her silence now didn't hurt as much as it once would have.

---

Ren, meanwhile, was unraveling.

He wasn't used to chasing.

He wasn't used to failing.

Every time new rankings posted, he scanned for one thing—his name at the top. But it never came.

Shun still held number one. Calm. Untouchable.

Kenji remained a solid second.

Mao, rising like a quiet storm, locked in at third.

And Ren—once at the summit—was stuck at fourth.

He trained harder. Pushed longer. Even snapped at classmates in study sessions. But the results didn't change.

Worse, he saw the shift in how people looked at Mao now: not with pity. But with respect.

And that lit something cold in Ren's chest.

He wasn't ready to lose to Mao.

Not after everything.

---

Mao, for his part, noticed the tension—but didn't engage.

He had a new focus.

His responsibilities as Academic Leader consumed his time, as did planning a major school-wide symposium—something he was forced to coordinate with Emi.

Their interactions were clipped. Direct. But professional.

Still, every now and then, a flicker of that first-year memory surfaced when she spoke.

And it reminded Mao: he wasn't that boy anymore.

He'd earned his place.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn't finished climbing yet.