"Behold! This is the third floor of the school library—home to textbooks, exams, and extracurricular reading materials across modern literature, classical Japanese, math, physics, biology, chemistry, geography, world history, social studies, economics, politics, foreign languages… basically every subject under the sun!"
The academic director spread his arms wide like he was embracing an ocean of knowledge, wearing a blissful smile.
"This will be your new training ground—your new classroom!"
Yin Ze, escorted there by karate expert Tomoko Yasui, stared at the shelves crammed full of books and test papers. The thick scent of paper and graphite filled the air. It felt like a beast named "Study" was opening its massive jaws to devour him. His soul-deep fear of flunking kicked in—he instinctively wanted to bolt.
Too bad he couldn't. A stern, gray-haired man in a crisp suit had appeared at the door, hands behind his back, radiating quiet authority.
"Principal, you're back from the exchange program?" the director asked, startled.
The man didn't reply right away. He stood silently, his gaze intense, fixed on the young man before him.
"You look nervous," he finally said, staring straight at Yin Ze.
"There are… too many books. The sheer weight of humanity's collective knowledge is… overwhelming," Yin Ze replied, cupping his fists with a respectful nod.
"The path to academic success is hard, sure—but relax, you don't have to become Wikipedia incarnate."
The principal gave him a consoling nod, then strolled gracefully to the window. His tone took on a wistful edge.
"Tell me, student… what is Todai to you?"
"It's short for the University of Tokyo!" Yin Ze replied with complete confidence.
"..." The director facepalmed.
The principal's vibe didn't change, but his silhouette seemed more solitary as he continued speaking.
"I come from a family of scholars. At two, I could only fall asleep to recordings of The Manyoshu. At four, I was learning kanji, painting, and music. In kindergarten, I practiced mental arithmetic with triple digits. I even self-published a collection of prose poetry. I topped my class from grade school to middle school. I never missed a single academic competition. Whenever other kids got scolded for slacking off, their parents would say, 'Why can't you be more like him?' I was that kid—the one people always brought up."
"As a result, I had very few friends. I went to the movies and ate grilled meat alone. I never had a girlfriend. My classmates treated me like I was from another dimension. The girls only talked to me when they wanted answers. But I wasn't sad. I knew exactly where I was headed."
"I, Kozumi Yūsaburō, was going to break the family curse. My father Yūjirō and grandfather Yūichirō had failed. I would succeed."
His tone shifted—from pride to sorrow, then into deep reflection.
"I was so confident. I thought I'd mastered every subject a high schooler could. I gave it my all—and still failed the entrance exam. People mocked me like vultures swarming a fallen god, hyenas smelling blood. I locked myself away, soul-searching for weeks. I decided to try again—as a rōnin, a repeat exam taker."
"But the second time, I failed again. I watched classmates take the test a third or even fourth time, and suddenly fear hit me like never before. My spirit broke. I couldn't bear the pressure anymore. I gave up and, with tears in my eyes, enrolled in Waseda. I still remember crying my heart out as I wrote my name on the registration form."
The director had a complicated look on his face. Not because he was touched—he'd graduated from Waseda himself. It had been his top choice, and just barely made the cutoff.
"Every Japanese student has what you could call 'Todai Syndrome.' Part of it's emotional, sure. But more than anything, it's because Todai holds unrivaled political clout."
The principal turned back around, eyes glinting with nostalgia.
"Of all who pass the national civil service exams, 62.5% are Todai graduates. It's practically a monopoly. Especially in law and medicine, the word 'elite' was coined for these people. In a society with rigid class systems, Todai is the dragon gate. Make it across, and you break your chains. Do you understand now?"
"I understand!" Yin Ze nodded vigorously.
"Takizawa-kun," the director chimed in with enthusiasm, "With your natural ability, you're bound to succeed. Once you get into Todai's Faculty of Law, graduate, and put that photographic memory to work—you could become a Diet member in a few years!"
"Ah, but I actually want to apply to the literature department," Yin Ze said, scratching his head.
The director nearly burst a blood vessel. You don't even know how to pick a flagship major?! He was about to launch into a lecture when—
"Well said!"
The principal suddenly beamed with admiration.
"Becoming a bureaucrat doesn't make you elite! That's such a narrow definition! Has true academic research become a relic of the past? People are so shortsighted—only caring about what they can see. But civilization, the core of human history, is built by culture!"
"Well, then… maybe Waseda or Keio would be a better fit," the director muttered meekly. "Private universities are run by corporations, not beholden to rankings. They're also more tolerant toward humanities."
"And most students there come from wealthy families. Easier to find a rich, beautiful girlfriend," he added under his breath.
"Don't be absurd!" The principal raised his chin in defiance, scoffing with the pride of a fallen scholar. "Todai is a national university. Its entrance exam is one of the toughest. I always aim for the hardest target!"
You flunked twice and still dare to talk like this in front of a fellow Waseda grad?! The director fumed silently.
"Young man, what drives you to choose the humanities? Speak your truth, and make this balding Mediterranean man admit his stale thinking!" the principal urged dramatically.
"I suck at math. So, liberal arts it is." Yin Ze answered honestly.
Silence.
"…Honestly, math isn't that hard," the principal tried to keep the mood light.
"Oh? Do tell."
"Well, it really only gets tough around calculus."
"They put calculus on college entrance exams?!" Yin Ze nearly jumped out of his skin and glanced at the door.
"Young people these days have no stamina!"
With sudden vigor, the principal grabbed his sleeve like a man possessed.
"Todai uses a combined score from the national standardized test and their own entrance exam. It's not just a one-shot deal. The standardized part is all basic subjects—multiple choice. Score high there, and you're already ahead!"
"What's a good target score?" Yin Ze asked, seeing no chance of escape.
"Out of 900, anything below 750 is risky," the principal said gravely.
"Seven-fifty?!"
"Not quite," the director interjected. "If you get that low, you might not even qualify for the second round. Based on past data, 820 is the safe zone."
"But… the max is 900!!" Yin Ze cried out, his face contorted.
"What's there to fear?" the principal smirked devilishly. "With your talent for memorization, you'll easily ace world history and Japanese history. The rest, we'll drill into you with logic drills and endless worksheets. Even if you slip here and there, it won't matter. With my supreme cramming technique—and the director's battle-tested methods—you'll work a miracle!"
He grinned like a mad scientist unveiling his final plan.
"The Kozumi family's unfinished dream lives on through me! After decades in the shadows, it will finally come true! My greatest humiliation will be avenged! HAHAHAHA!!"
The director, watching from the side, suddenly remembered something. He raised his hand with a subtle gesture.
"If you succeed, you'll earn this much. A reward for saving our stink—er, troubled principal. Also good PR."
"Who are you calling the stinky principal?!"
"Who are you calling balding?!"
"Gentlemen." Yin Ze interrupted the project team's infighting with solemn grace. "Hand me the first book. Let's get started."