Mirei stepped atop him, folding her arms and puffing up her chest as she went. “...Indeed, I shan’t deny it. I wasn’t particularly attempting to hide my exhaustion—it’s just that to appear beautiful is akin to our brand of courtesy, after all,” she pointed out.
“There is no such thing as ‘taking it easy’ in this world. True pursuit knows no end,” she continued. “Just as you all drove yourselves to the brink this morning, we, too, offered everything we had in our quest for perfection. That is all there is to it... Oh, I’m sorry,” Mirei said suddenly, turning to Kai. “I fear I’ve spoken too much... ‘Speak with your output,’ was it? At this point, I believe that ought to suffice.”
“...I agree,” Kai replied, naturally locking eyes with the haughty girl. He found himself stuck in a staring contest, as neither side was willing to be the first to turn away.
But then, a loud thud, thud, thud began to sound outside, and culminated in the lecture hall doors bursting open. Kai saw the same tattered jeans, accompanied by the same leather jacket, with yet another anime character peeking out from a t-shirt underneath. Hifumi Tetsuya’s bald head and shoulders cut through the air, and his sunglasses shone as he solemnly made his way up to the front of the room.
Upon stepping to the podium, he removed his shades and snorted at the sea of students in front of him. After lording over them for a moment, his lips twisted into a gratified sneer and he announced, “Alrighty, let’s hurry up and get to the judging. There’s a lot of you, so we’re gonna be quick about this... Hm.”
Suddenly, Tetsuya froze in place. His wrinkly, unhealthy eyes swam around in thought as he put his hand to his chin with a groan of contemplation. With his free hand, Tetsuya pulled a crumpled cigarette from out of his pocket, which he then placed into his mouth.
“It’s gonna be a pain if you throw a fit later, so let me get this out of the way,” he announced. “Listen up: I know they’re calling this a ‘judging’ or a ‘critique’ or whatever, but it’s not that big of a deal. Simply put, the winner will be whichever game suits my taste better—whichever game I like better. That’s it.
“You might be thinking, ‘What the hell is this guy on about?’ but that’s how it is,” he went on. “I mean, we’ve got a giant mix of different genres, themes, and target audiences here in the first place. Would you be able to accept some numerical score on your game? Well, if any of you dare to waste my time with something that’s obviously not up to snuff, I’ll chew you out all you want.”
He took a moment to survey the crowd and suck on the unlit cigarette. “...Pwaah. So, my point is, don’t worry about it too much. Er, I guess you can worry all you like, but lemme add some disclaimers for you: first is that, if you win, you just so happened to make a game that I ended up liking. So, don’t get it twisted around. And if you lose—as long as it’s not a flaming pile of garbage—you just so happened to miss the mark on what kind of game I like. So, don’t get that twisted, either. Think of me like a self-proclaimed game critic who dropped a review for your game in your comments section.” After another pause, he said, “That’s it for the intro. Any questions?”
Everyone present had come too far to ask anything now. And thus, the judging began. Once again, a giant screen came down from the ceiling above the podium, and the projector mirrored the display on Tetsuya’s smartphone. All the apps from every school had already been installed, and he went through them all in the same order as the initial drawing.
Tetsuya himself seemed to be going in blind, having not played any of the games prior to this moment. The students were allowed to speak up at any point during their game’s presentation. Some chose to offer supplementary information, while others waited to answer one of Tetsuya’s unpredictable questions.
Meikun and Kongouin had been paired at the very end of the drawing ceremony, so they were going to be the closing act, and Kai’s anxiety was through the roof. To begin with, only the top performing schools had been invited to be here. All of the apps shown thus far had been high-quality products, regardless of genre, and each passing presentation caused the terrible worry in Kai’s body to grow and grow.
Kai and his team had done everything they could, and he’d felt a definite sense of accomplishment when they had uploaded their final submission. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was going to be enough.
Despite what he’d said, Tetsuya had yet to chew anybody out—perhaps owing to the surprisingly high level of work on display. He seemed bored, but nothing had made him lash out at a lack of quality. Kai knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help but pray that one of the clubs before theirs would get beaten to a pulp so that the bar wouldn’t be so high.
When it came to the members of Meikun High’s social game club, Kai couldn’t vouch for all of their characters, but their skill was undeniable. And he’d spent his fair share of time at Tsukigase, so he knew they lined up with the top talent. They were all incredible.
If their work was stamped down into the dust... well, the person who came up with the whole thing had been him, Shiraseki Kai. He had watched as their output continuously exceeded his wildest expectations, giving birth to new ideas and specifications. He knew he’d been troubling Eru, Aya, Nanaka, and Aina as he did so, but he’d never stopped reaching for higher heights—and the time they’d spent doing so had been great fun.
However, fun didn’t guarantee a good result. The real question was, had they been correct? Kai didn’t know if there was such a thing as ‘correct,’ but he still wondered if they had really been reaching for higher heights. This was something that they’d all made together; it was something that they’d all decided on together. A rejection of their work wouldn’t be the personal responsibility of Shiraseki Kai alone; it was the team’s responsibility. He knew that. He’d known that. He was completely aware of the fact.
But the beginnings of this proposal had laid inside of himself, and that scared him.
“Kai-kun,” said Nanaka, her faint whisper drawing him back to reality. In the seat beside him, she mouthed, “Let’s do our best,” with a bright, yet evasive smile.
Since they were sitting right next to each other, Kai knew right away what she was avoiding. He saw Nanaka’s hand tighten into a solid fist on her lap, packed tight with all of her nervousness. At a time like this, her bright kindness was painfully blinding. Everyone’s the same, Kai reflected. Focusing on myself like this makes me look so stupid.
“Alriiight, last one,” Hifumi Tetsuya said, turning to the Meikun students. “The final pair is Kongouin Academy and Meikun High School. The theme was... ‘Character’ and ‘Breath.’”
“Yes!” Nanaka responded, rising from her seat.
“That shall do,” Mirei affirmed, doing the same.
The plan was for Nanaka, in her capacity as the club president, to handle the question-and-answer session. Kai would only break in to explain anything she needed help with.
“Okay, let’s start with Kongouin,” said Tetsuya, and the corresponding app appeared on the projector. The Kongouin Academy logo appeared over a pitch-black loading screen, and then quickly disappeared as the dark slowly gave way like a car exiting a tunnel, incrementally gaining speed as it transitioned into brightness.
The incoming light carved the silhouette of a running girl from out of the blackness, which was running directly toward the player. Accompanied by a prismatic rainbow of light, she sprinted with all her might toward the position of the fixed camera, eventually running past it.
The moment she passed by the camera, a tired panting could be briefly heard, but then quieted as she ran farther and farther away. The camera swiveled and began to give chase, the sharp turn blasting away any remnant of darkness. Now, the screen displayed the girl’s back as she ran. Every step she took caused a polychromatic ripple in her wake, giving color to the world around her. Her windblown hair, her body, her shadows, and even the townscape around her grew clearer, until the title, ‘RUN GIRL,’ floated up into view, just where her back had been.
The scene was masterful. The initial cutscene alone caused a number of students from other schools to be taken aback—almost to the point of disgust. The character and scenery had all been rendered in 3D, and the quality of their graphics was overwhelmingly beautiful. It was as if the app itself was shouting out to the heavens: this is Kongouin.
“Hoo boy,” Hifumi Tetsuya rubbed his chin and nodded his head a few times. “The looks aren’t so bad.”
“Ohohoho!” Mirei gloated, “It is indubitably so! Is it not our victory?!”
“I didn’t say that,” he snapped. “God, you’re noisy.”
“Oh my, how rude of me! Please, do go on and enjoy the rest of our game!” With her spirits high, Mirei’s head tilted similarly upward as she shot her opponents a sideways glance, loudly snapping her folding fan open as if to declare herself the victor.
When Tetsuya tapped on his phone, the title faded away and the game began seamlessly. In simple terms, the game was a standard endless runner; the user controlled the 3D girl who had been shown earlier, running forward while also avoiding obstacles. Swiping left and right moved the character, while pulling down slowed the character’s movement. Flicking up caused her to jump. The farther one ran, the higher their score. It was a simple game, but the beauty of the graphics took everyone’s breath away.
But there was one more thing. This game had a certain gimmick, which had probably been added to fulfill the ‘Breath’ component: so long as the player managed to successfully avoid the obstacles in their path, the character continuously sped up. As she sped up, her panting grew heavier and heavier, and her response time for commands like jumping became sluggish. By manually slowing her down, the player could let her catch her breath. Instead of a typical energy bar, this game relied on the main character’s panting—that is to say, her ‘Breath’—to convey how much stamina the player had.
Thanks to the lack of UI elements cluttering the screen, the beautiful graphics stretched to fill the entirety of the user’s vision. Kongouin’s means of handling the constraints given to them also served to highlight their greatest strength; even as their opponent, Kai couldn’t help but marvel at their ingenuity.