System Error

5:00 p.m. Emergency Response Headquarters, Tōto Commerce Academy.

“A complete system shutdown.”

Vice President Kamiya’s voice had entirely lost its usual composure. Before him were ranged several monitors displaying nothing but black screens. The academy’s pride — the Emotion Analyzer — had undergone a complete shutdown for the first time since its establishment.

“The cause?” President Hashimoto asked, her expression alarmed.

“Unknown,” Vice President Kamiya wiped his brow. “The system shows a ‘love correlation calculation error,’ but it is technically impossible. The R²L value is defined to fall between zero and one — yet the relationship between Riko-san and multiple target individuals returned ‘infinity,’ causing the computation to collapse.”

President Hashimoto frowned. “Infinity? That’s mathematically impossible, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And yet it has happened in reality,” Vice President Kamiya struck the keyboard. “What’s more problematic is that the system shutdown has halted all LVT transactions for every student in the school. The love market is currently in a state of complete ‘zero liquidity.’”

At that moment, the door of the response headquarters opened, and the mysterious teacher, Kurosaki-sensei, entered quietly. Middle-aged, gray-haired, with piercing eyes. He was known as one of the founders of emotional economics, but it was rare for him to appear before the students in the ordinary course of things.

“Thank you for coming, Kurosaki-sensei.” President Hashimoto rose hurriedly.

Kurosaki-sensei said nothing, and began reviewing the system’s error log. After several minutes of silence, he turned.

“A situation I had anticipated,” Kurosaki-sensei’s voice was low, with a distant resonance. “Shironami Riko is a ‘singularity’ that our theoretical framework cannot explain.”

“A singularity?”

“She is proof that ‘incalculable love’ — something theoretically predicted in emotional economics — actually exists,” Complex emotions inhabited Kurosaki-sensei’s eyes. “Her emotional patterns cannot be captured by our existing quantification systems. It is as though…”

Kurosaki-sensei paused.

“As though…?”

“As though ‘true love’ itself.”

＊

5:30 p.m. The Academy Cafeteria.

With the system down, an eerie stillness pervaded the academy. The LVT fluctuation alerts that usually chimed continuously from every student’s smartphone could not be heard at all. An uncanny tranquility, as if time had stopped.

Tenga was alone, drinking coffee and staring at the tablet in his hand. But what was displayed on the screen was not market data — it was Riko’s words.

Kurose-san is, truly, the person who wants ‘love’ more than anyone.

Why, in that moment, had he been unable to offer any counterargument? Why could he not refute her with cool logic as he usually would?

Incomprehensible, Tenga murmured inwardly. When he was talking to her, every calculation lost its meaning. As if he were making contact with an entity from a different dimension…

“Tenga-san.”

He turned. Takamura Yuki was standing there, worry on her face. The tablet she held showed the same black screen as ever.

“What a mess things have turned into,” Yuki said, sitting down beside him. “A complete system shutdown — the first in the academy’s history.”

“Within the range of prediction,” Tenga answered. Though his voice lacked its usual certainty.

“But with this, won’t the ‘war’ between Tenga-san and Reika-san be a temporary ceasefire?” Yuki said hopefully. “The system isn’t running, so you can’t trade LVT either.”

Tenga’s expression clouded slightly.

“Yuki,” Tenga said quietly. “What do you think about ‘love’?”

Yuki was startled. It was extremely rare for Tenga to ask an emotional question like this.

“Love?” Yuki looked puzzled. “Hmm… that’s a hard one. I don’t have much romantic experience, so…”

Yuki thought for a moment, then went on.

“But watching Riko-chan, I think ‘love’ isn’t about calculation or strategy — it’s something more… natural.”

Tenga looked at Yuki.

“Natural?”

“Yeah. Something that’s just there, as naturally as breathing,” Yuki’s voice softened. “Riko-chan is warm to everyone in the same way, right? Not because she’s calculating it — she’s just that kind of person, I think.”

Tenga gazed out the window. In the school grounds, students could be seen in confusion over the system shutdown. But among them, one person alone was not in the least agitated.

Shironami Riko.

She sat beneath a large tree, reading a book. Around her, other students were naturally gathering. There were Rank A students, and Rank E students. Students of different classes who in the normal course of things would never mix were talking together peacefully, with Riko at their center.

What is this woman? Tenga thought. Why does her existence cause the system to collapse? Why do my theories become powerless before her?

Just then a new figure entered the cafeteria.

Saionji Reika.

But not in her usual impeccable dress — her uniform was slightly disheveled and her hair slightly disturbed. Her expression showed clear bewilderment and fatigue.

Reika spotted Tenga and, after a moment’s hesitation, approached his table.

“I would like to talk,” Reika’s voice held none of its usual arrogance — only something with an unexpectedly human frailty in it.

Yuki made to rise hurriedly, but Tenga stopped her with a gesture.

“Please,” Tenga indicated the chair.

Reika sat, and spent some time searching for words.

“The responsibility for the system shutdown… partly lies with me as well,” Reika’s voice was small, as though she were speaking to herself. “The ‘singularity’ involving Riko-san manifested almost immediately after I executed the 500 billion yen market intervention.”

Tenga looked at Reika.

“What are you trying to say?”

“My actions… may have placed too great a load on the system,” Reika said, and for the first time uncertainty lived in her blue eyes. “The massive injection of funds broke the market’s equilibrium, leaving it unable to process Riko-san’s ‘anomalous value.’”

Reika worked her tablet. On screen appeared market data from just before the system shutdown.

“Look at this,” Reika indicated. “My intervention drove the Love Value Index up by as much as 26.8%. This is not a natural fluctuation. It is artificial manipulation.”

Tenga examined the data. Reika’s point was correct.

“And immediately after that, Riko-san appeared, and the system collapsed,” Reika went on. “As if her very existence rejected the ‘unnatural market manipulation.’”

Tenga’s expression shifted, faintly.

“Your hypothesis?”

“Riko-san,” Reika’s voice trembled, “is a person who stands outside ‘the market.’ She is a being who refutes, from its foundations, the very framework of ‘emotional capitalism’ that we have created.”

Reika looked at Tenga.

“You said Riko-san was ‘theoretically inexplicable.’ I was treating her as a ‘system error.’ But the truth is different.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is the ‘normal’ one, and we are the ‘abnormal’ ones,” Reika’s voice held deep self-reflection. “Quantifying emotion, treating love as a commodity — perhaps this itself is an act that has strayed from what it is to be human.”

Tenga was silent. Reika’s words gave language to the sense of wrongness he had felt in the depths of his own heart.

“Reika,” Tenga said, calling her name without honorifics for the first time. “Do you regret it?”

“Regret…” Reika lowered her eyes. “I don’t know. As the daughter of the Saionji family, I have been required to be perfect. In this academy too, I must always be at the top. But…”

Reika raised her face. Tears had risen in her eyes.

“When I talk to Riko-san, I feel as though I would be accepted even as my imperfect self.”

At that confession Tenga drew a sharp breath. This was the cry of a living human being — hidden beneath the perfect mask of Saionji Reika.

“You too,” Tenga said quietly. “Had your ‘heart read’ by her.”

“Had my heart read?”

“Riko said to me: ‘You too, I’m sure, want to love someone not with efficiency but with your heart,’” Tenga’s voice held a frailty for the first time. “In that moment, I could not offer a single counterargument.”

Tenga and Reika looked at each other. Between them, an understanding that had not existed before was being born.

“We,” Reika murmured, “have been defeated by Riko-san.”

“Defeated?”

“Not by theory, and not by power,” Reika’s voice grew gentle. “By ‘purity.’”

At that moment, Riko appeared at the cafeteria entrance. When she spotted Tenga and Reika, she approached them with a natural smile.

“You’ve had quite a day,” Riko said, bowing politely to them both. “It’s been a difficult one.”

Tenga and Reika looked at Riko at the same moment.

“Riko-san,” Reika stood. “About the system shutdown — I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Riko tilted her head.

“Because my market manipulation was the cause…”

“No.” Riko smiled. “The reason the system stopped was that we had finally begun to face each other with our ‘true feelings.’”

Riko stood before the table.

“Today, for the first time, you both showed me your ‘real selves,’” Riko’s voice was warm with an enveloping resonance. “Kurose-san showed his ‘love for his family,’ and Saionji-san showed ‘the wish to be perfect.’”

Tenga and Reika drew breath at the same moment.

“And in that instant, the system became ‘unable to calculate,’” Riko went on. “Because real feelings cannot be quantified.”

Riko sat down between them.

“I was watching the two of you fight,” Riko’s brown eyes shone with a gentle light, “and I realized something. Both of you are seeking the same thing.”

“The same thing?” Tenga asked.

“The wish ‘to be loved,’” Riko answered. “Kurose-san, with theory; Saionji-san, with power — you were each trying to prove that you are a person ‘worthy of being loved.’”

At Riko’s words, the expressions of Tenga and Reika both changed enormously.

“But,” Riko smiled, “love is not something to be proved. It is something to be felt.”

Riko turned to face Tenga.

“Kurose-san, would you tell me about your father?”

Tenga’s face tensed. But as he looked into Riko’s gentle eyes, that tension gradually loosened.

“My father was…” Tenga’s voice trembled, just slightly. “A very kind man. He treasured his employees like family, and valued human connection over profit. But that became the cause of his business failure.”

Tenga clenched his fist.

“The bank called it ‘inefficient management’ and withdrew its lending. My father borrowed against personal guarantees to pay his employees’ wages. And then…”

Tenga’s voice broke.

“On the day we fled — the night we ran — my father said to me: ‘Tenga, don’t give up on trusting people. Only — be wise.’”

Riko nodded, quietly.

“And so you tried to become ‘wise.’”

“Yes,” Tenga answered. “Not to be swayed by emotion, to judge rationally, to ensure I was never betrayed. But…”

Tenga looked at Riko.

“When I talk to you, the true meaning of my father’s words becomes something I can no longer understand.”

Riko smiled.

“Perhaps your father meant to say this: ‘Don’t give up on trusting people. Only — become wise enough to discern who is truly worth trusting.’”

Tenga’s golden eyes opened wide.

“In other words,” Riko went on, “not ‘abandon your emotions’ — but ‘learn to use your emotions correctly.’ That may have been what he meant.”

Tenga was silent. Riko’s interpretation was the key that could resolve a contradiction he had carried for many years.

Now Riko turned to Reika.

“Why does Saionji-san want to be perfect?”

Reika hesitated. “It is natural for a daughter of the Saionji family.”

“But the real reason?”

Riko’s voice was gentle but contained a keen insight.

Reika’s composure crumbled.

“I…” Reika’s voice trembled. “I don’t have a single true friend.”

At that confession Tenga was astonished.

“Everyone only approaches me for my family name and position, and no one ever sees the real me,” Tears ran down Reika’s cheeks. “So I thought that unless I was perfect, no one would ever look at me.”

“But,” Riko took Reika’s hand. “Today, you showed your imperfect self. And I found that ‘real you’ far more attractive.”

Reika looked at Riko.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Riko nodded. “The Saionji-san who puts on a brave face is lovely, but the Saionji-san who cries is far more human and beautiful.”

At that moment, an emergency announcement came through the cafeteria speakers.

“Attention, all students. Repairs to the Emotion Analyzer system are now complete. However, in light of this system shutdown, there will be a significant change to operational policy. At 6:00 p.m., Kurosaki-sensei will deliver a special lecture in the main auditorium.”

Riko rose to her feet.

“Shall we go?” Riko held out her hands to both of them.

Tenga and Reika looked at those hands.

And both of them, at the same moment, took Riko’s hands.

＊　　　＊　　　＊