Chapter 10: When the Bell Tolls
The morning of the hearing dawned with an unnatural stillness. The city, usually a cacophony of honking horns, hurried footsteps, and murmured complaints, now seemed to hold its breath.
Clouds stretched across the sky in long, silvery ribbons, the sun breaking through only in hesitant streaks, as though unsure of its right to shine today.
Inside the Ministry of Education's hall—a place usually reserved for budget discussions and policy briefings—dozens of chairs had been arranged in precise, intimidating rows.
Cameras lined the back wall. Journalists filled every corner. Screens were set up to broadcast the event across the country, projecting it into classrooms, staff lounges, and public viewing halls.
Rei Kisaragi stood in the green room just behind the curtain. Her blazer felt tighter than usual, starched too stiffly around her shoulders.
A small microphone was clipped to her collar. Her palms were dry, her expression unreadable, but inside, she felt a drumbeat building—steady, slow, growing stronger.
She had faced down gangs. She had stood up to corruption. She had spoken truth to power. But this—this was the first time the entire country would be watching her do it.
Ichika adjusted the lapels of her blazer without asking. Arisa stood a step behind, clutching a thick binder full of verified testimonies, case files, and formal grievances—evidence of every broken life the system had neglected.
"They'll try to rattle you," Ichika said quietly. "They'll interrupt. Twist your words."
"I know."
"But they've never met someone who doesn't break."
Rei glanced at him. "Let's hope they still remember how to listen."
A buzzer sounded. The aide at the curtain gave a short nod.
"It's time."
...
...
The moment she stepped onto the stage, the air changed. The murmurs ceased. The camera lenses focused.
Rei approached the podium slowly, deliberately. Her eyes scanned the room—not out of anxiety, but calculation.
She needed to see them. The suits. The board members. The skeptical press. The students watching from behind their screens.
Her voice would be one among millions, but it had to carry the weight of those who had none.
"Thank you," she began.
"My name is Rei Kisaragi. I'm a student at Shirasagi High—or rather, I'm a student again, after being expelled from multiple schools."
"I was labeled a delinquent, a fighter, a threat. And for a long time, I believed those were the only words that defined me."
She paused, letting the silence stretch just enough, "But labels are easy. They simplify complex problems. They help systems avoid responsibility."
From the first row, one of the elder board members leaned back, arms crossed.
Rei pressed forward.
"I am here today not because I am exceptional, but because I am not. I represent every student who was punished for speaking up."
"Every child who was silenced because their pain made teachers uncomfortable. Every name buried in paperwork, every bruise left off the record."
Arisa stepped forward and handed her the first page of evidence.
"These are documented cases. Real students. Real families. And I could read each one aloud, but I won't—because I don't want to numb you. I want you to understand the weight."
"A thirteen-year-old expelled for defending a classmate. A girl accused of assault when she was the one hospitalized. A boy who reported harassment three times and was punished for 'disrupting school harmony.'"
The murmurs began again—soft, but restless. The board member in the center raised a hand.
"Miss Kisaragi," he said, voice calm but edged. "You are making very serious accusations. Are you suggesting the entire educational board is corrupt?"
"I'm suggesting the system is broken," Rei replied without hesitation. "And when a system punishes those who challenge it, that's not structure—it's suppression."
Another board member, this one younger, leaned into her microphone. "Then what would you have us do? Throw out the entire disciplinary code? Let the students run wild?"
"No," Rei said.
"I would have you build a process where students can be heard. Where allegations are investigated impartially. Where expulsion is a last resort—not a threat used to silence dissent."
She reached into her blazer and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a letter—creased, handwritten, tear-stained.
"This is from a girl named Yua," she said.
"You might remember her as Case 011-F. She tried to end her life last week after being expelled for 'behavioral disturbance.' That disturbance was PTSD after a teacher cornered her alone."
"Her friends filed complaints. They were ignored. So I ask you: is this the system you're defending?"
The room went still. Somewhere in the back, a journalist snapped a photo. Another adjusted their mic.
The board did not respond immediately. And Rei knew that silence was her signal to keep going.
"You think fear maintains order. That if students respect the consequences, they'll behave. But fear doesn't foster growth. It breeds resentment. It teaches students that authority is absolute, even when it's wrong."
She turned to the audience, to the cameras.
"We can do better. We must. Not because students are perfect—but because they're human. And any system that forgets that is doomed to repeat its own cruelty."
There was no applause. Not yet. Rei stepped back. The board conferred in whispers.
...
...
The remainder of the hearing passed in questions and rebuttals, but the energy had shifted. The board's challenges became more careful.
Journalists began quoting her speech in real-time. Students from across the country flooded social media with the hashtag #KisaragiTruth.
Outside the hall, a crowd had formed. Teachers, parents, and students from as far as three cities away. Some held signs. Some held each other. All watched the monitors set up in the courtyard.
When the session ended, Rei walked out the back, away from the cameras. Ichika and Arisa caught up quickly.
"You did it," Arisa said, breathless.
"No," Rei said, voice steady. "We started it."
Ichika looked down at his phone. "You're trending. Internationally."
Rei didn't smile. But there was a glimmer in her eyes.
"Good," she said. "Then let's make sure they're listening."
...
...
That evening, the ministry released a statement. They would begin reviewing the current disciplinary policies across all affiliated institutions.
An independent oversight committee would be formed. Teachers would undergo new training focused on trauma response and student advocacy.
It was far from complete. But it was a crack in the wall. And cracks—Rei knew—let the light in.
As she stood in her dorm that night, peeling off her blazer and setting it carefully on the hook, Rei let herself breathe.
Tomorrow would bring more battles. But tonight, the silence didn't feel so heavy. It felt like hope...