Youkoso Jitsuryoku Shijou Shugi no Kyoushitsu e - Volume 19.5 - Chapter 5.0

Chapter 5

Stories of Innocent Children

THE COLOR. The color that spread across my field of vision.

The first thing I remember was equally as white.

As the name White Room implies, this facility is based on the color white.

The ceiling is no exception.

I was staring at that white ceiling in my first memory.

Before showing any interest in staring or playing with my fingertips, I simply wondered what this white ceiling was.

Day after day, I spent more and more time just staring at that ceiling.

At first, I cried. I cried because I missed people, and then I learned that no one was coming to help me.

Now that I look back on it, it was instinct, not logic.

This is the first thing a newborn baby, who cannot even speak, learns when it accepts its environment.

After that, I realized the existence of my fingers.

I spent all day long looking at, sucking, and licking my little fingers, and nothing else, in the emptiness.

The nourishment necessary for life was brought to us by the cold adults.

This is no different in the case of illness.

The treatment was carried out without hesitation, and daily life returned as if nothing had happened.

No one panicked, no one worried, no one rejoiced.

Eventually, you learn. You realized that you’re being carefully cared for here.

Human beings have feelings of joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure.

But none of them are of much use in this facility.

The children, with their still undeveloped brains, learned that early on.

No wonder. Whether you laugh or cry, get angry or sad, the instructors weren’t there to help you.

The only time I could move forward was when I achieved something.

The first time I remember that I recognized communication as a language was when I was two years old.

The instructor was sitting in front of me and I was sitting in front of him.

There was nothing in between—just the instructor holding out both of his open hands to me.

Not long afterward, the instructor placed a small little gummy bear in his right hand in a very conspicuous way.

For the children living in this facility, this snack was a rarity.

The sweetness that they were usually deprived of. As a child, I was no exception; I remember having the same cravings as anyone else.

“Guess where the gummy is, and you can eat it.”

The adult who held a gummy bear in his right hand extended it to me.

His expression was stern and almost expressionless.

On the other hand, the child facing him—me, Ayanokouji Kiyotaka—was also emotionless.

Both of us had the same expressionless face, but I was in a natural state while the instructor was consciously trying to be silent.

And the other kids were also naturally emotionless.

I could sense that the other children were well aware of the fact that emotions can be a stumbling block. There were one-on-ones between adults who hid their emotions and children who had minimal emotions.

“I'll give you a chance until you miss three times.”

The instructor muttered to himself in front of me.

“...”

I still don't understand the adult language—the meaning of every syllable within those words.

Missing, chance—neither of these words can truly be understood by a two-year-old child.

However, they can instinctively sense what’s being appealed to.

I could sense what was being asked of me.

I touched his right hand, just as I had seen.

Without hesitation, the instructor opened his right hand and gave me a small gummy bear.

At the same time, other children were also trying to guess the gummy’s location.

All of the instructors clutched the gummy in their right hands, and all of them answered correctly.

“Next!”

This time, he held the gummy bear in his right hand, but immediately after that, he put it back in his left hand and offered it to me.

Of course, I touched the left hand without hesitation. Another correct answer.

This simple process was repeated twice more, yielding a total of four gummies.

Although they weren’t very sweet, they were a valuable snack in this White Room and were well received by the children. I remember that I, without exception, enjoyed the taste of these gummies.

“Next.”

Fifth time. This time, the instructor crossed his arms behind his back, grabbed a gummy bear, and held it out to me.

The strength of his grip and the position of each hand were almost the same.

The instructor's expression didn’t change, nor did his gaze.

In this case, there was no way to judge objectively which of the instructor's hands clenched the gummy.

The probability was 50/50 in either case.

In that case, time efficiency was the priority here.

I randomly touched the right hand; it was empty. The other children were divided into two groups, and although the ratio of children who picked the right hand was a little higher than the left, there was no clear reason for this. However, as expected, all the instructors held the gummy bear in their left hands.

“Next.”

The instructor hid his hand behind his back again, clenched it, and then brought his arms forth.

I wondered if he would continue to make us guess the 50/50.

There was no point in choosing either of them, but I dared to choose the left one.

No—.

After a short thought, I decided not to answer immediately but to observe what was nearby.

The children were so focused on the instructor and the gummies in front of them that they neglected to pay attention to their surroundings.

This time, the majority of the children pointed to the left hand, but the correct answer was the right hand.

Then, the instructor in front of me was most likely holding the gummy bear in his right hand.

I pointed to his right hand, and after a short pause, it opened to reveal a green gummy bear.

“Next.”

You weren’t praised for guessing it correctly, but at least you were allowed to eat the gummy.

Rolling the gummy on the tip of my tongue, I concentrated again. The instructor clutched the gummy again behind his back.

He held out each of his hands at the same time.

Of course, this time, I observed my surroundings in the same way…

When all the children had finished pointing, there was no sign of the instructors opening their hands.

“You are the last one.”

This meant that they won’t open their hands until all the children had given their answers.

Since there was no hint at all, I continued to point to his right hand.

All at once, the instructors opened the palm of the indicated hand.

However, all of them missed it. Both the children who pointed to their right hands and the children who pointed to their left hands got it incorrect.

At this point, many children missed three times and won’t be getting another chance.

I had only one chance left.

“Next.”

Similarly to the previous two occasions, the gummy was clenched behind the instructor’s back. There was no way to tell which hand it was in from the outside and no sign of hands opening after the few remaining children had finished playing.

In this case, it didn’t make any difference whether the right hand or the left hand was used.

I wondered if this was really true.

…Or…

One last chance.

If it wasn’t held in either of these hands, then…

The instructor didn’t say which hand had the gummy bear.

He only asked us to point to where the gummy bear is.

So it was possible that they were hidden somewhere other than in the left or right hand.

I let that childish thought run through my mind and pointed behind without touching either hand.

“...”

He didn’t answer and just stared at my movements.

“Why are you pointing back?”

“Gummy, hand, no.”

I replied in such a way that showed I still didn’t have perfect control over the language.

Without saying a word, the instructor opened both hands at the same time.

Then, I found a small gummy bear in his right hand.

“That's too bad. The right hand is the correct one.”

The instructor then popped the small gummy in his mouth.

One of the two remaining children had answered correctly for the right hand and was given a gummy bear.

“I'll give you one more chance, just for the heck of it.”

He took out a gummy bear and held it in his hands behind his back as if to repeat the process, and stuck out his arms.

I thought his hands were empty by hiding them behind his back, but in fact, they were held in his right hand. Then, did I simply miss the 50/50, and it was never hidden from the beginning of this match?

Or, after hiding it twice, did he hold it in his right hand, anticipating that we would read it that way? The possibility that both hands were empty is more probable than the possibility that they were holding something. The other remaining child pointed to the instructor’s left hand.

What’s the right thing to do…?

Was it the right hand, the left hand, or was it hidden behind?

“Behind.”

After thinking about it, I took a gamble. I rejected the right and left hands, judging both to be empty.

The instructor opened his hands. In his left hand was a small gummy bear.

“Too bad. Another miss. Are you disappointed?”

It's true, I was disappointed.

I nodded slightly.

It wasn't because I wanted gummy bears.

It was more like frustration that I was wrong.

“I guess this kid is different after all.”

The adults gathered around and whispered to each other.

My two-year-old mind couldn’t comprehend the meaning of the complicated words, so I only remember them as a list of words.

“All the children, with the exception of Kiyotaka, were honestly trying to guess everything between left or right. But he observed the choices of those around them and was clearly aware of the possibility of a third option, which was the option that the gummy was hidden behind our backs. Moreover, even after proving that it wasn’t hiding behind my back, he didn’t abandon the possibility. This isn’t the thinking of a two-year-old.”

“You're overthinking this, aren't you?”

“But in all the tests I've done, this is clearly the only child who thinks differently; he’s the only one who has a different point of view.”

In the midst of these incomprehensible thoughts, the instructors’ words were etched in my memory.

I thought, in the future, I may be able to get some hints from this conversation.

When I grew up, I could just open the drawers to my memories.

“...The way he’s looking at me is creepy. I wonder if he even understands what we're talking about.”

“No way… He's two years old. There's no way he understands more than the bare minimum of what we're saying.”

“That's true, but…”

A buzzer sounded, announcing the end of the test.

The adults looked at each other, ordered the children to stand by, and walked out.

Given this familiar scenery, the kids saw them off without any of them crying.

Any fear that we’d be left alone has long since disappeared.

There was no help for us.

This was something we learned in our bones at the age of two.