The classroom erupted into chaos the moment Hirasaka-sensei finished his shocking announcement.
It was only natural. Ten students, all from the first-year class, had suddenly withdrawn from school simultaneously to focus entirely on being explorers.
"Quiet down, all of you."
Hirasaka-sensei’s voice was firm, yet his expression suggested he found their reaction understandable. We snapped out of our daze and, looking slightly sheepish, fell silent. Every eye in the room was fixed on him, waiting for more information.
Accepting our attention with a slight nod, Hirasaka-sensei began to explain the details of what one might call the Mass Withdrawal Incident.
"I’ll omit the specifics to protect their privacy, but I can give you the gist of why ten students decided to leave all at once. Apparently, they were operating as a single team. As a group, they reached a consensus to drop out of high school and pursue the explorer profession as their full-time career."
I see. So the dropouts were a pre-existing party. That explains why it was a mass exit. At the very least, it meant I didn't have to worry about the logistical nightmare of a party like Kirishima-kun's being torn apart by a single member leaving.
I suppose it was a case of "safety in numbers"—or perhaps "no one’s afraid to cross on a red light if we all do it together."
"Their withdrawal applications were submitted over the summer break and were eventually accepted after a series of... discussions. Consequently, they have already been processed and are no longer students of this school."
Discussions, he said. Given that this was likely an unprecedented anomaly for the faculty, I’m sure they tried their best to talk them out of it. If they handled it poorly, it could trigger a domino effect among the other students. The fact that the applications were finalized meant that the school’s persuasion had failed.
Still, they had likely put a gag order on the matter until the start of the new term to avoid inciting panic. If they hadn't, the rumors would have been much louder much sooner. Most likely, a friend had contacted one of the dropouts late last night or early this morning and discovered the truth. Since it was technically the first day of the term after midnight, they weren't exactly breaking the promise to keep it quiet until school started.
"..."
After finishing his summary of the first-year mass withdrawal, Hirasaka-sensei scanned the room with a grave intensity, as if he had finally steeled his resolve.
"...High school isn't compulsory education. If any of you choose to withdraw, we as teachers have no legal power to stop you. However, I ask that you consult with us at least once before making such a decision. For better or worse, I am your homeroom teacher. Some of you might find me unreliable, but if you come to us, we are prepared to do everything in our power to help you navigate your problems."
"..."
"In this instance, we weren't given the chance to help. We were simply handed withdrawal forms to process. The fact that they didn't consult us means that, unfortunately, we didn't have their trust. It is deeply regrettable, and I can only see it as a failure of my own leadership. Perhaps if we had communicated more effectively, this situation might have been avoided..."
Hirasaka-sensei’s voice trailed off as he looked down, his face a mask of frustration and self-reproach. Seeing him like that made me feel a surge of irritation toward the first-years who had vanished without a word. Yes, withdrawing is a right, but it’s not something you should do without at least a courtesy talk with your mentors.
To Hirasaka-sensei and the rest of the faculty, having a large group of students suddenly quit must have been a total blindside. They probably agonized over whether it was their fault, or if there was an issue with the school itself, or if there were some deep-seated bullying or relationship problems. But they were never given an explanation beyond "we want to be explorers." The faculty was left with nothing but a sense of profound failure.
"...My apologies. This isn't the sort of thing I should be dumping on you first thing on the first day of the term."
Hirasaka-sensei looked up and offered a regretful apology before continuing with the rest of the morning's announcements. The classroom remained stifled by an awkward silence, punctuated only by his flat, professional tone. It wasn't exactly the right atmosphere to carry on with business as usual, but the schedule was packed, so we had to push through. We listened in silence, not a single person whispering.
Five minutes later, homeroom concluded.
"That’s everything. The opening ceremony will be held in the gymnasium immediately after this. Move quickly so you aren't late."
With that, the heavy session ended, and Hirasaka-sensei left the room with a weary gait.
Good grief, I was already exhausted, and the day had barely begun.
The opening ceremony passed without any major incidents. There was a noticeable buzz among the rows of first-years, but otherwise, it was standard. Word of the mass withdrawal had clearly been shared in other classrooms, as the second and third-years were also casting curious glances at the younger students.
Once we returned to the classroom, the dam finally broke.
"The first-year ranks really have thinned out."
"They only just started high school... I can't believe they’d just quit."
"Dropping out to turn pro, huh..."
"You think we could... no, probably not."
Seeing the empty spaces in the first-year lineup had made the situation feel real. The mood wasn't one of mockery or excitement, but rather a somber reflection on a serious event. Since most of the class were explorers themselves, they understood that under different circumstances, they might have made—or been tempted to make—the same reckless gamble.
As student explorers, they couldn't just treat this mass withdrawal as some entertaining piece of gossip.
"Hey, Kokonoe, Hirose. Can I pick your brains for a second?"
"What's up?"
"?"
As I was talking with Yuji and Shigemori, the latter leaned in with a curious, pensive expression.
"For rookies who have only been at it for two or three months to quit school and turn pro... is the explorer business really that profitable?"
"Hmm, that's a tough one..."
"Yeah. You could definitely say that during the early days of the dungeon release, but now that the supply of dungeon items has stabilized..."
Yuji and I exchanged a look, both of us frowning. It had been over six months since the profession started going mainstream. The number of explorers had surged, and the supply of items had increased proportionally. While there were still rare magic items with high value, the bulk of what hit the market was monster meat and Core Crystals. If you were pulling skill scrolls and magic items every single run, you could call it a gold mine.
But the drop rate for those things was abysmal. You had to grind through countless monsters. High-level explorers could handle the volume, but for low-level rookies, it was a brutal slog. Then again, if they had ten people in a single party, maybe they could make it work through sheer numbers?
"I thought so... Then what the hell convinced them to drop out? Based on what you’re saying, it sounds like low-level work is okay for pocket money, but not enough to live on."
"Who knows? But they wouldn't have quit school unless they had a plan."
"Exactly," I added. "At the very least, they must have seen a way to generate enough income to sustain ten people before they made the jump."
If you assume a minimum salary for each person, a ten-man team would need to earn over two million yen a month. Factoring in overheads like expedition expenses and gear maintenance, they'd need to pull in at least five million yen a month just to avoid bleeding cash. And that’s before you even get to taxes.
That’s a hell of a high bar for a rookie party that’s only been active for a few months and is likely sticking to the shallow floors.
"True. They wouldn't do this without an angle."
"Yeah," Yuji said. "Maybe they got headhunted by a company with a good offer? The market share hasn't been carved out yet, so even small firms can get a foothold if they have the talent. They might have been scouted as promising 'future assets.'"
"That's plausible. In fact, it might be the most likely scenario. With ten people, you can run two shifts for long-term exploration. If they were already a functional team, there are no personality conflicts to worry about. From a corporate perspective, hiring a whole unit isn't a bad move."
Yuji had a point. In the long run, securing a cohesive ten-man team was efficient. But in the short term, it was a PR nightmare.
Even if it was technically legal, any company known for scouting minors and convincing them to drop out of high school was going to take a massive hit to its credibility.
"It’s possible. But a company that actively encourages kids to quit school... I just hope those guys haven't been conned."
"...Haha, I-I'm sure they're fine. Or at least, I’d like to think so."
"Y-Yeah. If they were scouted, I’m sure they did their due diligence before signing anything..."
The memory of the predatory management company that had nearly ensnared Taiga-niisan flashed through my mind. I shook my head, trying to dismiss the thought. Yuji seemed to be thinking the exact same thing; he was looking away with a forced expression.
"Wait, why are you two acting so weird? You know something, don't you?"
"N-No... nothing in particular, really."
"Yeah, nothing."
"..."
Shigemori squinted at us with blatant suspicion. Yuji and I broke eye contact, sweat beginning to bead on our foreheads. After a few seconds of heavy silence, I couldn't take the scrutiny anymore. I let out a long sigh and confessed what was actually worrying us.
The result was predictable.
"..."
Shigemori clutched his head and rubbed his eyes, letting out a weary, soul-crushing groan as if he regretted asking.
Yeah, that about summed it up.
"The point is, there are people out there taking advantage of the loose regulations to bait kids with sweet deals and exploit them."
"Meaning we can't take anything at face value. We have to be careful ourselves..."
"Whoa, hold on," Shigemori interrupted. "Are we just going to leave it at that?"
"What else can we do? It’s not like we can intervene."
"Exactly. This is a matter for the police or the authorities. All we can do is make sure we read every line of a contract before we sign it."
I’d checked with the Association before, and they were aware of the issue, so there would likely be some regulation eventually. Until then, the best we could do was spread awareness. And if someone already got caught... well, maybe I could point them toward a legal aid clinic.
"I guess so... but man, after hearing that, I really hope those guys didn't run into a shady scout."
"We just have to hope for the best."
"Yeah. Besides, the scouting thing is just a theory. They might have just decided to start their own business. It doesn’t do any good to overanalyze when we don't have the facts. We should just treat it as a lesson for ourselves."
Speculating without facts was just a recipe for paranoia. I figured I’d wait until after school to see if Mika or the others had heard anything. Since they were in the same grade, they might have access to the first-year rumor mill.
While we were talking, the bell rang, and Hirasaka-sensei walked in with a strangely cheerful air.
"Everyone, take your seats. It's time for LHR. And more importantly, it’s time for the joy of joys: summer assignment submission!"
"GAAAAH!?!?"
"..."
At Hirasaka-sensei’s terrifyingly pleasant smile, agonized screams erupted from all corners of the classroom. A significant number of students—both boys and girls—looked like they were facing their execution.
Well, that reaction said it all. Most of them hadn't finished. I was glad I’d knocked mine out at the start of the break.
I wonder if Hirasaka-sensei’s earlier speech about trust and leadership was just a clever setup to make them feel too guilty to complain?