Invincible Academy: My Invincible Childhood Friend Is Too Loved by Everyone - The school festival begins with my childhood friend who has excessive strength.

"...Hey, Mark. You're on the festival committee again?" After school in the classroom. Outside the window, the late-September sun was painting the schoolyard orange. Mark Grayson tilted his head at the voice of a classmate who'd just finished cleaning duty. "Huh? On what?" "The school festival committee. Your name's on the list." The classmate pointed at a sheet of paper on the teacher's podium. It read: *Highville Festival Committee — Candidate Roster.* Mark hurriedly snatched it up. "Ah... yeah. Well, it just kind of happened." "Just kind of happened? You got roped into it again, didn't you?" "Roped into it is one way to put it... nobody volunteered, and the homeroom teacher was giving me this look—" "That's literally being roped into it." The classmate laughed. Mark shrugged. (I mean, who could say no in that atmosphere...) Central Highville Prefectural High School. Central High, for short. A twelve-minute walk from the center of Highville, a storied prep school over a hundred years old. Deviation score: sixty-eight. But that wasn't all. This school had one peculiar feature. A quota for Anomaly-type students. About 0.3 percent of the population — roughly three hundred sixty thousand people in Japan. People born with some part of their body that wasn't "normal." Hyper-sensitive hearing, abnormal metabolism, electromagnetic interference. And the "excess muscle strength" that Mark's childhood friend carried was one of those. Central High was known as an "inclusive education promotion school" that actively accepted such individuals. Under Highville's own "Highville Inclusive Ordinance," each grade had five slots set aside. Mark scanned the roster. The committee members' names were listed top to bottom. All unfamiliar. Third-years, second-years... and then the first-year section. *First Year, Class 3 — Mark Grayson* *First Year, Class 3 — Samantha Clarke* His heart jumped. "Samantha's on the committee too?" The moment he said it aloud, he regretted it. His classmate was grinning. "Ooh, so you *do* care?" "N-no! It's not like that!" "Your face is red." "It is not!" Mark returned the roster to the podium and fled back to his desk. He slumped face-down over it, hiding his mouth so no one could see. (Samantha and me, on the committee together...) Good thing he hadn't refused. Well — technically he hadn't been *able* to refuse. But in the end, he'd wound up on the same committee as Samantha. That part made him honestly happy. From outside the window came the voices of students in club activities on the schoolyard. The September air was a little cold, but somewhere in it, the last traces of summer lingered. Mark Grayson. Sixteen years old. First-year high schooler. His short, slightly curly black hair had bedhead again today, and his big round dark-brown eyes broadcast every emotion straight onto his face. A hundred sixty-eight centimeters tall — slim, but with decent shoulders. Bad at sports. His necktie was always a little crooked. His family ran a hardware store in the Sunrise Mall shopping arcade in front of Highville Station. His father was the owner, and Mark helped out on holidays. As a hardware store owner's son, he *should* be good at physical work... and yet somehow his PE grades were always barely passing. He had a habit of furrowing his brow when deep in thought. He was doing it now — face-down on his desk, brow creased without him noticing. "Mark, you're making a scary face." At the familiar voice, Mark looked up. In the classroom doorway stood Samantha Clarke. Light chestnut hair in loose waves, long and flowing. Tied with a big ribbon, it caught the sunset and glowed gold. Her big, round sky-blue eyes curved into crescent moons when she smiled. A hundred sixty-two centimeters tall. Even in Central High's reinforced uniform — a custom piece made of aramid-and-carbon-fiber composite, about twelve times the strength of a normal uniform — her bright presence couldn't be hidden. "Furrowing your brow again. Come on, making a face like that ruins a perfectly good handsome guy, you know?" "D-don't call me handsome..." "Oh? I'm complimenting you." Samantha came into the classroom, beaming. Behind her trailed classmates hauling supplies for the festival prep. "Samantha, could you grab those chairs?" "Coming!" Samantha reached for the stack of folding chairs. And in that instant, Mark saw it. Her slender fingers closed around a chair leg. The metal bent like clay. A creak. "Ah—" Samantha let go. The chair toppled to the floor with a clatter, its leg crushed flat. "I'm so sorry! I did it again..." "It's fine! Don't worry about it!" Mark was on his feet before he knew it. "There are spares! Look, in the supply cabinet!" He dashed to the cabinet in the corner of the room and flung open the door. "...Huh?" Inside were cleaning supplies. Brooms, dustpans, buckets. No folding chairs anywhere. "Mark, that's the cleaning closet." "I-I know that! I was just checking!" He frantically opened the next cabinet. Science lab equipment. "See, I *told* you the supplies are in the storeroom next to the faculty office." The classmate's voice dripped with exasperation. Mark's face was on fire. "I-it's fine! I'll go get them!" As Mark made to bolt from the room, Samantha's voice chased after him. "Mark, you don't have to rush. I broke it, so I'll go get it." "No, but—" He turned, and Samantha's smile filled his vision. "Thank you. But it's fine." That smile left him with nothing to say. ("It's fine," she says... when *you* say it, it somehow sounds even *less* fine.) But he couldn't put it into words. Samantha was always like this. Even when she was the one struggling, she smiled so no one around her would worry. "...Okay." When Mark gave a small nod, Samantha smiled, satisfied, and left the classroom. "You're still such a pushover when it comes to Samantha." He couldn't argue. (Not a pushover. ...Probably.) Samantha returned, carrying the spare folding chairs with ease. Three at once, one-handed. A normal student would struggle with one using both hands. "Here, this should be enough." "Samantha, you're crazy strong." "You think? I'm normal." (You are *not* normal. Not even close.) Mark snarked inwardly. Samantha Clarke was an Anomaly-type with "excess muscle strength." A congenital condition in which muscle density reaches about 3.8 times that of an ordinary human, and the brain's unconscious output limiter malfunctions. Grip strength averages six to eight times a normal person's. Samantha's measured value: 280 kilograms. She could run a hundred meters in 4.2 seconds — but the force of her footfalls would crater the asphalt. She was extremely bad at fine-tuning her strength — everyday actions like holding an egg, turning a doorknob, or gripping a pen were difficult. Strong emotions doubled her output, so when she got angry, everyone around her was in danger. There were about twelve hundred people with excess muscle strength in Japan. Only about fifteen percent of them were women — a rarity. Samantha's house was a twenty-five-year-old two-story home in a residential district in eastern Highville. Every doorknob had been swapped for a reinforced model, and in the garden, a metal ball she'd crushed as a child was reportedly buried as a memento. "Oh, right — everyone, listen up." At the homeroom teacher's voice, Mark looked up. The teacher had slipped into the classroom at some point. "Next week there's a grade-wide physical assessment. It's Wednesday morning. Also — if your measurements exceed a certain threshold, you're required to report to the Anomaly Management Bureau." The air in the classroom tightened, just slightly. The Anomaly Management Bureau. Officially: the Independent Administrative Agency for Anomaly-Type Management. A government body tasked with measuring, registering, and monitoring Anomaly-types. On the surface it was "support" — but in reality, people said it was "management and containment." "What happens if you exceed the threshold?" Someone asked. "There's a re-measurement and an interview. If they determine there's no issue, you can continue normal school life. However, if you greatly exceed the threshold, participation in a special support program may be considered." A stir ran through several students at the teacher's explanation. Mark looked at Samantha. She was listening with an untroubled face. The usual smile. The usual bright expression. But. Mark had seen it. Samantha's hand, clenched tight on her lap. Gripped so hard her fingers were white. (Samantha...) Mark started to speak, then stopped. He didn't know what to say. After school. Mark walked out the school gate beside Samantha. The September wind was a little cold. "I'm hungry." "Yeah." "Want to go to Rosemary? I want mille-crepe." "Sure." The café "Rosemary." A three-minute walk from Central High's front gate. Established 1978, run by Margaret Horn, sixty-eight. Thirty-two seats. Famous for its mille-crepe and omurice. Samantha and Mark were regulars. The doorbell chimed. "Welcome in. Oh, Mark and Samantha." Margaret greeted them with a smile from behind the counter. A small elderly woman who wore her white apron well. "Hello. Two mille-crepes, a coffee, and a tea, please." "Coming right up. The back table's open." The two sat at their usual window seat. Photos of regulars decorated the walls. There was even one of Samantha as a little girl — maybe six years old, wearing a big ribbon and grinning. Beside her, Mark, awkwardly throwing a peace sign. "This photo brings back memories." "...How is this still up?" "Margaret keeps it displayed with care. It makes me happy." The mille-crepes arrived. Layer upon layer of thin crepe, Rosemary's signature dish. Four hundred eighty yen a slice. "Thanks for the food." Samantha tried to cut her mille-crepe with a fork and failed. *Clank.* The fork punched straight through the plate. "Ah—" "You okay?" "Yes, the plate just cracked a little. ...I'm sorry, Margaret." "It's fine, don't you worry. I'll swap it for a reinforced one." Margaret, well-practiced, cleared the broken plate and brought over a reinforced one — a thick ceramic plate just for Samantha. "Thank you." This time Samantha moved the fork carefully. Slowly, slowly. (This is how Samantha lives, every single day.) Mark took a sip of coffee. Bitter. He'd forgotten the sugar. "Hey, Mark." "Hm?" "I'm looking forward to the festival. It'd be fun if we could all just enjoy it together." Samantha spoke while bringing mille-crepe to her mouth. Her face looked genuinely happy. "...You know—" Mark started, then hesitated. "Hm?" "...Are you going to be okay? With the physical assessment?" Samantha's fork stopped for just a moment. "I'll be fine. It's the same as always." "But reporting to the Bureau..." "Mark." Samantha looked him straight in the eye. Her sky-blue eyes shimmered, lit by the sunset. "I understand my own situation perfectly well. So don't worry." "...Of course I'm going to worry." "Fufu. Thank you." Samantha laughed. But behind that smile, he thought he saw something. (You understand... understand *what*?) Mark wrapped both hands around his coffee cup. Warm. "Hey, Samantha. Do you remember the Midtown Anomaly Incident?" The moment he said it, he regretted it. Samantha's smile stopped. Just for an instant. Truly, just an instant. "...I remember." Her voice dropped, just slightly. The 2009 Midtown Anomaly Incident. A twelve-year-old boy with excess muscle strength destroyed a basketball hoop in a gymnasium, and the collapsing support pillar injured three students. In its wake, the "Anomaly-Type Support Act" was amended, and safety measures in schools became mandatory. Samantha had been six at the time. That incident was the beginning of children with excess muscle strength being seen as "the dangerous ones."

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Name: Invincible Academy: My Invincible Childhood Friend Is Too Loved by Everyone
Author: Novelia

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