[ Kiyoaki has grown so used to the distance at which he keeps the world and the reverence in which others hold him back home, that the sound of someone remarking admonishingly at his comment actually brings him to a halt. Frowning, he turns around to face her, a young woman, not that much older than himself, but probably older than Satoko. He finds these things difficult to tell.

Expression tightening, lips thinning into a line, he finally opens his mouth to defend himself, his honour: ]

They're only expanding upon what their teachers have told them. No one here is doing anything but fighting old wars with new weapons. [ Nodding firmly, as if satisfied with this metaphor, Kiyoaki concludes with a cruel flourish: ] There isn't a single innovative thought to be found in this place.