Friday morning. The message from Ryūsei arrived at seven-oh-three.
*Heard the outcome. Well played. See you around.*
Three sentences. He read them at his desk in the specific quality of a Friday morning after a Thursday that had been unusually dense with significance. He read them and ran the tone analysis the same way he ran tone analysis on everything that came from Ryūsei: not the surface, but what the surface communicated about the state underneath.
Not hostile. Not performative. Not wounded, which would have been a tell. Just — accurate. The tone of someone who had observed an outcome, assessed it correctly, and was communicating that assessment without requiring a particular response.
*Well played.* This was the phrase that carried the most information. Ryūsei did not spend words on things that didn't serve purposes. *Well played* communicated: I acknowledge this outcome, I understand how you achieved it, I am treating it as a genuine move in a game I am still playing. It was professional acknowledgment from an adversary who understood that acknowledging competence cost him nothing and potentially built information about how he responded to setbacks.
*See you around.* This was the phrase he had been watching for — the one that told him whether phase 1 had ended or whether Ryūsei was stepping back entirely. *See you around* was indefinite, informal, the register of something that would continue without announcing when or how. It was the opposite of closure. It was: the game continues, I am not showing my next card, but I have a next card.
He did not reply.
He opened the notebook: *Ryūsei: acknowledged phase 1. "Well played" = correct assessment, no rancor. "See you around" = phase 2 coming, timeline unknown. Tadokoro mechanism compromised — new approach required.*
He looked at this.
He thought about what the new approach might look like. The institutional channel had failed — it had a formal finding against it now. Whatever came next would not run through documented processes that could be defended with documentation. It would run through something else. Perception, perhaps. Or personal contact. Or the festival itself.
He wrote: *Watch for: direct impression management. Festival as arena.*
He closed the notebook.
He went to school.
---
The school had changed its quality in the two weeks since the festival had been announced. Not dramatically — the same buildings, the same corridors, the same faces in the same patterns — but with an overlay of anticipation that had accumulated gradually and was now visible everywhere. Banners. Chalk measurements in the courtyard. Students moving with clipboards instead of just books. The specific organized energy of a community that had been given a deadline and was moving toward it.
He walked through it.
He had been managing threat and documentation and board timelines for two weeks. The festival had been in the background of all of that — the deadline he was racing against, the arena where Ryūsei would try to use the visibility against him. He had not thought of it as a thing in itself: an event, a celebration, the thing that Seiran apparently did every autumn that drew people together and produced something that lasted in photographs on the school's promotional materials.
He walked through the decorated corridors and thought about this.
The festival was in thirteen days. And for the first time in two weeks, his primary relationship with it was not tactical.
He went to homeroom. He sat down. He opened the notebook, not to the threat map — to the blank page.
He wrote: *Festival D-13. What is the festival, actually?*
He looked at that question and found it, unexpectedly, interesting.
---
The library at eleven-thirty was the library it always was: the specific quality of the room, Takahashi-sensei at the desk, the ambient sound of a building being used seriously. He had arrived out of habit, or something close to it — the same impulse that had sent him here on Thursdays for months, the specific draw of a room that required nothing from him beyond presence.
He found the second volume he had been looking for on the regional history section — a continuation of the previous volume, something he had noted as a natural next reading when he finished the first. He took it to his usual table. He sat. He opened it.
He was three pages into the first chapter when he heard footsteps at the door.
Yuki came in.
She had a book — something from the literature club selection, he could tell by the cover style, the particular editions the club used. She scanned the room in the specific way she scanned rooms, and she saw him. She paused.
He looked up.
"There's room at this table," he said.
Not an invitation in the warm sense — just information. The table had space. She could use it if she needed a place to sit.
She considered this for a moment. Then she came over and sat at the opposite end of the table, setting her book down, taking out a small notebook for her own notes.
She opened her book. He returned to his.
---
They read.
The library had its own Friday morning quality — slightly more purposeful than Thursday afternoons, the last reading session before the week ended. He was aware of it the way he was aware of the room's other qualities: the light, the sound, the ambient presence of Takahashi-sensei at the desk.
He was also, in the specific peripheral way he tracked things he had decided were worth tracking, aware of Yuki at the other end of the table.
She read with the quality that had, over months of observation, become recognizable as hers: unhurried, genuinely present to the text, making notes in the small precise handwriting he associated with her because he had seen it in margins and on pages and now on this notebook. The notes had the quality of someone recording what they thought rather than what the text said — her responses, not her summaries.
He read about land consolidation decisions in the late nineteenth century, which was not its own subject interesting but which contained a specific quality he had been following through the two volumes now: the way administrative decisions accumulated into geography, the way choices made in offices produced landscapes that outlasted the people who made them by generations. He had developed an interest in this without entirely knowing why.
He was partway through the second chapter when she set her book down briefly to make a note and the book shifted, and he could see the spine.
He recognized the author.
"Have you read the early work?" he said.
She looked up — not startled, just transitioning from one mode to another. The attending quality, present.
"Some of it," she said. "This is his later period."
"The early work is different," he said.
"Better or worse?"
He thought about this, which was a real thought rather than a social placeholder. "Neither," he said. "Different. The later work is more controlled. The early work is less elegant but you know what it's about."
She considered this. "You prefer the early work."
"I notice when things are controlled," he said. "It's easier to understand something when it isn't trying to be more than what it is."
She was quiet for a moment. Not the filing quiet — something more like genuine consideration. "Have you read this one?"
"No. I know his reputation."
"What's your read of it?"
He looked at the cover. He thought about what he had absorbed about the author — the critical position, the specific quality of work that was technically precise and somehow left him cold.
"The technique is remarkable," he said. "I'm less certain the technique is serving something, or is itself the point."
She set down her pencil. "Some people would say the technique is the point."
"Some people would," he said. "I find that easier to argue than to believe."
She was quiet — the real quiet, the one that meant she was actually thinking about whether she agreed.
"You might be right," she said. "I haven't decided."
"Good," he said. The word arrived the way it sometimes arrived: before he had decided to say it, but accurate. "I haven't decided either."
She looked at him for a moment — the attending look, but with something added that he didn't have a precise name for. Then she went back to her book.
---
They were quiet for a while after that — the comfortable quiet that the library always produced, but with a slightly different texture than usual. The texture of two people who had just said something true to each other and were sitting with that.
She went back to reading. He went back to reading.
At a certain point, she made a note in her small notebook, and he caught, at the edge of his vision, the movement of her hand across the page. The small precise handwriting. He did not look long enough to read it.
After a while, she said, without looking up: "You noticed something about me early in the year."
He looked at her. She was still looking at her book.
"Ren mentioned it," she said. "He said you'd observed that I read the same books more than once. That you thought it was the kind of thing someone did when they were looking for something."
He thought back. He had said something to Ren in the first week, something about the class dynamic — the way different people occupied the classroom. He remembered the observation about her reading habits but had not thought about whether it had circulated.
"I wasn't certain I was right," he said.
"You were," she said.
She made a small note. He waited.
"The first time I read something, I read it," she said. "The second time, I'm reading what I missed the first time. The things I didn't know to look for until I understood what the book was." She didn't look up. "Sometimes the third time is when I understand what it was actually about."
He sat with this.
"That's a specific kind of patience," he said.
"It's not patience," she said. "It's that the first reading is never complete. Knowing that doesn't bother me." A pause. "You do the same thing. I think. Not with books."
He looked at her directly.
She was still looking at her own book, but the attending quality was present even in the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself.
"With people," she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
She nodded. Small, accepting.
A beat of quiet.
"Does it work?" she said. "Coming back to your observations."
He thought about this carefully — about what he had understood about the people in his orbit on the first observation versus what he understood now, about the specific revisions that had accumulated through the year.
"Sometimes," he said. "I miss things the first time. I understand them later. Not always in time to do anything differently."
She was quiet.
"Sometimes in time," she said.
He thought about the specific moments when the revised understanding had arrived at the right moment — when knowing someone better had changed what was possible.
"Sometimes in time," he said.
She turned a page. He returned to the land consolidation chapter.
They sat in the specific quality of two people who had said something true and were letting it rest.
After a moment, he said — not planning to: "I don't do it with everyone. The coming back."
She was still reading. "I know," she said.
He looked at her.
She did not look up.
He went back to the land consolidation chapter.
---
When the bell rang for the next period, she stood up and collected her things. She stood at the table for a moment after picking up her bag — not hesitating, just present in the specific way she was sometimes present before transitioning.
"You seemed lighter yesterday than the week before," she said. She was looking at her book rather than at him. "I don't know what resolved. But I noticed."
He held this.
She had not asked what it was. She had not offered comfort or expressed concern. She had simply: noticed. Stated the noticing. Left the noticing in the space between them without doing anything with it.
"Something worked out," he said.
She nodded.
She went to the door.
He sat in the library after she had gone.
He thought about the conversation — about the specific way it had assembled itself from nothing: a table with space, an observation about an author, an argument about technique, and then the longer exchange about reading and returning and what you missed the first time.
He thought about *you do the same thing with people.*
He thought about what it meant that she had said this — that she had been paying enough attention, for long enough, to notice the pattern in how he observed. That she had identified it as a pattern rather than an instance.
He thought: she had been reading him. The way she read books. First pass for the surface. Second pass for what she missed. Maybe a third pass now, looking for what she still hadn't understood.
He thought about what *I know* had meant when she said it after *I don't do it with everyone.*
She had said it without asking for elaboration. She had received the information — *you don't do this with everyone, and you do it with me* — and had simply: acknowledged it. Without making it into something larger, without requiring him to say more, without pressing.
He sat with the specific quality of having been seen, again, by someone who saw without claiming.
He had been saying, all year, that he did not want people to become reasons. He had not succeeded. He had failed in the most gradual and irreversible way — through accumulation, through presence, through the specific practice of returning to his observations and finding more each time.
He was not, he recognized, disappointed about this.
He picked up his book. He read for the remaining minutes before the bell.
---
Karen found him at the corridor intersection where they had developed the habit of brief exchanges when they needed to update each other without scheduling a formal meeting.
"Festival logistics," she said. "We're on track. I have the council running coordination for each zone — it should be manageable."
"Good," he said.
"Ryūsei will try something," she said. Not worried — stating a fact.
"I know," he said.
"The festival is public. High visibility. If he wants Daigo to have an impression of how things are at Seiran, the festival is the best opportunity he'll have." She looked at the corridor. "We'll be very visible."
"Yes," he said.
"So we make sure what's visible is worth seeing," she said. "Festival goes well. Student council runs it well. Everything looks like what it is — a school running a good event."
He looked at her.
"Excellence as the answer," he said.
She looked at him. Something moved in her expression — not quite a smile but in the register of one. "Exactly," she said.
They went in their separate directions.
He walked toward his next class and thought about *excellence as the answer.*
It was a specific kind of response — not defensive, not aggressive, not positioned toward the adversary at all. Just: do the thing at the highest level available, and let the quality of the thing be the argument. The implication being that quality could not be argued with the same way that accusations could be argued with, that a well-run event seen by the right people was better protection than anything documentation could provide, because it was real and visible and present rather than procedural.
This was Karen. This was her operating principle, arrived at through whatever combination of experience and temperament had produced her — the specific understanding that the best response to someone trying to shape a narrative about you was to produce a reality that made the narrative look wrong.
He thought about the festival in thirteen days. Thirteen days in which Karen would coordinate and run and troubleshoot and produce an event that would be visible to everyone who mattered. Thirteen days in which he would be present, and do his part, and carry his section of whatever needed to be carried.
He thought about Daigo, who would receive whatever Ryūsei sent him about the festival. He thought about what Ryūsei would be looking for — some evidence of the compromised judgment, some moment that confirmed the narrative he was building.
He thought: *let them look.*
The festival would be what it was. The people running it would be what they were. Ryūsei could observe whatever he observed.
He thought: *well played* had been Ryūsei's assessment of the board outcome.
He thought: the festival would be well played too.
He went to his next class and thought, for the first time in two weeks, about what kind of booth his class had been assigned and whether anyone had started planning it yet.
They had. Three students were working on it before he even arrived. He was, as he had predicted on the first day the assignment had been announced, not needed for the logistics.
He sat down. The day continued.
He thought, at the end of the day, that this had been the first Friday in weeks that felt like itself — a day with its own quality, not defined by what was building toward it. A library, a conversation that had mattered, and a festival twelve days away that was going to be well run.
He went home.
The weekend was ahead. He thought about what it would look like without a crisis in it. He thought this was something he might need to practice.
You've reached the end of this chapter
Friday morning. The message from Ryūsei arrived at seven-oh-three.
*Heard the outcome. Well played. See you around.*
Three sentences. He read them at his desk in the specific quality of a Friday morning after a Thursday that had been unusually dense with significance. He read them and ran the tone analysis the same way he ran tone analysis on everything that came from Ryūsei: not the surface, but what the surface communicated about the state underneath.
Not hostile. Not performative. Not wounded, which would have been a tell. Just — accurate. The tone of someone who had observed an outcome, assessed it correctly, and was communicating that assessment without requiring a particular response.
*Well played.* This was the phrase that carried the most information. Ryūsei did not spend words on things that didn't serve purposes. *Well played* communicated: I acknowledge this outcome, I understand how you achieved it, I am treating it as a genuine move in a game I am still playing. It was professional acknowledgment from an adversary who understood that acknowledging competence cost him nothing and potentially built information about how he responded to setbacks.
*See you around.* This was the phrase he had been watching for — the one that told him whether phase 1 had ended or whether Ryūsei was stepping back entirely. *See you around* was indefinite, informal, the register of something that would continue without announcing when or how. It was the opposite of closure. It was: the game continues, I am not showing my next card, but I have a next card.
He did not reply.
He opened the notebook: *Ryūsei: acknowledged phase 1. "Well played" = correct assessment, no rancor. "See you around" = phase 2 coming, timeline unknown. Tadokoro mechanism compromised — new approach required.*
He looked at this.
He thought about what the new approach might look like. The institutional channel had failed — it had a formal finding against it now. Whatever came next would not run through documented processes that could be defended with documentation. It would run through something else. Perception, perhaps. Or personal contact. Or the festival itself.
He wrote: *Watch for: direct impression management. Festival as arena.*
He closed the notebook.
He went to school.
---
The school had changed its quality in the two weeks since the festival had been announced. Not dramatically — the same buildings, the same corridors, the same faces in the same patterns — but with an overlay of anticipation that had accumulated gradually and was now visible everywhere. Banners. Chalk measurements in the courtyard. Students moving with clipboards instead of just books. The specific organized energy of a community that had been given a deadline and was moving toward it.
He walked through it.
He had been managing threat and documentation and board timelines for two weeks. The festival had been in the background of all of that — the deadline he was racing against, the arena where Ryūsei would try to use the visibility against him. He had not thought of it as a thing in itself: an event, a celebration, the thing that Seiran apparently did every autumn that drew people together and produced something that lasted in photographs on the school's promotional materials.
He walked through the decorated corridors and thought about this.
The festival was in thirteen days. And for the first time in two weeks, his primary relationship with it was not tactical.
He went to homeroom. He sat down. He opened the notebook, not to the threat map — to the blank page.
He wrote: *Festival D-13. What is the festival, actually?*
He looked at that question and found it, unexpectedly, interesting.
---
The library at eleven-thirty was the library it always was: the specific quality of the room, Takahashi-sensei at the desk, the ambient sound of a building being used seriously. He had arrived out of habit, or something close to it — the same impulse that had sent him here on Thursdays for months, the specific draw of a room that required nothing from him beyond presence.
He found the second volume he had been looking for on the regional history section — a continuation of the previous volume, something he had noted as a natural next reading when he finished the first. He took it to his usual table. He sat. He opened it.
He was three pages into the first chapter when he heard footsteps at the door.
Yuki came in.
She had a book — something from the literature club selection, he could tell by the cover style, the particular editions the club used. She scanned the room in the specific way she scanned rooms, and she saw him. She paused.
He looked up.
"There's room at this table," he said.
Not an invitation in the warm sense — just information. The table had space. She could use it if she needed a place to sit.
She considered this for a moment. Then she came over and sat at the opposite end of the table, setting her book down, taking out a small notebook for her own notes.
She opened her book. He returned to his.
---
They read.
The library had its own Friday morning quality — slightly more purposeful than Thursday afternoons, the last reading session before the week ended. He was aware of it the way he was aware of the room's other qualities: the light, the sound, the ambient presence of Takahashi-sensei at the desk.
He was also, in the specific peripheral way he tracked things he had decided were worth tracking, aware of Yuki at the other end of the table.
She read with the quality that had, over months of observation, become recognizable as hers: unhurried, genuinely present to the text, making notes in the small precise handwriting he associated with her because he had seen it in margins and on pages and now on this notebook. The notes had the quality of someone recording what they thought rather than what the text said — her responses, not her summaries.
He read about land consolidation decisions in the late nineteenth century, which was not its own subject interesting but which contained a specific quality he had been following through the two volumes now: the way administrative decisions accumulated into geography, the way choices made in offices produced landscapes that outlasted the people who made them by generations. He had developed an interest in this without entirely knowing why.
He was partway through the second chapter when she set her book down briefly to make a note and the book shifted, and he could see the spine.
He recognized the author.
"Have you read the early work?" he said.
She looked up — not startled, just transitioning from one mode to another. The attending quality, present.
"Some of it," she said. "This is his later period."
"The early work is different," he said.
"Better or worse?"
He thought about this, which was a real thought rather than a social placeholder. "Neither," he said. "Different. The later work is more controlled. The early work is less elegant but you know what it's about."
She considered this. "You prefer the early work."
"I notice when things are controlled," he said. "It's easier to understand something when it isn't trying to be more than what it is."
She was quiet for a moment. Not the filing quiet — something more like genuine consideration. "Have you read this one?"
"No. I know his reputation."
"What's your read of it?"
He looked at the cover. He thought about what he had absorbed about the author — the critical position, the specific quality of work that was technically precise and somehow left him cold.
"The technique is remarkable," he said. "I'm less certain the technique is serving something, or is itself the point."
She set down her pencil. "Some people would say the technique is the point."
"Some people would," he said. "I find that easier to argue than to believe."
She was quiet — the real quiet, the one that meant she was actually thinking about whether she agreed.
"You might be right," she said. "I haven't decided."
"Good," he said. The word arrived the way it sometimes arrived: before he had decided to say it, but accurate. "I haven't decided either."
She looked at him for a moment — the attending look, but with something added that he didn't have a precise name for. Then she went back to her book.
---
They were quiet for a while after that — the comfortable quiet that the library always produced, but with a slightly different texture than usual. The texture of two people who had just said something true to each other and were sitting with that.
She went back to reading. He went back to reading.
At a certain point, she made a note in her small notebook, and he caught, at the edge of his vision, the movement of her hand across the page. The small precise handwriting. He did not look long enough to read it.
After a while, she said, without looking up: "You noticed something about me early in the year."
He looked at her. She was still looking at her book.
"Ren mentioned it," she said. "He said you'd observed that I read the same books more than once. That you thought it was the kind of thing someone did when they were looking for something."
He thought back. He had said something to Ren in the first week, something about the class dynamic — the way different people occupied the classroom. He remembered the observation about her reading habits but had not thought about whether it had circulated.
"I wasn't certain I was right," he said.
"You were," she said.
She made a small note. He waited.
"The first time I read something, I read it," she said. "The second time, I'm reading what I missed the first time. The things I didn't know to look for until I understood what the book was." She didn't look up. "Sometimes the third time is when I understand what it was actually about."
He sat with this.
"That's a specific kind of patience," he said.
"It's not patience," she said. "It's that the first reading is never complete. Knowing that doesn't bother me." A pause. "You do the same thing. I think. Not with books."
He looked at her directly.
She was still looking at her own book, but the attending quality was present even in the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself.
"With people," she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
She nodded. Small, accepting.
A beat of quiet.
"Does it work?" she said. "Coming back to your observations."
He thought about this carefully — about what he had understood about the people in his orbit on the first observation versus what he understood now, about the specific revisions that had accumulated through the year.
"Sometimes," he said. "I miss things the first time. I understand them later. Not always in time to do anything differently."
She was quiet.
"Sometimes in time," she said.
He thought about the specific moments when the revised understanding had arrived at the right moment — when knowing someone better had changed what was possible.
"Sometimes in time," he said.
She turned a page. He returned to the land consolidation chapter.
They sat in the specific quality of two people who had said something true and were letting it rest.
After a moment, he said — not planning to: "I don't do it with everyone. The coming back."
She was still reading. "I know," she said.
He looked at her.
She did not look up.
He went back to the land consolidation chapter.
---
When the bell rang for the next period, she stood up and collected her things. She stood at the table for a moment after picking up her bag — not hesitating, just present in the specific way she was sometimes present before transitioning.
"You seemed lighter yesterday than the week before," she said. She was looking at her book rather than at him. "I don't know what resolved. But I noticed."
He held this.
She had not asked what it was. She had not offered comfort or expressed concern. She had simply: noticed. Stated the noticing. Left the noticing in the space between them without doing anything with it.
"Something worked out," he said.
She nodded.
She went to the door.
He sat in the library after she had gone.
He thought about the conversation — about the specific way it had assembled itself from nothing: a table with space, an observation about an author, an argument about technique, and then the longer exchange about reading and returning and what you missed the first time.
He thought about *you do the same thing with people.*
He thought about what it meant that she had said this — that she had been paying enough attention, for long enough, to notice the pattern in how he observed. That she had identified it as a pattern rather than an instance.
He thought: she had been reading him. The way she read books. First pass for the surface. Second pass for what she missed. Maybe a third pass now, looking for what she still hadn't understood.
He thought about what *I know* had meant when she said it after *I don't do it with everyone.*
She had said it without asking for elaboration. She had received the information — *you don't do this with everyone, and you do it with me* — and had simply: acknowledged it. Without making it into something larger, without requiring him to say more, without pressing.
He sat with the specific quality of having been seen, again, by someone who saw without claiming.
He had been saying, all year, that he did not want people to become reasons. He had not succeeded. He had failed in the most gradual and irreversible way — through accumulation, through presence, through the specific practice of returning to his observations and finding more each time.
He was not, he recognized, disappointed about this.
He picked up his book. He read for the remaining minutes before the bell.
---
Karen found him at the corridor intersection where they had developed the habit of brief exchanges when they needed to update each other without scheduling a formal meeting.
"Festival logistics," she said. "We're on track. I have the council running coordination for each zone — it should be manageable."
"Good," he said.
"Ryūsei will try something," she said. Not worried — stating a fact.
"I know," he said.
"The festival is public. High visibility. If he wants Daigo to have an impression of how things are at Seiran, the festival is the best opportunity he'll have." She looked at the corridor. "We'll be very visible."
"Yes," he said.
"So we make sure what's visible is worth seeing," she said. "Festival goes well. Student council runs it well. Everything looks like what it is — a school running a good event."
He looked at her.
"Excellence as the answer," he said.
She looked at him. Something moved in her expression — not quite a smile but in the register of one. "Exactly," she said.
They went in their separate directions.
He walked toward his next class and thought about *excellence as the answer.*
It was a specific kind of response — not defensive, not aggressive, not positioned toward the adversary at all. Just: do the thing at the highest level available, and let the quality of the thing be the argument. The implication being that quality could not be argued with the same way that accusations could be argued with, that a well-run event seen by the right people was better protection than anything documentation could provide, because it was real and visible and present rather than procedural.
This was Karen. This was her operating principle, arrived at through whatever combination of experience and temperament had produced her — the specific understanding that the best response to someone trying to shape a narrative about you was to produce a reality that made the narrative look wrong.
He thought about the festival in thirteen days. Thirteen days in which Karen would coordinate and run and troubleshoot and produce an event that would be visible to everyone who mattered. Thirteen days in which he would be present, and do his part, and carry his section of whatever needed to be carried.
He thought about Daigo, who would receive whatever Ryūsei sent him about the festival. He thought about what Ryūsei would be looking for — some evidence of the compromised judgment, some moment that confirmed the narrative he was building.
He thought: *let them look.*
The festival would be what it was. The people running it would be what they were. Ryūsei could observe whatever he observed.
He thought: *well played* had been Ryūsei's assessment of the board outcome.
He thought: the festival would be well played too.
He went to his next class and thought, for the first time in two weeks, about what kind of booth his class had been assigned and whether anyone had started planning it yet.
They had. Three students were working on it before he even arrived. He was, as he had predicted on the first day the assignment had been announced, not needed for the logistics.
He sat down. The day continued.
He thought, at the end of the day, that this had been the first Friday in weeks that felt like itself — a day with its own quality, not defined by what was building toward it. A library, a conversation that had mattered, and a festival twelve days away that was going to be well run.
He went home.
The weekend was ahead. He thought about what it would look like without a crisis in it. He thought this was something he might need to practice.
You've reached the end of this chapter