Kirigaya Suguha pressed herself against the wall in the shadowed corner, a fallen tree branch gripped tightly in her hand. Makeshift weapon. Last resort.
If anyone comes—if it's a male—I'll strike first.
Her focus locked on the corner ahead, every sense straining for movement.
Behind her, Akira moved like smoke.
Before she could register the shift in air pressure, arms closed around her. A hand clamped over her mouth.
"Mmph—!"
She struggled—violent, instinctive, useless. Against Akira's current stats, her kendo-honed reflexes were child's play. He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her deeper into the shadows, away from any accidental witnesses.
"Don't struggle. Don't shout." His voice was calm, almost conversational. "Or I'll stop being gentle."
Fang... Akira-san?
Her mind stuttered.
Why is he—how is he—where's Senior—
Yesterday, she'd left the dojo late specifically to minimize alone-time between them. To make them wait, wonder, want. Except Akira went to bed at ten every night, rain or shine. At lunch today, when Senior complained about his predictable schedule, she'd almost choked on her rice.
So tonight, she'd played matchmaker—absented herself entirely. Came here with childhood friends to decompress.
And now he was here.
Where's Senior? Is she here too? What does he—
Sensation interrupted thought.
His hands had found targets. Sensitive ones. Strategic ones.
"Don't be afraid." His breath warmed her ear. "You'll feel good soon. I promise."
She tried to form words—questions, protests, something—but her voice wouldn't cooperate. Her cheeks burned. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds.
Does he not like Senior after all?
Does he like... me?
What do I—
Mmm~!
The sound escaped before she could stop it. Mortifying. Revealing. Honest.
Her knees buckled. Only his arms kept her upright.
"L-Let go... please..."
He held her like she weighed nothing—because to him, she did. When she tried to speak again, he simply turned her face and kissed her.
[God's Hand — ACTIVATED]
[Backstabber — ACTIVATED]
Her resistance dissolved like morning frost.
Akira-san likes me. He likes me.
Her hand found his, guided it, pressed it closer—exactly like a couple's natural intimacy.
Akira registered the shift with mild surprise.
Easier than Kasumigaoka? Much easier. Did I misread the danger colors?
Questions for later. Opportunity was now.
The location was secluded. The sky had darkened. And this was game space—sealed, private, inaccessible to anyone not part of the scene. The sukumizu added its own particular flavor to the proceedings.
He stopped hesitating.
Later—how much later, neither could say—his alarm chimed its designated warning.
Akira helped the trembling, weak-legged girl to a nearby bench, settled her carefully, and withdrew from the game.
See? I'm considerate. Even in eroge, I found her a place to rest.
Unlike Kasumigaoka Utaha, left crumpled in her own entryway.
Back in reality, he scrambled out of bed and pulled up his status:
[Player: Akira]
Strength: 19.8
Agility: 23.3
Endurance: 20.2
Spirit: 13.8
Skills: Martial Arts (Perfected), Precise Throwing (Perfected), Swordsmanship (Perfected), God's Hand, Ambidexterity
Tsk. Look at that growth.
Stats nearly doubled from Chapter One. Two new skills. A villa. A sports car. Tonight had been profitable.
He tidied the bedroom, washed up, and made his way to the dojo.
Saeko paused mid-swing at his entrance, studying his expression. "Akira-san. You seem... unusually cheerful this morning."
"I've had a breakthrough." He smiled. "And I remembered some things."
Her eyebrows rose. She lowered her shinai and approached, curiosity evident in every line of her body. "Oh? What things?"
She stopped close—closer than necessary, close enough that he caught the clean scent of her skin, the subtle warmth radiating from post-practice exertion.
Her slightly parted collar revealed a glimpse of deep cleavage—dazzling, inviting, present.
After three exhilarating battles the night before, Akira had only the energy to appreciate the view, not pursue it.
"I remembered something." He leaned against the dojo doorframe, casual. "My family apparently owns some property here. I'm going to scout it out today. If it's suitable—" he let the implication hang "—perhaps you'd consider relocating."
"Property?" Saeko's eyebrows rose.
"Significant property. The kind with space."
Her expression flickered—something complex, quickly masked. "Then congratulations, Akira-san. You'll have your own home soon."
Off. Her mood shifted. Why?
He hadn't noticed such subtleties before. Another gift of increased stats—enhanced perception, sharper emotional intelligence.
Handy.
"Only with family does a house become a home," he said slowly. "Otherwise, it's just shelter."
Something in her eyes softened. "Akira-san... that's surprisingly profound." She gathered her training gear. "I need to shower—school awaits."
She passed him, close enough that he caught the clean scent of her skin.
Akira watched her retreating form, thoughtful.
Tonight. When she returns. We'll talk.
The Maybach glided through city streets, drawing stares at every intersection. Akira drove without destination, enjoying the effortless power beneath the hood.
Somehow—inevitably—he ended up at the Hero Association headquarters.
"Big sis, check out that ride!" A junior member's voice carried across the parking lot. "Even nicer than yours—"
The sentence died as his senior's glacial stare found him. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
The car door opened. Akira emerged.
The Fubuki Group collectively inhaled.
"Handsome. Definitely handsome." A female member adjusted her glasses. "Shame about the clothes—look like street stall quality."
"If he cleaned up a bit, he might almost reach my level." A lanky man preened. "Kid's got potential."
"Your face couldn't reach his level with plastic surgery and a miracle." His companion snorted. "Focus on yourself."
Fubuki herself approached with practiced grace, her gaze moving from the car to its owner with evident calculation.
"Akira-san. How pleasant to see you here." She stopped at an elegant distance. "Have you reconsidered joining the Fubuki Group?"
"Not yet, I'm afraid." He smiled easily. "I happened to be passing by, saw you, and thought I'd pay my respects."
One of her subordinates leaned in. "Big sis, who is this?"
"A martial artist of considerable promise." Her voice carried, deliberate. "Already B-Class caliber. Possibly top tier."
The reaction was immediate. Several large men in suits straightened, reassessing. One—built like a small mountain—stepped forward with aggressive swagger.
"A newcomer, huh? Join the Fubuki Group, or I'll make you—"
SLAP.
The sound was crisp, absolute, impossible.
The big man's glasses sailed through the air in a perfect arc. He stood frozen, cheek reddening, mind rebooting.
He was five meters away. FIVE METERS. How did he—
Silence stretched. Then, as one, the Fubuki Group shifted into combat readiness—stances low, focus sharp, waiting only for their leader's command.
Fubuki watched Akira with new eyes.
Interesting. Very interesting.