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581 – Little Sister, What Are You Planning to Do to Hojou?
🕑 Added 2025-10-11 16:07:16 +0000 UTCAfter returning to her seat, Arisugawa Ren immediately spoke up before Himeno Seiko could say a word.
She insisted she’d already learned how to put on the protective armor and would help Seiko do it herself.
To make sure her best friend didn’t “get any special treatment” she couldn’t enjoy, Ren even pulled two girls from Soubu High to block Seiko’s escape.
Seiko just smiled faintly, the corners of her lips curving with calm composure.
Facing her friends’ suspiciously “friendly” but obviously competitive stares, she said evenly,
“With my level of kendo, even if I wear the armor, it won’t make me perform any better than you, Ren.”
“Wait, so you’re not going up to fight?” Ren interrupted excitedly.
Across the entire dojo, the only person who could possibly threaten her was this friend of hers.
“How could I not?” Seiko replied with a serene gleam in her eyes that seemed to hold infinite wisdom.
Ren knew that look—whenever Seiko had that expression, it meant she’d already found a surefire way to win.
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Since wearing armor won’t make a difference,” Seiko said, standing up gracefully, “I might as well use my own body to truly feel Hojou-kun’s swordsmanship—to listen to his spirit through the pain.”
Her tall, slender frame radiated quiet confidence as she rose, and those nearby couldn’t help cheering her on.
“Yeah! If you can’t learn with your head, learn with your body!”
“Get hit today, dodge tomorrow, and by the next day—you’ll have mastered it!”
“Didn’t expect such a delicate girl to have guts like that!”
“That’s the spirit! Look at me—ninety percent of my bruises come from our captain. But thanks to that, no weakling can land a hit on me anymore!”
The noisy chatter filled the air.
Ren frowned at her friend suspiciously.
She herself could understand taking a few hits—after all, being the daughter of a strict martial family, she was used to rough training.
But Seiko was different.
The Himenos were old-money nobles—proper ladies.
For her, even wearing rough fabric could irritate her skin, let alone getting hit.
No. Something was off. Way off.
This girl definitely had a plan.
Unfortunately, the two girls from Soubu High had clearly spent too much time around the local idiots.
They actually believed Seiko’s nonsense and even wished her “good luck in battle” with straight faces.
So, Himeno Seiko stepped into the ring, bamboo sword in hand.
The indigo pleats of her kendo hakama swayed as her bare feet crossed the spotless wooden floor.
So clean her pale toes still looked soft and immaculate, making each step oddly captivating.
Hojou Kyousuke, six feet tall, stood to the left.
Himeno Seiko, barely five-foot-three, stood to the right.
Both held their shinai firmly. He had short, neat hair; she had a cascade of flame-red waves.
Together, they looked like a painting—balance in motion.
Somewhere near the edge of the mat, Zaimokuza Yoshiteru, ever the wannabe novelist, was already spinning a story in his head—an epic titled “The Demon Lily’s Century-Long Pursuit of the Sword Saint.”
“Even if I can’t have your heart,” he muttered dramatically, “I will claim your body! No matter who you love, for this one moment, let your eyes see no one but me!
I, the Demon Lily, Himeno Seiko—the swordswoman famed across the land—shall become the last sight you ever behold!”
Sitting cross-legged with all the gravitas of a warlord from the Sengoku era, Zaimokuza’s booming narration echoed through the dojo.
The others, now used to his antics, gathered around to listen.
This had become a tradition among the members of the Running Angels Club—a chaotic group of self-proclaimed geniuses and oddballs.
Zaimokuza might never actually become a light novel author, but his “chuunibyou” (delusions of grandeur) finally had a stage where they were not only tolerated but celebrated.
“Wahahahaha!”
The atmosphere was electric—there was a duel about to happen, plus Zaimokuza’s ridiculous narration in the background.
A simple spar now had the weight of an epic saga.
Even Hikigaya Hachiman, long “cured” of his own chuunibyou tendencies, had to admit:
While Zaimokuza still couldn’t compare to the long-lost “Eternal Deficit God” that Hachiman himself once was, the man had at least earned his place among the faithful.
To be honest, though, Zaimokuza’s stories only sounded impressive at first.
Anyone with half-decent pop culture knowledge could tell his tales were patchwork nonsense—stitched together from a dozen different anime and fantasy tropes.
Even his characters’ nicknames were borrowed.
“The Sword Saint”? Straight from an old sci-fi fantasy movie.
“The Demon Lily”? Lifted from a Heian-era period novel.
The tragic romance between the two? It was the same tired plot you could find in at least ten other series—even Hachiman’s little sister, Komachi, could spot that.
‘You’ve got a long way to go, Zaimokuza,’ Hachiman thought.
‘True chuunibyou isn’t just copying history or fiction.’
‘it’s creating a world completely your own.’
‘It’s being so detached from reality that you become the freest person alive.’
“Then tell me, O most free person in the world, Hikigaya Hachiman,” someone teased, “how would this battle unfold in your world?”
Hachiman took a deep breath, his eyes strangely serene.
“This world didn’t originally exist. A being known as The Beyond-God passed by and, out of mercy, couldn’t bear the silent darkness.
He used the power of Genesis Radiance—a skill mastered in the Ninth Era—and brought light into chaos. Thus, the world was born.
But when he left, his departing shadow became the only darkness within that light—the Divine Shade.
The Shade wielded endless power, sculpting the world to his liking. Then one day, he met another being—the darkness from before the beginning of creation.
She had returned. She was Sharai, the Devourer of Light.
The old god and the new god were destined to clash—a battle without mercy.”
Zaimokuza’s eyes widened.
“Incredible! Only you, the ninth-ranked literature student who scored nine points in math, could mix poetic philosophy and fantasy so flawlessly! Hachiman, you’re a genius!”
“I appreciate the compliment,” Hachiman replied dryly, “but you really didn’t need to mention my math score. And this isn’t fiction—it actually happened.
During the Thirty-Third Era. Also, the brilliance isn’t in the phrasing—it’s in the worldbuilding.
The cosmic conflict, the gods’ hierarchy, the lingering mystery of The Beyond-God—his origin, his departure—that’s where the essence lies.”
Hikigaya Hachiman tried to look modest — just as Captain Hojou once said, he didn’t create another world; he merely glimpsed one by accident.
“Truly incredible, Hachiman! That ‘Supreme God’ you mentioned… who exactly is he? Don’t tell me—”
“Don’t even think about twisting my divine creation with your bootleg fanfic lore!” Hachiman snapped.
“The ‘Supreme God’ is none other than the earliest incarnation of the Eternal Deficit God, the Nameless One—basically, me. Hachima— hey! Zaimokuza! You tricked me into saying that! Are you some kind of American spy?! I almost spilled everything!”
Realizing he’d almost revealed that the main character of his entire delusional mythos was, in fact, himself, Hachiman froze.
But then again, did that really need to be said? Every self-respecting chuunibyou protagonist was the star of their own universe.
Take Zaimokuza, for example— he might worship Hojou as the greatest swordsman in Tokyo, but in every one of his stories, the only real hero was always his own alter ego, the “Sword General.”
“Uh… I wasn’t trying to get you to confess anything,” Zaimokuza said awkwardly.
The others around them — Hatake Gorou and the rest of their gang — nodded in agreement.
Apparently, Hachiman had just been talking non-stop all by himself.
‘Ungrateful fools!’ Hachiman seethed inwardly. ‘I offer them divine enlightenment — the truth of the multiverse — and this is how they treat me?’
He immediately started drawing invisible sigils in his mind — ancient, intricate symbols that only he, the Eternal Deficit God, could comprehend.
Ahem. Moving on.
Before Zaimokuza could launch into another overblown fantasy monologue, Hachiman coughed twice and whispered a warning.
“This isn’t the time for jokes. Seriously — shut up.”
Hachiman’s instincts — honed from years of dodging social disasters and avoiding physical ones — were screaming at him.
His “Beautiful Girl Radar,” as he called it, had locked onto the girls’ group from Roppongi the moment they’d arrived.
And right now, two of them — Himeno Seiko and Arisugawa Ren — were way too suspicious.
That little stunt Seiko pulled? Way too calm.
Way too deliberate.
Something was definitely up.
If they failed to protect Captain Hojou’s purity, then soon enough, they’d all get a first-class ticket to hell on Earth.
After all, their boss had once single-handedly wiped out an entire biker gang because one of them snapped a cherry blossom branch.
And if rumors about the underground organization Ruyi Dorm were true, they could make people vanish just as easily.
Even worse — just a few minutes ago, Hachiman had seen a shadowy figure slip toward the locker room at the front of the dojo.
His blood ran cold.
He turned to the group and whispered gravely,
“If Himeno Seiko shows even the slightest suspicious intent, I hope all you fine gentlemen will stand with me to eliminate this threat before it’s too late.”
He spoke with solemn conviction. After all, these were people who’d known Hojou far longer than he had — surely, they understood the stakes.
Hatake Gorou burst out laughing.
“Hahahahaha! Oh man, Hachiman, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said! You think Seiko could actually beat the Captain? That’s even funnier than your chuunibyou story!”
“For the last time, that wasn’t a chuunibyou story — it was mythic canon!” Hachiman protested, then sighed in defeat.
Trying to reason with Gorou, a guy who once fell in love with a crossdressing version of his own best friend, was clearly a waste of effort.
Piss him off, and you’d just end up getting punched for nothing.
Still… thinking about it, there was only one girl who might be able to stand toe-to-toe with Hojou.
The undefeated captain of Tezukayama High, who led her school to a national championship.
Wait.
Hachiman’s eyes widened.
The figure he’d seen heading toward the locker room earlier — the silhouette was starting to make horrifying sense.
‘No way…’
‘No freaking way…!’
Something big was about to happen.
He swallowed hard, sitting up straight.
He’d never met the “female sword saint” in person, but he’d heard plenty of stories from the members of The Rampaging Angels.
Turning his head, he spotted Eikichi Onizuka, grinning like an idiot, loudly cheering for Seiko from the sidelines.
At that moment, Hachiman could swear he saw a glowing star hovering over Onizuka’s head — a star that, if Raoh from Fist of the North Star were here, would immediately make him shout:
“You’re already dead.”
————————————————————————
Meanwhile, on the dojo floor —
Kyousuke was double-checking that Seiko truly didn’t want to wear armor.
He even offered to swap her bamboo sword for a softer foam training stick.
But Seiko just shook her head, calm as ever.
That made Kyousuke frown.
He couldn’t quite figure it out — everything about the girl screamed “noble and unathletic.”
Sure, her posture was elegant, her figure was toned, but that only said fitness class, not swordsmanship.
So what gave her the courage to face him unprotected?
“Are you ready?” Kisaki asked beside him, smirking.
He didn’t care about the details — as far as he was concerned, if the Captain could make this pampered rich girl experience the fear of death firsthand.
It’d be the best possible lesson. If she got knocked half-dead, even better; Kisaki already had plans on how to smooth things over with the Himeno family afterward and maybe even establish a useful connection.
He’d thought this all through.
Seiko nodded slightly, smiling as she gripped her bamboo sword.
Bending her knees in a neat bow, her long, wavy crimson hair shimmered under the lights.
The sight of her poised in her kendo uniform — youthful, radiant, a picture of composure — was enough to make the boys whisper thoughts that had nothing to do with kendo.
Kyousuke returned the bow, expression stoic.
Whatever game she was playing, he was determined to show her just how brutal kendo could be.
From the sidelines, Arisugawa Ren frowned, confusion written all over her face.
“Hey,” muttered Rindou Haitani, glancing at her nervously. “You think Himeno-san’s hiding some kind of weapon under her uniform? ’Cause if she tries to pull something at this range, the Captain’ll slice her head clean off before she even pulls the trigger.”
“You idiot,” Ren hissed. “Why not just say she’s got a sniper waiting to shoot Hojou from the roof while you’re at it?”
“That’s impossible,” Ran Haitani interjected calmly. “The Captain’s senses are way too sharp. He can feel when someone’s watching him — forget a sniper, even a camera lens would give them away.”
Ren just stared at them both, speechless.
‘You morons seriously listen to yourselves? Swords, bullets, snipers? What are we, in a shonen crossover?’
On the mat, Kyousuke steadied his stance.
Seiko inhaled deeply, then suddenly dashed forward — her movements so awkward that even a beginner would’ve winced.
Her steps were far too high. Her form — completely off.
‘That’s not how you move in kendo,’ Hojou thought. ‘With steps that big, you’ll trip over your hakama any second now.’
And sure enough — after two steps, Seiko lost her balance.
Her bamboo sword slipped from her hand, clattering through the air, her every motion screaming “rookie!”
But miraculously — she didn’t fall.
Instead, she stumbled forward in an almost graceful way, her body leaning toward Hojou’s, her expression pure panic and helpless beauty — the kind that could melt even the coldest heart.
And of course, faced with a beautiful girl falling right into his arms, what decent man wouldn’t instinctively reach out to catch her?
Naturally — Hojou Kyousuke did too.
“Don’t do it, boss!!!”
Hachiman screamed internally, clutching his head in despair.
