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578 – Forbidden Ecstasy
🕑 Added 2025-10-09 16:08:38 +0000 UTCHolding back a deep breath, Kyousuke finally stopped aiming for their hands.
If these idiots couldn’t appreciate the finesse of his swordsmanship, then he’d simply show them what true brutality was.
With a roar of “Men! Men! Men! Men!”, his bamboo sword crashed mercilessly into the helmets of his opponents.
“Um, Haitani-kun,” asked Himeno Seiko curiously, “why isn’t Hojou-kun going for their hands this time? I thought he was a licensed master of the Hokushin Ittō-ryū style?”
“Hmph. Kendo isn’t so limited,” Haitani Rindou said with a condescending smile.
Normally, he wouldn’t waste his time explaining things to these privileged girls—but since the strategist said they could be useful to the Boss’s plans, he restrained himself.
“Our Boss isn’t just a regular disciple of the Hokushin Ittō-ryū. He’s practically the successor to the main family.
To you, it might look like he’s striking their heads—but in truth, he’s still aiming for the hands.
The Boss has already reached the state of seeing no hands, yet feeling every strike with his heart.”
Surrounded on all sides, Kyousuke could clearly hear Haitani’s ridiculous commentary.
His anger flared, and he no longer limited himself to proper bamboo-sword techniques.
Since so many had joined in, two of them had already tried to tackle his legs—only to be sent flying with a casual kick, crashing into the crowd like bowling pins.
By the next round, the entire Higashi Kendo Club charged at once.
That was when Himeno Seiko finally understood what “overwhelming violence” really meant.
Dozens students surrounded him, yet Kyousuke simply swung his bamboo sword and raised his right leg again and again.
Each kick sent bodies tumbling like wheat before a scythe.
The scene was pure devastation—like watching a wrecking machine smash through walls with effortless rhythm.
And oddly enough, that mechanical repetition had a hypnotic allure.
“Do they… have some kind of grudge against Hojou-kun?” Seiko asked, frowning.
The Higashi students fought like madmen, recklessly charging one after another, swinging their swords as if possessed by divine purpose.
Some fought with broken arms, others hurled their weapons like spears, a few even crawled on the floor trying to grab his legs so their teammates could strike.
It was absurd—and yet, incredibly passionate.
People once said Hojou-sensei’s manga drew inspiration from real life.
Seiko had doubted that… until now.
Watching this scene, she realized: the human spirit could still burn this fiercely.
This wasn’t just practice—it was a battle for youth, friendship, and pride!
They were fighting for bonds stronger than steel!
It was almost moving—if not for the fact that the “final boss” they were attacking was absurdly handsome, academically brilliant, and an insanely popular manga artist.
Under those conditions, Seiko couldn’t quite cry—so she just shouted support from the sidelines along with Arisugawa Ren and the others, cheering on Hojou Kyousuke while watching him utterly crush the desperate “heroes.”
Because, really—this wasn’t training anymore.
It was one man toying with a crowd.
The Rogue Angels members screamed tactical nonsense from the sidelines—
“Trip him!”
“Throw something!”
“Spit! Blind him with blood!”
“Human cannonball attack!”
Some even got so hyped they jumped into the fight themselves.
They genuinely fought as if killing Kyousuke was their life’s mission.
Seiko blinked in confusion when she heard Haitani Rindou shout, “Go for the back of his head!”
“Are you insane?! That could kill him!” Arisugawa Ren yelled furiously.
“You guys are his subordinates, right? Do you hate him or something?” Seiko asked, baffled.
The Haitani brothers looked like schizophrenic fanboys—one second idolizing him, the next trying to murder him.
“Tch. You think you can take down someone like the Boss without playing dirty?” Haitani Aran sneered. “In this world, cheap tricks are strategy. That’s why the strategist trusts us.”
“Sounds like mutiny to me,” Seiko said sharply, narrowing her eyes—a hint of intimidation flashing in her gaze.
Sadly, no black hellfire appeared around her like in those anime scenes.
“Mutiny? Hah! I wish. Even in my dreams, I wouldn’t dare imagine something that stupid,” Aran laughed.
“Besides—what, a sneak attack to the back of the head? Like that could hurt him. I bet even a steel bat would bend before he’d flinch.”
“No way…” Ren muttered, disbelief written across her face.
“And honestly,” Aran continued proudly, “we did consider using firearms against him during training once… but we decided against it.”
“Firearms?!” Ren nearly screamed.
Not because she was shocked they had access to guns—after all, in Japan, that was no small feat—but because of how casually he said it.
Guns were taboo—symbols of power, danger, and politics.
Even so, both Ren and Seiko weren’t completely unfamiliar with them.
Ren came from a police family, while Seiko had grown up around noble traditions that included horseback riding and hunting.
Japan had borrowed much from other cultures over the centuries—martial arts, etiquette, philosophy—and even in modern times, physical discipline was still seen as essential to character.
In fact, among them, Eriri probably had the most unique take.
That golden-haired aristocrat had long since traded horses for ergonomic chairs, and her flintlock pistols for mechanical keyboards—a modern noblewoman of the digital age.
“The weapon of criticism cannot replace the criticism of weapons. Only physical power can destroy physical power.”
“Then in that case—let’s crush the enemy spiritually!”
“Victory for Waliwaliwa! The victory of the spirit!”
“An American quick-draw master can pull his gun and empty his clip in 0.21 seconds—but all he can do is take an enemy’s head.
Eriri, on the other hand, can type seventy-two words per minute, striking from the level of pure conviction and soul itself!”
This was the modern nobility of the Spencer family—centuries of refinement culminating in a pair of eccentric geniuses.
On many late nights, Kyousuke could hear furious shouting from Eriri’s room.
When he peeked in, he’d always find a tiny blonde girl crouched on her computer chair, hair disheveled, face glowing in the monitor’s light.
The golden-haired princess would be under spiritual bombardment from her online foes—furiously typing out her counterattacks while occasionally sketching quick, curse-like doodles to strike back harder.
Thanks to her divine art skills, “Lily’s Crusade” was usually unstoppable.
Though sometimes, she’d still lose arguments online—her last resort was to crawl to Yamauchi Sakura, teary-eyed and desperate.
Within minutes, everything would mysteriously be “resolved.”
When the blonde princess swaggered back to her computer, the enemy had vanished entirely—no replies, no resistance, total silence.
Sakura would always claim she just “talked sense into them,” helping the poor fools realize their mistakes.
Eriri would then show the magnanimity of a queen—venting for another half hour before forgiving them.
Only Kyousuke knew the truth: Sakura’s “talking sense” usually meant instructing Kisaki to use admin privileges to nuke the offender from the forum.
Not that it was hard—Kisaki had already infiltrated almost every major Japanese community site by now.
And for the few especially nasty cases—like the guy who tried doxxing Eriri after being banned—Kyousuke personally “sent them a bad luck package.”
Lately, ever since Kyousuke’s new work was announced, Eriri’s nightly battles had only grown fiercer.
Kyousuke was honestly considering buying a signal jammer just to make that idiot sleep properly.
If she asked, he could just say the signal was bad—she’d probably just curse her phone and complain about the carrier anyway.
As for the infamous Haitani brothers of Roppongi and their rumored weapons cache—neither Eriri nor Sakura doubted they could find guns if they wanted to.
What shocked them was that Rindou actually wanted to use one against his own boss.
“And you say you’re not trying to overthrow him? You’ve got guns already—what’s next, bombs?”
“So what happened next?” asked Ren Arisugawa curiously.
If the Haitani brothers really used firearms, her father—who worked in the police—would be promoted for sure.
“The boss said he didn’t want to see any of his men with real guns. Then he told the strategist to fetch a BB gun…”
Rindou’s expression twisted strangely, as if even he couldn’t believe what came next.
“And then… the boss demonstrated his swordsmanship. Godspeed Iai. When the BB gun fired, the yellow pellet was sliced clean in half before I even realized he’d drawn his sword.”
Rindou would never forget that moment—the pellet’s half smacking against his cheek, still warm from the sword’s high-speed friction.
He picked it up; the cut was perfectly smooth, down to the millimeter.
“…That wasn’t a toy. It was a high-end ‘replica’ made by Tokyo Marui.”
Even recalling it now drained his will to cheer. His eyes just followed his elder brother’s rampage in awe.
Cutting a bullet and dodging one were two completely different things.
With his teleport-like footwork, the boss could strike seven times within arm’s reach—fast, brutal, unstoppable.
In a chaotic brawl like this, to even aim at him meant shooting through your own men—and even if the bullet hit, its power would be halved after passing through flesh and bone.
Rindou suspected his boss could probably catch one with his fingers, like the Buddha plucking a flower.
Only someone that overwhelmingly strong could inspire such absolute loyalty.
That was why the Haitani brothers followed him so faithfully.
The “Angels of Rebellion” were born right there among his divisions.
If Hojou Kyousuke weren’t so terrifyingly strong, some elementary schooler would’ve shown up with his parents to complain by now.
“Godspeed Iai? Cutting a bullet in half?” Ren Arisugawa’s face froze into a weirdly adorable, meme-like grimace.
But Himeno Seiko had fallen deep into thought.
She understood now—their devotion wasn’t just admiration.
They worshiped Hojou Kyousuke.
They adored him, feared him, and wanted to challenge him, just to prove his strength was real.
They were addicted to that unmatchable violence.
In truth, it wasn’t just those “delinquent angels.” Even Seiko herself felt drawn to it—to him.
Hojou’s expression right now, sharp and cold like a demon from hell, wasn’t nearly as handsome as when he smiled.
But the sheer, concentrated violence in every movement sent a strange, thrilling pulse through her chest.
In his presence, every other man looked fragile—almost meaningless.
Life itself seemed weightless in his hands, something he could snuff out with a single breath.
Watching him punch Amakawa Toru square in the face, kick Kazuki Takagi flying with a spinning heel, tossing men around like rag dolls—Seiko’s body trembled.
It was fear, yes—but fear that was primal, buried deep in the soul.
Because the will to live always breeds fear. And fear always gives birth to violence.
Fear and violence—light and shadow, heaven and earth.
Yet beneath that fear, Seiko felt a strange, forbidden pleasure.
She turned to her friend Ren Arisugawa, who came from a family of police officers.
Even she had been completely captivated by Hojou’s display.
Her clear eyes followed his every strike; each time someone fell before him, she gasped in exhilaration.
Meanwhile, Kisaki Tetta watched silently from the sidelines, glasses glinting, his gaze recording every expression and movement.
Seeing the reactions of the “lady squad,” he knew it—
The blizzard called “Violence,” born from the frozen Arctic of human nature, had already swept across the world.
He opened his notebook and began writing furiously once more.
