Toyotaro Miracle High—The Pinnacle of Excellence
There was no school in Japan—no, in the world—that could match the prestige of Toyotaro Miracle High.
It wasn't just an elite school. It was a legendary one.
The best of the best. The pinnacle of academia, athletics, and raw human potential.
Getting accepted was harder than becoming a damn astronaut.
Even the wealthiest of the wealthy couldn't just buy their way in.
Even the smartest of prodigies had to prove they were worthy.
Toyotaro Miracle High was where tomorrow's leaders, inventors, billionaires, and champions were forged.
The students here weren't just gifted.
They were monsters in their own right.
Generations who had graduated from college-level courses before they were even teenagers.
Athletes who had already broken Olympic records before hitting puberty.
Heirs to corporate empires that controlled entire industries.
Royalty, prodigies, the children of the world's most powerful individuals —
Toyotaro Miracle High was where they all gathered.
It was the ultimate battlefield of intellect, ambition, and raw talent.
The entire world watched this school.
Its graduates didn't just enter society.
They ruled it.
The Campus—A City of Its Own
Toyotaro Miracle High wasn't a simple school building.
It was a colossal institution, practically its own city.
A massive, futuristic campus sprawled across an entire island, equipped with:
State-of-the-art research facilities rivaling actual government labs. Training grounds that could host international martial arts tournaments. Libraries filled with rare manuscripts, some older than Japan itself. Dormitories that looked like five-star hotels. Simulated environments for training—deserts, tundras, even artificial space stations.
The school was so advanced that some whispered it was backed by military funding.
Because what better place to recruit future world dominators than Toyotaro Miracle High?
The students feared nothing.
They were unstoppable.
Or so they thought.
Because none of them, not a single soul in this grand institution, had any idea what was coming.
It was supposed to be just another year.
Another batch of prodigies.
Another round of grooming the next winners of the world.
But then…
A new name appeared on the student roster.
One that shouldn't exist.
A transfer student.
And not just any transfer student.
A boy who had no past records, no official background, nothing.
A ghost.
Yet, somehow —
He had passed every impossible entrance exam.
With a perfect score.
He had broken every physical trial Toyotaro Miracle High had thrown at him.
With ease.
He had shattered the school's expectations before he had even set foot on campus.
The teachers were in shock.
No one had seen him yet.
No one knew what to expect.
But one thing was certain—
Toyotaro Miracle High was about to meet its greatest anomaly.
And they weren't ready for Shotaro Mugiwara.
The air in Class 1-C was thick with the weight of pure mathematics—a subject that separated the thinkers from the average.
And standing at the front of the immaculate, modern classroom was none other than Ms. Sayaka Korusawa—the undisputed queen of mathematics in Toyotaro Miracle High.
She wasn't just any teacher.
She was the math teacher.
The kind of woman who could turn abstract numbers into something as seductive as poetry.
Her beauty was the kind that hurt.
She had the elegance of a woman who knew exactly what she was worth.
Tall, poised, with long, wavy black hair that cascaded over her shoulders, reaching down to the curvaceous arch of her lower back.
Her eyes—sharp, almond-shaped, and deep brown—held an intelligence that could cut steel.
Her lips—painted with a subtle shade of red—moved with a precision that could make the coldest equations feel warm.
And then there was her attire.
A tight, fitted blouse, white with the top button undone, just enough to show the slightest hint of cleavage—strictly professional yet dangerously enticing.
A pencil skirt, black, hugging her hips in a way that commanded attention, yet remained perfectly modest.
And of course—those black-rimmed glasses.
Perched on the bridge of her nose, enhancing her already deadly aura of a woman who could wreck a man's confidence in three words or less.
She was the very definition of a MILF.
A dangerous one.
One that could annihilate a student's ego with a single failed test.
But right now—
She was holding a piece of chalk, standing before the class, her manicured fingers tapping against the blackboard, where she had just written in perfect cursive:
"Set Theory & The Nature of Infinity"
And then—
She spoke.
A voice silky smooth, but uncompromising.
"Alright, listen up, you brats."
Her heels clicked as she turned to face them.
"We're talking about infinity today. And if any of you say 'infinity means endless,' I will personally make you rewrite a 20-page proof explaining why you're an idiot."
A ripple of nervous laughter spread across the room.
"But since I'm feeling nice today, I'll start with something simple."
She lifted the chalk.
"Numbers. 1, 2, 3, 4... and so on, right?"
She started writing.
"These are natural numbers. They go on forever. But what if I told you... not all infinities are the same?"
She turned back to the class, smirking.
"Infinity is not a number. It's a concept. A hierarchy."
Then, she wrote:
Aleph-0 (ℵ₀)
"This," she said, underlining it, "is the first level of infinity. The smallest infinity. It represents the size of the natural numbers—the ones you count on your fingers like a caveman."
She let that sink in before continuing.
"But there's more. Because if we take all the real numbers between 0 and 1..."
She wrote:
"0.1, 0.01, 0.001, 0.0001..."
"We find that there are so many numbers in between, they form a higher infinity."
Then, she wrote:
Aleph-1 (ℵ₁)
"The real numbers are a larger infinity than the natural numbers. Meaning... there are different sizes of infinity."
A murmur spread through the class.
One student hesitated.
"So... infinity isn't just one thing?"
Ms. Korusawa smirked.
"Exactly. Welcome to mathematics, where your intuition means jack shit and reality is a lie."
Another student raised a hand.
"But if there are bigger infinities... what's the biggest one?"
The class held its breath.
Ms. Korusawa turned back to the board.
And wrote one final word.
"Ω (Omega)"
Then she dropped the chalk on her desk.
And smiled.
"That," she said, "is true infinity."
And in that moment—
Half the class wanted to pursue mathematics forever.
The other half wanted to drop out immediately.
It started with a shadow.
A large shadow.
One that loomed over Class 1-C like an ominous eclipse, cast by the fluorescent ceiling lights.
At first, nobody said anything.
It was just there.
A dark mass in the window frame.
Some students thought it was a trick of the light—maybe a maintenance worker outside? Maybe a trick of their tired, overworked brains?
They all turned their heads.
And froze.
Because there he was.
Standing outside the third-floor window like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A boy.
A big boy.
A boy so absurdly large that for a moment, it felt like a fully grown man—no, a goddamn god—had somehow wandered into the body of a high schooler.
Green tie.Maroon blazer.White shirt.
His uniform was perfectly fitted, yet somehow struggling to contain the raw monument of muscle that was his body.
And then—
His eyes.
Crimson.
Not just red—but the kind of red that made fresh spilled blood look dull in comparison.
And his hair.
Silver—no, pure platinum, short, spiky, yet with a few little strands that lazily cascaded downward, adding to the strange, ethereal symmetry of his face.
And oh, his face.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
So perfect it looked like Da Vinci himself had personally sculpted this dude using the Golden Ratio as a reference.
His sunkissed tan skin only made his features pop even more, contrasting against his maroon blazer, the indigo lanyard holding his student ID around his neck swaying gently with the wind.
And then—
He moved.
Silently.
Gracefully.
And then—
He stepped forward.
And just like that—
The dude entered through the window.
Not the door.
Not like a normal person.
Through the third-floor window.
And when his feet finally touched the floor—
Everyone felt it.
Like the ground itself had acknowledged his presence.
And that's when they saw just how ridiculous this guy was.
Because holy shit—
He was huge.
Like, stupidly huge.
A walking Greek statue carved out of titanium and destiny.
At least 2.4 meters tall.
Broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world.
A massive chest, visible even through his blazer.
His arms?
Thick. Sculpted. Like the pillars of an ancient temple.
And his legs?
Balanced. Perfectly matched with his upper body.
Not a single leg day skipped.
The room fell silent.
Dead silent.
Until—
Someone finally broke it.
"the fuck???"
Half the class jumped out of their chairs.
One kid straight up fell over.
Someone in the back whispered in absolute horror:
"he's... he's built like a final boss."
Another one, gripping his desk like his life depended on it, whispered:
"that's not a high schooler... that's a new game plus character."
One girl, eyes wide, clutching her chest like she was about to have a heart attack, whispered:
"no man should be that beautiful."
Meanwhile—
Ms. Sayaka Korusawa stood there.
She blinked.
Then adjusted her glasses with a slow, measured exhale.
She had seen things in her years of teaching, but this?
This was new.
"...Alright."
Her voice cut through the stunned silence.
"So. You entered through the window."
She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose, as if this were just another Tuesday.
"I'm not even going to ask how or why. What's your name, kid?"
For a moment, there was silence.
A silence so deep, so profound, that it felt like the entire fabric of reality had frozen in place.
Ms. Sayaka Korusawa, esteemed teacher of Class 1-C, a woman who had endured years of high school degeneracy, a woman who had mastered the art of ignoring bullshit, a woman whose patience had been tempered in the hellfire of hormonal teenagers—stood there.
Blinking.
Because standing in front of her, still towering like an NBA player in a kindergarten, still broad-shouldered and terrifyingly symmetrical, still reeking of raw, effortless perfection, was a five-year-old in a high school uniform.
And instead of answering her very simple question—
Instead of introducing himself like a normal person—
Shotaro Mugiwara raised his hand.
Pointed directly at her chest.
And said,
"Your boobs are fake."
The words hung in the air, heavy like an executioner's axe.
The entire class reacted as if a bomb had gone off.
"Huh???"
Somewhere in the back, a student spit out his drink so hard that he started choking.
Another kid just slowly slid out of his chair, as if the sheer magnitude of what had just been uttered had physically drained him of the will to sit upright.
One girl gasped so loudly it sounded like she was being possessed by a demon.
A dude in the front row just dropped his pen and muttered, "Ayo?"
And then—before anyone could even recover—
Shotaro doubled down.
"I can see they're silicone."
He said it again.
He said it with more detail.
Like he was a medical professional delivering a diagnosis.
At this point, half the class had either entered cardiac arrest, collapsed from pure secondhand embarrassment, mentally checked out of existence, or started whispering "holy shit, holy shit, holy shit" on loop like a broken NPC.
Ms. Sayaka twitched.
Her fingers trembled, hovering over her marker, as her entire soul left her body and took a quick detour through the nine circles of Hell.
"Excuse me???" she said, voice barely stable, barely containing the rage, confusion, and emotional devastation now coursing through her veins.
Shotaro, the absolutely zero-shame-having menace, just tilted his head.
As if he was genuinely perplexed by her reaction.
As if he had simply stated a fact—like "water is wet" or "the sky is blue"—and was now confused why everyone was acting weird about it.
And then, just to add to the already nuclear explosion that was this moment, he finished his masterpiece.
Shotaro Mugiwara, now 15 years old, stood confidently in the classroom, looking around at his new classmates. His crimson eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and amusement as he suddenly raised his fist in the air.
"Yo!! My name's Mugiwara, Mugiwara Shotaro!" he declared, his deep voice carrying across the room with an effortless charisma.
The entire class fell silent for a second. The sheer presence of the towering teenager—2.4 meters tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a warrior sculpted from stone—was enough to throw everyone off. His silver hair, short, spiky, and naturally swept back, only added to his almost mythical aura.
Then, all at once—
"What the hell?!"
"Why are you so tall?!"
"Are you even a high schooler?!"
"Is he a transfer student or a secret bodyguard?!"
Sayaka Korusawa, the teacher, who had been frozen in place after his earlier remark about her, finally snapped out of it.
"Mugiwara-kun! Enter through the door next time!"
Shotaro shrugged, casually placing his hands in his pockets.
"Sorry, not my style."
"You don't like entering through doors?!"
Shotaro turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto the woman standing before him. He blinked once, then twice, as if processing her existence for the first time. His gaze swept over her—taking in her sharp glasses, the neatly pressed blouse, the clipboard clutched in her hand, and the distinct air of authority she carried.
And yet, after a long, drawn-out pause, his brows furrowed ever so slightly, as if he were trying to solve an impossibly complex equation.
Then, with the casual confidence of a man who had never once in his life hesitated before saying something wildly inappropriate, he opened his mouth.
"So… who are you, anyway?"
The classroom collectively held its breath.
Ms. Sayaka Korusawa, esteemed educator of Toyotaro Miracle High, a woman who had spent years dealing with hormonal, sleep-deprived teenagers and their nonsense, merely raised an eyebrow.
Shotaro, completely undeterred by the tension in the room, continued.
"Like, are you the janitor or something?"
The sheer weight of his words crashed down upon the room like an apocalyptic event.
Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.
And then—
Chaos.
One student inhaled so sharply that he nearly passed out from oxygen overload.
Another just stared at Shotaro like he had personally rewritten the laws of social interaction.
A girl in the back physically recoiled, clutching her bag as if Shotaro had just pulled a gun on the teacher.
"Bro. No way. No way he just said that," someone whispered, voice trembling.
"Does this dude have a death wish?!"
"H-he… he thinks she's the janitor?!"
Even Ms. Sayaka, who prided herself on an unshakable poker face, felt something in her soul fracture.
Her left eye twitched.
Her fingers clenched the marker she was holding so tightly that it might have cracked under the pressure.
Slowly, she inhaled through her nose.
Then, just as slowly, she exhaled.
"I…" she began, her voice dangerously calm, as if she were speaking to a particularly slow child. "Am your maths teacher."
Shotaro blinked again, tilting his head.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"So… you're not the janitor?"
Another wave of collective horror spread through the class.
"OH MY GOD, HE DOUBLED DOWN!"
"STOP, HE'S GONNA GET US ALL KILLED!"
"HE'S NOT REAL. HE'S A GLITCH IN THE SYSTEM."
Sayaka took another deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose so hard it was a miracle she didn't break it.
"Shotaro Mugiwara."
"Yeah?"
"Sit. Down."
For the first time, the hulking teenager hesitated. He glanced around at the now-traumatized faces of his classmates. He glanced back at Ms. Sayaka, whose patience was hanging by a single, rapidly fraying thread.
Then, after a long moment, he shrugged.
"Alright, alright. No need to get all worked up about it," he said, making his way to an empty seat. As he sat down, the chair groaned under his sheer size, creaking like it was experiencing an existential crisis.
The classroom remained frozen in a state of sheer disbelief.
Meanwhile, Sayaka stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she had perhaps committed some heinous sin in a past life to deserve this.
As Shotaro made his way toward an open seat in the back, the entire classroom felt like it was shrinking around him.
Unlike the rigid, rectangular classrooms of a standard high school, this was an academy—one designed with a more sophisticated layout. The desks weren't arranged in straight rows but in a wide, circular formation, allowing for open discussions and an equal view of the central teaching space. It was meant to foster a sense of intellectual engagement, a seamless flow of ideas.
Right now, however, the only thing flowing through the room was sheer, unfiltered disbelief.
The classroom itself was spacious, its high ceilings adorned with decorative moldings, and the walls lined with bookshelves filled with academic texts, journals, and the occasional manga someone had sneakily left behind. Large arched windows bathed the space in warm sunlight, casting soft shadows across the polished wooden floor. A massive blackboard stretched across the front wall, beside a sleek digital screen meant for modern teaching.
But none of that mattered.
Not when he was here.
As Shotaro moved, it was like the air itself bent around him, like an object too large for reality had somehow been forced into an enclosed space.
Each step carried an effortless weight, the polished wooden floor creaking slightly beneath his sheer size. A few students subtly leaned away as he passed, gripping their desks like passengers bracing for turbulence. Even though he moved with an almost lazy grace, there was an underlying presence to him—an unspoken authority that made every motion feel more like a seismic event than a simple stroll.
His silver hair gleamed under the soft glow of the ceiling lights, the indigo lanyard around his neck swaying gently as he walked. His crimson eyes flicked around, scanning the layout of the classroom with casual curiosity, completely unfazed by the dozens of wide-eyed stares locked onto him.
Then, he arrived at his seat.
Or rather—the chair that had been assigned to him.
It was a standard academy chair, built with a sleek wooden finish and a curved ergonomic design. Sturdy. Well-crafted. Built to withstand years of use.
But was it built for him?
Shotaro didn't hesitate.
He dropped into the chair with a casual, almost lazy motion—
And the chair immediately protested.
A deep, agonized creaaaaak echoed through the room, loud enough to make a few students flinch.
The circular seating arrangement meant everyone had a perfect view of the spectacle, their gazes locked onto the chair like it was a critically endangered species about to go extinct.
Shotaro leaned back slightly.
Another groan.
The backrest bent ever so slightly, the legs trembling under the absurd pressure.
The poor student sitting beside him—a nervous-looking kid with glasses—gripped his desk, subtly scooting just a little farther away, as if the chair's potential demise might somehow be contagious.
The room was dead silent.
Every student, every breath, every molecule of air seemed to be waiting—watching—wondering if this was the moment history would be made.
Would the chair hold?
Would this be the day furniture finally rose up and said "No more"?
Shotaro blinked.
Glanced down at the chair.
Then shrugged.
Good enough.
With that, he casually propped an arm against the desk, resting his chin in his hand, completely unbothered by the sheer level of tension he had just introduced into the room.
Meanwhile, the chair—now locked in the single greatest struggle of its inanimate existence—continued to suffer in silence.
Ms. Sayaka Korusawa had enough.
This wasn't just some misbehaving student. This wasn't some delinquent who forgot his homework or a dumbass who slept through her lecture. This was a walking cosmic event of bullshit, and she was about five seconds away from throwing her entire teaching career in the garbage.
She slammed her hand on the podium, rattling the marker tray as she took a deep breath—one that was supposed to calm her down but only ended up fueling her rage.
"Alright, listen here, Mugiwara." She spat his name like it was a disease. "I have been a teacher for eight years. I have dealt with students who cheat, students who fight, students who can't even spell their own damn names correctly. I have seen every kind of high school dumbass you can imagine—but you—YOU—are on a whole new level."
Shotaro blinked. Casually. Like she had just told him the weather.
Sayaka twitched. Oh, he was one of those.
She exhaled through her nose, pinching the bridge of it so hard she saw stars. "Let's just go down the list, shall we?"
She raised a finger. "First. You entered this classroom—this very prestigious academic institution—not through the door, not even by being escorted in by staff—but through the damn window."
She pointed violently toward the now wide-open fourth-floor window, where a gentle breeze swayed the curtains. "Not a single person in this room can tell me how you did it, and I don't even think I wanna know, but what the hell, Mugiwara? What. The. Hell."
Shotaro only tilted his head, looking mildly amused. "What? I landed fine."
"Landed—landed?!" Sayaka's voice cracked like cheap plastic. "You jumped into a classroom on the fourth floor. The fourth floor, Mugiwara. That is not normal. That is not okay. Doors exist for a reason."
Shotaro shrugged, completely unbothered. "Not really my style."
"Not really your style?" She let out a sharp, bitter laugh, hands on her hips. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize we were catering to your unique method of building entry. Next time, should we lay out a red carpet on the goddamn roof so you can parachute in? Maybe set up a zipline from the cafeteria? How about a teleportation circle? Would that be more your style?"
A few students snorted, trying—and failing—to hold in their laughter.
Sayaka wasn't done.
"Second!" She jabbed a finger at him, eyes twitching. "The first words out of your mouth—your very first interaction with your teacher, the person responsible for your academic progress and future—were 'Are you the janitor?'"
The class lost it.
Laughter erupted across the room, desks shaking as students desperately tried to stifle their giggles. Some clutched their stomachs. Others straight-up collapsed onto their desks, wheezing.
Even Shotaro looked slightly impressed with himself.
Sayaka saw red.
She slammed her hands on her desk, shaking the poor, overworked furniture. "Do I look like a janitor to you, Mugiwara? Do I look like I came here with a mop bucket and a wet floor sign?"
Shotaro hummed, pretending to give it some thought. "Well, no, but—"
"But what?" She snapped.
"...But you kinda have the 'I hate my job' energy."
Silence.
Deep silence.
Then, one student in the back whispered, "Oh my God, he's not wrong."
Sayaka felt her soul leave her body.
She dragged her hands down her face, inhaling like a woman on the verge of either meditation or manslaughter. "I am this close to committing a felony," she muttered to herself.
Then, she slammed a third finger into the air.
"Third. You waltz in here—acting like you own the damn place—sitting in that chair like it's some kind of goddamn throne, stretching your stupidly big arms like you're the protagonist of a shonen anime, completely unbothered by the fact that you are literally built like a final boss."
Shotaro blinked. "I mean, that's kinda cool, though."
"It is not cool, Mugiwara."
"Sounds kinda cool."
"It is not."
A girl in the front row muttered, "I mean, it's a little cool."
"No, it is not."
Sayaka took a deep, trembling breath. "And finally. Finally. Let's talk about the real issue here."
She gripped her marker. White-knuckled.
"You are half a day late on your first day."
Her voice boomed across the room, shaking the very foundations of reality.
"The first day, Mugiwara. How? How? How does someone wake up and decide 'yeah, let me show up at lunchtime. That sounds like a good idea.'"
Shotaro yawned.
She twitched so hard she nearly sprained something.
"And—and—" she stammered, voice climbing into a near-shriek, "before I even had time to process your existence, you—without hesitation, without any shame or second thought—you pointed at me, in front of the entire class, and said—"
Her throat locked up. She had to swallow, had to force herself to even repeat it.
"You said—'Your boobs are fake.'"
The classroom erupted.
A kid in the back nearly fell out of his chair. Another had to slam his hands over his mouth, face turning red from suppressed laughter. A group of girls just gasped in horror, one of them covering her own chest in pure secondhand fear.
Sayaka could barely hear them.
She was too busy questioning her life choices.
Shotaro, the zero-shame-having menace, just nodded. "Yeah. Because they are."
A boy spit out his drink. Another one just stared into the abyss, muttering prayers.
Sayaka, for the first time in her entire career, considered throwing a student out of a window.
Her voice came out dangerously low. "And how exactly would you know that, Mugiwara?"
Shotaro, the absolute lunatic, just tilted his head. "I can see they're silicone."
The entire class had a meltdown.
A student just fell onto the floor. Another grabbed his friend's collar, shaking him violently as if that would help them process reality. A girl had to physically cover her own eyes, as if she could unsee what had just happened.
Sayaka's soul cracked.
Her fingers trembled over the desk. Her breathing was shallow. Her vision blurred at the edges.
She was going to kill this kid.
"Mugiwara," she said, voice eerily calm, "I swear to every god above and below, if you do not sit your oversized, disrespectful, anime-protagonist-looking ass down right now, I will make it my personal mission to ensure that whatever remaining days you have in this school are the most painful, humiliating, and miserable experiences of your life."
Shotaro blinked.
Then, with a casual shrug, he walked to the back of the class, completely unfazed, and took his seat like nothing had happened.
Sayaka collapsed into her chair.
She was too young for this.
The classroom erupted.
A kid in the back nearly fell out of his chair. Another had to slam his hands over his mouth, face turning red from suppressed laughter. A group of girls just gasped in horror, one of them covering her own chest in pure secondhand fear.
Sayaka could barely hear them.
She was too busy questioning her life choices.
Shotaro, the zero-shame-having menace, just nodded. "Yeah. Because they are."
A boy spit out his drink. Another one just stared into the abyss, muttering prayers.
Sayaka, for the first time in her entire career, considered throwing a student out of a window.
Her voice came out dangerously low. "And how exactly would you know that, Mugiwara?"
Shotaro, the absolute lunatic, just tilted his head. "I can see they're silicone."
The entire class had a meltdown.
A student just fell onto the floor. Another grabbed his friend's collar, shaking him violently as if that would help them process reality. A girl had to physically cover her own eyes, as if she could unsee what had just happened.
Sayaka's soul cracked.
Her fingers trembled over the desk. Her breathing was shallow. Her vision blurred at the edges.
She was going to kill this kid.
"Mugiwara," she said, voice eerily calm, "I swear to every god above and below, if you do not sit your oversized, disrespectful, anime-protagonist-looking ass down right now, I will make it my personal mission to ensure that whatever remaining days you have in this school are the most painful, humiliating, and miserable experiences of your life."
Shotaro blinked.
Then, with a casual shrug, he walked to the back of the class, completely unfazed, and took his seat like nothing had happened.
She lost it.
"You fuck."
The words slipped past her lips before she could even think, raw and unfiltered, a perfect summary of her entire emotional state.
Before she even realized what she was doing, her hand shot out, grabbing the nearest projectile—a duster, old and chalk-stained, its bristles barely holding together after years of abuse. With the force of a woman who had hit her absolute limit, she hurled it straight at Shotaro's smug, infuriatingly perfect face.
For a brief moment, the entire class held their breath.
And then—
A flash of silver.
A motherfucking katana shot out from behind his back, seemingly materializing from thin air. It moved with an unnatural smoothness, like it was alive, slicing through the duster midair with precise, effortless grace. Two halves of the unfortunate classroom tool spun in the air before flopping to the floor in defeat, chalk dust exploding into a little white cloud.
Sayaka's brain short-circuited.
She pointed at the gleaming blade floating behind Shotaro like some kind of cursed spirit, her finger trembling with the sheer force of her disbelief.
"That's a katana."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Then, louder—more unhinged:
"That's a motherfucking katana."
The class held their breath.
Sayaka's entire body shook as the reality of the situation finally hit her like a goddamn truck. She gestured wildly at Shotaro, her eyes wide, pupils shaking.
"You have a motherfucking katana in your motherfucking bag?!"
Shotaro blinked, looking at her like she was the one acting weird.
"Uh, yeah?"
"WHY?!"
The class was on the verge of losing it. Some students had tears in their eyes from holding back laughter. A kid in the back had already given up and was just wheezing into his notebook.
Shotaro, the human embodiment of zero shame, shrugged.
"IDK, lmao."
Silence.
A deep, deafening silence.
Then—
"HUH???"
Sayaka felt something inside her snap. Like the last frayed wire holding her sanity together had finally given up and set itself on fire.
"IDK, LMAO??? THAT'S YOUR ANSWER???"
Shotaro nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."
Sayaka nearly fainted. "YOU HAVE A WEAPON. A WHOLE-ASS SAMURAI-LEVEL MURDER TOOL. AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY?"
Shotaro just shrugged again.
A kid in the back slammed his desk. "NAH, THIS GUY IS DIFFERENT."
Another student muttered, "He really said 'IDK, lmao' like that explains anything."
Sayaka, meanwhile, was having an out-of-body experience.
"Mugiwara," she wheezed, pressing a shaking hand to her forehead. "You are holding a deadly, razor-sharp blade that could slice through human bone like butter—AND YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE A REASON?"
Shotaro blinked. "I mean, it's kinda cool."
Sayaka slammed her fists on the desk. "IT IS NOT COOL, MUGIWARA."
A student in the front muttered, "I mean, it's a little cool."
"NO, IT IS NOT."
A girl in the back, barely keeping it together, whispered, "he really pulled a whole-ass katana on a duster."
Another kid, holding his stomach from laughing too hard, wheezed, "He was born in the wrong era. Bro should've been slicing demons in feudal Japan."
Sayaka dragged her hands down her face. "Mugiwara. For the love of all things holy. YOU. DO. NOT. BRING. A. KATANA. TO. SCHOOL."
Shotaro sighed, stretching his absurdly massive arms. "Fine, I'll keep it in the bag next time."
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT—"
"It's called Tokioni Muramasa, or the virtue blade if anything's wondering, which I know everyone is wondering" he said putting the sword back in his bag.[1]
The class collectively lost their shit.
"THE FACT THAT IT HAS A NAME MAKES IT SO MUCH WORSE."
Sayaka felt her knees buckle. She had dealt with late students. She had dealt with idiots. She had even dealt with full-blown delinquents.
But never—never—in her eight long, soul-crushing years of teaching had she dealt with a transfer student waltzing in at lunchtime, breaking in through a window, roasting her entire existence, casually slicing a duster in half, and then proceeding to introduce his legendary named weapon like this was some RPG character select screen.
"Tokioni Muramasa?!" A student gasped, leaning forward. "The virtue blade?!"
Shotaro nodded, completely serious. "Yeah."
A kid in the back clutched his head. "Oh my God, he even has a subtitle for it."
Sayaka, meanwhile, was trying not to pass out. She took a deep, shaking breath and gripped the edges of her desk like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality.
Sayaka Korusawa had two choices.
Option one: Continue trying to argue with this absolute lunatic of a student and risk losing the last shreds of her sanity.
Option two: Bury this entire experience deep within the recesses of her soul, pretend it never happened, and just teach the damn lesson like a normal person.
She took a deep breath. Option two it is.
Shoving her existential crisis to the side, she turned on her heel, grabbed a marker with more force than necessary, and slammed it against the whiteboard like she was about to perform an exorcism. The loud, echoing squeak of dry-erase ink scratching against the surface silenced the class almost immediately.
"Alright." Her voice was ice. Her stance was steel. "Open your textbooks to page 87. We are moving on. We are done entertaining Mugiwara's RPG protagonist bullshit. We are done acknowledging his reality-breaking weapon. We are going to learn something today, and I swear to God, if any of you so much as breathe out of turn, I will personally reintroduce corporal punishment to this school."
Silence.
Shotaro raised a hand. "What if I—"
"Shut up."
The silver-haired menace put his hand down.
Sayaka exhaled. Then, with the elegance of a woman who had seen too much, she turned to the board and began writing in large, sweeping strokes:
VON NEUMANN'S UNIVERSE
She underlined it. Twice.
"Alright," she began, voice steady, collected—like a soldier reciting an oath. "You all live in a world of rules. Rules of physics. Rules of logic. Rules that say time moves forward, that objects cannot exist in two places at once, that things cannot create themselves out of nothing. And yet—" She turned, eyes sharp, scanning the room. "What if I told you that, mathematically speaking, you can construct an entire universe from literally nothing?"
The class stilled. Even the usual slackers—the ones who barely paid attention, the ones who scrolled their phones under the desk—lifted their heads, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
Sayaka's grip on the marker tightened. "That's where John von Neumann comes in."
She gestured at the board. "Von Neumann's universe isn't a place. It's not a galaxy or a theory about alternate dimensions. It's an idea—an idea that, using nothing but logic, nothing but set theory, we can construct an entire mathematical reality. From nothing. From the empty set. From a concept so small, so seemingly insignificant, that it shouldn't even exist."
She tapped the board with her knuckle. "This is what von Neumann proposed: Start with nothing. The empty set. Define it as {}. Now, take that empty set and make it an element of a new set. { { } }. Then do it again. { { }, { { } } }. Then again. { { }, { { } }, { { }, { { } } } }. And again, and again, and again."
She paused, looking over the room. "Does anyone realize what's happening here?"
A student hesitantly raised their hand. "…We're building numbers?"
Sayaka snapped her fingers. "Exactly."
She turned back to the board, writing:
code0 = {} 1 = { 0 } 2 = { 0, 1 } 3 = { 0, 1, 2 } 4 = { 0, 1, 2, 3 } ...
"From nothing, we create zero. From zero, we create one. From one, two. From two, three. Before long, we have all the natural numbers." She stepped back, looking over her work. "And if you have numbers, you have mathematics. If you have mathematics, you have structure. If you have structure, you have reality."
She turned back to them, eyes dark, voice heavy. "This is the power of logic. This is the power of the human mind. That from pure emptiness—from absolute nothing—we can define existence itself."
Silence.
Somewhere in the back, a student muttered, "That's kinda metal."
Another one whispered, "Wait… so did we just, like, prove that numbers are real?"
Sayaka leaned back against her desk, crossing her arms. "Numbers are as real as you believe them to be. Von Neumann's construction doesn't 'discover' numbers. It creates them. It's not proof that numbers exist in some cosmic sense—it's proof that we can make them exist, using only logic."
The class was silent for a moment, processing the sheer weight of what had just been dropped on them.
Then—
A hand raised.
It was Shotaro.
Sayaka clenched her jaw. "What."
Shotaro looked completely unbothered. "So, if you can build an entire universe from logic, does that mean I can technically slice it in half with my katana?"
Sayaka's left eye twitched so hard she almost ascended to the astral plane.
Sayaka Korusawa had mastered many things in her years of teaching. The art of ignoring bullshit was one of them.
So when Shotaro Mugiwara—2.4 meters of pure headache—casually asked if he could slice a mathematically constructed universe in half with his katana, she did the only thing she could do.
She ignored him.
For the sake of her sanity.
For the sake of her career.
For the sake of whatever gods still had mercy on her soul.
She turned back to the board, marker in hand, and moved the hell on.
"Alright," she said, voice carefully neutral, carefully steady, carefully pretending that the last five minutes hadn't permanently shaved years off her lifespan. "Von Neumann's universe is one way of looking at existence. It tells us that with pure logic, we can create an entire mathematical reality."
She took a breath.
"*But what if reality itself—everything we know, everything we are, everything we could be—is mathematics?"
The class, still on edge from earlier, hesitated. But the shift was happening. The mood was changing.
Sayaka stepped forward, gesturing as she spoke. "Not physics. Not space. Not time. Not energy or particles or quantum fields. Just... mathematics. That beneath every fundamental law of reality, beneath every equation that governs the universe, there is no difference between physics and math—because physics is math."
She turned, eyes gleaming with something deeper. Something vast. "This is the core of Tegmark's Ultimate Ensemble Theory—the theory that mathematics doesn't just describe reality." She lifted her hand, fingers closing into a fist. "It is reality."
A few students leaned forward. Curiosity flickered in their eyes.
Sayaka continued, her voice low, steady. "Imagine this. Every equation, every formula, every geometric shape, every possible mathematical structure—each one isn't just a tool we use to understand the universe. Each one is a universe. A real one. A tangible one. A universe where the rules of reality are defined by its own unique mathematical laws. And together, they form the Ultimate Ensemble—*" She gestured to the room, to everything around them. "A collection of all mathematical structures. Infinite. Boundless. A multiverse where every possible version of reality exists—not because of some mystical force, not because of some unknown phenomenon, but because mathematics demands it."
A girl in the front row whispered, "Wait… so every possible universe exists somewhere? Like, all of them?"
Sayaka nodded. "If Tegmark is right? Yes. Somewhere out there, in the infinite fabric of mathematical reality, there is a universe where you never came to class today. A universe where the laws of physics are slightly different—where gravity is weaker, where time moves in loops, where light travels faster than anything else. There is a universe where Earth never formed. A universe where life developed in ways we can't even begin to imagine. A universe where—"
She hesitated.
Then sighed, rubbing her temples.
"—where Mugiwara is actually a normal, functioning human being."
Laughter broke through the tension. A student snorted so hard they almost choked. Someone else muttered, "Damn, not even in the multiverse, huh?"
Shotaro, unfazed as always, simply nodded. "Yeah, sounds fake."
Sayaka inhaled. Exhaled. Forced herself to move on.
"But if this is true—if mathematics is reality—then the fundamental nature of existence isn't particles or waves or space-time. It's equations. It's numbers. It's logic itself. And that means…" She paused, letting the weight of the thought settle over them. "Reality doesn't have to be the way it is. It could be anything. Anything that is mathematically possible exists somewhere in the infinite ensemble of all structures. We just happen to live in this one."
Silence.
For a moment, the class just sat there. Processing. Thinking.
It wasn't just a theory anymore.
It was a question. A challenge.
What was reality? What was existence? Were they really just the product of some deep, underlying structure of numbers and equations?
And if so—
What did that mean for them?
Then—
A hand went up.
Sayaka, already dreading it, closed her eyes. "What, Mugiwara?"
Shotaro tilted his head. "So, if every mathematically possible universe exists… does that mean there's a universe where your tits are'nt silicons?"
Sayaka's soul left her body.
Silence.
A deep, profound silence.
The kind of silence that didn't just settle—it weighed on people.
Sayaka Korusawa stood there, marker frozen in her grip, staring at the absolute menace sitting in her classroom.
A student in the back made a strangled choking sound. Another just left. They didn't even grab their bag. They just got up and walked out, as if their body refused to be in the same room as this level of bullshit.
Someone muttered, "Ayo..."
Another whispered, "Holy shit, he doubled down."
Sayaka inhaled slowly. Deep breaths.Deep breaths.You are a professional. You are an educator. You are not going to climb over these desks and strangle a fifteen-year-old.
She clenched her jaw. "Mugiwara."
Shotaro, unbothered as always, just blinked at her.
"Mugiwara," she repeated, voice tight, like she was holding back the gates of hell. "Did you—did you just apply Tegmark's Ultimate Ensemble Theory—one of the most complex, reality-defining, thought-provoking ideas in modern physics—" She took a deep breath, gripping the marker so hard it might've cracked. "—to MY BREAST IMPLANTS?"
Shotaro nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."
The class fucking exploded.
A kid collapsed onto their desk. Someone in the front row slammed their hands against their table so hard their pen flew across the room. A girl in the back looked like she was actively ascending to another plane of existence.
A student turned to their friend, eyes wild. "BRO, HE APPLIED THE MULTIVERSE TO HER TITS."
Sayaka pressed her fingers into her temples. "I hate this job."
Shotaro leaned back in his chair. "It's a valid question, though. Statistically speaking, there's gotta be at least one universe where—"
"WE ARE NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION." Sayaka slammed her hand against the desk so hard the room shook. "WE ARE MOVING ON. RIGHT NOW."
Shotaro shrugged. "Damn. Could've been a good discussion."
Sayaka closed her eyes.
This was hell.
This was actual hell.
Sayaka had reached her limit.
Her very last shred of patience, already dangling by a thread, had just snapped like an overused rubber band.
She had dealt with insufferable students before. She had endured smartasses, troublemakers, and sleep-deprived zombies who didn't give a shit about learning. But this?
This was a new kind of torment.
This was divine punishment for every unpaid overtime hour, every unnecessary staff meeting, and every late-night grading session where she questioned her life choices.
And she wasn't having it anymore.
So, without thinking—without hesitation—without even considering what she was about to do—
She raised her hand, cocked it back, and swung—
Only for her palm to hit absolutely nothing.
It didn't connect.
Because Shotaro Mugiwara—this 2.4-meter-tall walking skyscraper of a teenager—was simply too damn tall.
Sayaka blinked. Her palm hovered in midair, fingers twitching, the sheer disrespect of the situation settling in.
The class held their breath.
One student whispered, "Oh my God, she's too short to slap him."
Another, in a tone of pure disbelief, murmured, "That's crazy. That's actually crazy."
Sayaka's eye twitched.
This was unacceptable.
Unacceptable.
She refused to let some oversized, anime-protagonist-looking buffoon rob her of this moment.
So, in a voice that could only be described as the official declaration of war, she barked out, "Mugiwara. Lean down."
Shotaro blinked, tilting his head slightly, as if this was the most normal request in the world. "Huh?"
"I said lean down."
For the first time, a flicker of hesitation crossed Shotaro's usually relaxed expression. "Why?"
"Don't ask questions."
Shotaro stared at her for a long moment, then—without much thought, without any resistance—he casually bent forward, lowering himself to her level.
The room was dead silent.
Sayaka felt every eye in the class glued to them. The tension was so thick it could've been cut with a knife.
Shotaro's face was now inches away from hers.
His crimson eyes, sharp and piercing, studied her curiously. "Like this?"
Sayaka exhaled slowly. "Perfect."
And then—
She slapped the absolute shit out of him.
The sound thundered through the room like a gunshot.
A student in the back screamed.
A kid in the front stood up so fast their chair toppled over.
Another just covered their mouth, eyes wide with sheer, holy-shit-that-just-happened disbelief.
Shotaro's head barely moved. Not because the slap was weak—oh, no, Sayaka had put her entire soul into that hit—but because his body was built like a reinforced concrete wall.
The moment her palm made contact with Shotaro's face, Sayaka immediately knew she had made a horrible mistake.
It was like slapping a brick wall. No—scratch that. A reinforced titanium bunker.
The sheer density of him, the absolute absurdity of his physique, made it feel like she had just punched a mountain with nothing but pure, unfiltered rage and bad decisions.
The crack echoed before the pain even registered.
A sharp, searing agony shot through her hand, up her wrist, and into her very soul.
Her face contorted—her entire body locked up—and then, in a voice that was equal parts disbelief, agony, and the wails of a woman who had truly fucked up, she screamed—
"AHHHHHHHH FUCK—!"
The class lost it.
One student collapsed out of their chair, gripping their stomach as they wheezed.
Another was face-down on their desk, shoulders shaking violently, whispering, "I can't—I fucking can't—" over and over like a broken NPC.
A girl had to physically look away, as if witnessing this level of secondhand embarrassment would kill her on the spot.
Shotaro, meanwhile, barely reacted.
He blinked, expression still calm, still perfectly composed, still carrying that same effortless, otherworldly chill—
And then, in a tone so casual it should've been a crime, he asked—
"Did you just break your hand on my face?"
Sayaka, still clutching her hand, glaring through the pain, let out a shaky, rage-filled breath. "No, I'm just fucking jazz-handing aggressively, you idiot—OF COURSE I DID!"
Shotaro tilted his head, crimson eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity. "Huh. That's never happened before."
"OH, I'M SO GLAD I COULD BE YOUR FIRST, MUGIWARA," she snapped, voice thick with suffering. "WHAT AN HONOR. REALLY."
A kid in the back wheezed. "Bro said 'That's never happened before' like he's a fucking Dark Souls boss."
Sayaka barely heard them. She was too busy praying for divine intervention, medical attention, or a time machine to undo this goddamn mistake.
Shotaro, meanwhile, finally looked mildly concerned.
"You should probably get that checked out," he mused. "Hands are important, y'know."
Sayaka twitched.
"Oh, really? REALLY? Wow, thank you, Dr. Fucking Obvious. What would I do without your sage wisdom?"
Shotaro just shrugged. "Dunno. Probably slap more people and break more bones."
Sayaka saw red.
And thus, the first day of class continued—
With Sayaka Korusawa suffering, Shotaro Mugiwara being entirely unfazed, and a classroom full of students who would never forget this moment for as long as they lived.
Sayaka Korusawa had officially reached her limit.
Her hand was throbbing, her patience was dead, and the goddamn monolith of a student standing before her was still acting like he hadn't just shattered every law of physics, common sense, and basic fucking respect in a single class period.
She pointed at him, her whole body vibrating with barely contained rage.
"You… you insolent delinquent."
The words came out like venom, dripping with exhaustion, fury, and the unmistakable aura of a woman on the brink of committing a felony.
"Out—" she snapped, voice cracking under the sheer force of her absolute, unrelenting despair. "OUT. Now you have done enough on your first day."
Shotaro looked at her with nothing but mild annoyance.
Like she was the problem here. Like she was the irrational one.
He rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh, his crimson eyes half-lidded, his tone lazy, almost bored—
"Geez, okay, okay. I'm going. No need to be a bitch about it."
Sayaka's entire nervous system shut down.
The class collectively gasped, as if the very fabric of reality had snapped.
A student in the back grabbed his chest, whispering, "bro just called a teacher a bitch."
Another kid physically recoiled, as if the words had personally hit him across the face.
A girl grabbed her friend's arm, her voice shaking. "Did he just—did he just—??"
"HE FUCKING DID."
Sayaka was about to scream, about to end this boy's entire existence, about to launch a full-scale declaration of war on his dumbass anime protagonist ass—
But then—
Shotaro closed his eyes.
And in a single instant—
He was gone.
No flash of light. No dramatic wind pressure. No fancy special effects.
Just—gone.
Like a scene had been edited out of reality.
The air where he had just been standing was suddenly empty.
A suffocating silence followed.
The class stared at the exact spot where Shotaro had stood just a fraction of a second ago, their brains collectively refusing to process what had just happened.
Sayaka's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
Then, at exactly the same time, in perfect synchronization, the entire class said—
"What???"
"The???"
"Fuck?"
One student looked around, eyes wide. "Did he—did he just fucking teleport???"
Another was gripping the sides of his head. "No. No, no, no, that was—it wasn't teleportation. It couldn't have been. That's—that's not real. That's not a real thing that happens in real life—"
"You just saw it happen!"
"I REFUSE TO ACCEPT IT."
A girl was staring at the empty space where Shotaro had been, her hands clasped together like she was praying. "Maybe that's his specialty…?"
"His specialty??" another student shrieked. "His specialty is fucking teleporting???"
"I mean—maybe he awakened it," one kid muttered, rubbing his chin like he was contemplating the meaning of life.
Some where, somehow, Toyotaro Miracle high isn't the utopia people think it is, after all, even hell has sucubusses.
The bathroom was a battlefield.
Not a place of relief, not a place of privacy, but a cold, tiled war zone where the weak were devoured by the strong. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sickly glow over the grimy mirrors, the cracked sink, and the faint smell of ammonia mixed with sweat. The air was thick—humid with something vile, something ugly.
And in the center of it all—
Hiroki Mazino.
A little fat fuck.
Small, round, already bruised, and cornered like an animal.
He had nowhere to go.
He had nowhere to run.
His back was pressed up against the cold ceramic sink, hands trembling as he tried to lift them, as if they could protect him from what was about to happen.
Three figures loomed over him, their shadows casting long, jagged lines against the grimy walls.
Hiyori Toyotaro.
The princess of the school.
The daughter of Principal Sakura Toyotaro.
A girl who had never known what it was like to lose.
Long, dark purple hair, tied into a lazy high ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her sharp, heart-shaped face. Her eyes—narrow and amber-colored—burned with something cruel, something hungry, as she exhaled a slow drag from a cigarette hanging between her manicured fingers.
Her uniform was pristine—a maroon with golden buttons, a pleated white skirt, and thigh-high stockings—untouched by the filth of commoners, but her expression was nothing short of filthy.
She sneered, the cigarette glowing as she took another drag, before tapping the ash onto Hiroki's shoes.
A direct show of disrespect.
Not that she gave a shit.
Beside her—
Le Chua.
The Chinese exchange student.
Tall, lean, and dangerously quiet.
Where Hiyori was loud in her cruelty, Le Chua was silent.
Dead-eyed.
Indifferent.
Her silky black hair was cut short—just below her chin, sharp and straight, not a strand out of place. Her almond-shaped eyes were dark brown, completely unreadable, cold like an executioner who had long stopped caring about the weight of life.
She wasn't even wearing the school blazer, just the white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, loosely buttoned, revealing a hint of her collarbone.
The only thing that broke her otherwise flawless appearance was the small, almost invisible bloodstain on her cuff.
Old.
Dried.
A souvenir from some unfortunate soul who crossed her before.
And then—
Bird.
A real delinquent.
Not one of those posers who slicked their hair back and called themselves rebels. Not one of those idiots who thought skipping class and smoking behind the gym made them dangerous.
No.
Bird was raw.
His shaggy, light-brown hair was an absolute mess, like he just rolled out of bed and didn't bother fixing it. His sharp, hazel eyes had that half-lidded, dead-inside look of someone who had zero future prospects and wasn't even trying to change that.
His uniform? A fucking disgrace.
Blazer? Gone. Shirt? Untucked, top two buttons missing. Tie? Nowhere to be seen. Pants? Had "FUCK SCHOOL" written in marker near the knee.
And right now—
Right now, all of that raw, unchecked violence was directed at Hiroki Mazino.
"Tch." Bird clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a fight. "You seriously thought you could just walk through the hall like you own the place?"
Hiroki swallowed hard, shaking his head rapidly. "I—I d-didn't—"
"Ohhh, you didn't?" Hiyori mocked, stepping closer. Her voice was sweet.Dripping with fake concern. "You mean to tell me you weren't walking around like some disgusting little pig, getting in everyone's way?"
Hiroki's face turned red. He tried to press himself further into the sink, as if he could somehow phase through the wall and escape. "I—I swear, I w-was just—"
"Just what?" Le Chua finally spoke, voice cold, eyes unreadable. "Just existing?"
Hiroki flinched.
"Tch. Gross." Bird cracked his knuckles. "You take up too much damn space, you know that?"
Then—
He moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Before Hiroki could even process what was happening, Bird's fist was already in his gut.
A heavy, solid impact.
Hiroki wheezed.
His breath fled from his lungs, his legs gave out, and his knees hit the cold, dirty tiles hard.
"Ohhh, damn," Bird laughed, shaking out his fist like that barely counted as a hit. "That was pathetic. You barely lasted a second."
Hiroki gasped, coughing violently, his hands weakly clutching his stomach.
Hiyori crouched down beside him, resting her chin on her palm, smiling in that sickeningly sweet way of hers. "You're kinda like a little ball," she mused, reaching out to pinch his cheek—hard. "All round and squishy. I bet if we kicked you, you'd roll."
Then—
She took the burning cigarette between her fingers—and pressed it against Hiroki's forearm.
"GAHH—!"
Hiroki screamed.
His entire body seized, convulsing, as the hot ember sizzled against his skin.
The stench of burning flesh filled the air.
"Shit, maybe he's gonna piss himself too," Bird laughed, giving Hiroki a light kick to the side. "Fatass probably can't even control his own bladder."
"Maybe we should test it," Hiyori said, tilting her head.
And before Hiroki could process what was about to happen—
She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back.
"Open your mouth, piggy," she cooed, bringing her hand up—spitting into her palm—
And then shoving it against his lips.
Hiroki screamed.
A muffled, choked sound of pure horror.
"Ugh," Hiyori wrinkled her nose. "Now my hand is all gross."
"Use his shirt," Le Chua suggested.
Hiroki froze.
His breath hitched.
Then—
Hiyori smiled.
"That's a great idea."
And before Hiroki could even think to crawl away—
She grabbed the front of his shirt, jerked him forward, and wiped her hand clean across the fabric.
"There we go," she hummed, standing up, looking pleased. "Much better."
Bird just laughed, shaking his head. "Man, this school really lets anyone in, huh?"
"It's honestly embarrassing," Hiyori sighed, lighting up another cigarette. "Letting filth like this roam the halls? Tch. Someone should clean up the garbage."
"Maybe we should do the school a favor," Le Chua said simply.
And with that—
Bird crouched down, looking Hiroki in the eye.
And then—
He spat.
Right onto Hiroki's tear-streaked, bruised cheek.
"Pathetic."
Hiroki's breathing was ragged. His chest heaved, his skin burned, and his knees trembled against the cold, piss-stained tiles. Tears blurred his vision. The world around him was cruel, laughing, mocking.
Bird cracked his knuckles again, like he was warming up for round two. Hiyori dragged in another slow breath from her cigarette, bored, amused, watching Hiroki like he was nothing more than a broken toy. Le Chua just stood there, silent, unreadable. They were going to keep going. They were going to destroy him. And nobody was going to stop them.
Until Hiroki saw him.
A shadow. A titan.
Shotaro Mugiwara.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching with an expression that wasn't quite amusement, wasn't quite indifference—just observation. His silver hair gleamed under the dim, flickering lights. His crimson eyes—deep, unreadable, burning like the last embers of a dying sun—stared straight through Hiroki.
And yet—Not a single one of the bullies had noticed him.
Not Bird. Not Le Chua. Not even Hiyori, despite her sharp instincts. He was just there. Like a phantom. Like a silent god. A being too big, too powerful, too overwhelming for normal senses to comprehend.
Hiroki's blood ran cold. Because when he looked into those crimson eyes—He understood.
This man—Would not save him. Would not help him. Would not lift a single finger. Not unless—Not until—Hiroki stood up for himself. Until he fought. Until he proved that he deserved to be saved.
Shotaro didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't offer a single word.
Just waited.
Watching.
Hiroki's hands clenched into weak, trembling fists. His stomach churned. Every part of his body screamed at him to stay down, to accept it, to let them finish and pray it would be over soon. That's how it always went. That's how it was supposed to go.
But those eyes. Those burning, unshaken crimson eyes bore into him, like they were peeling back his skin, stripping him bare, revealing the pathetic, shivering mess inside.
Shotaro wasn't going to save him.
Unless he stood.
Unless he fought.
Unless he bled for it.
Bird laughed, cracking his neck. "Damn, dude. You look like you're about to piss yourself." He grabbed Hiroki by the collar again, lifting him with a single arm, his strength terrifying. "Maybe I should help you with that, huh?"
Hiyori scoffed, blowing out a cloud of smoke, watching with mild amusement. Her long, dark purple hair cascaded past her shoulders, her sharp golden eyes filled with nothing but detached cruelty. "Tch. He's not even trying to resist. Pathetic." She exhaled slowly, flicking the ashes off her cigarette before pressing the still-lit end against the back of Hiroki's neck.
Hiroki screamed.
The pain seared through his skin, white-hot agony burning into his flesh. He thrashed, uselessly, as Hiyori smirked, her boot resting lazily against his side.
"You should be thanking me," she murmured. "That burn? It's gonna make you look way tougher than you actually are."
Le Chua just watched. His sharp, fox-like amber eyes held no emotion, his jet-black hair slicked back perfectly. He wasn't laughing like Bird, wasn't playing around like Hiyori. He was just observing, like Shotaro—but colder. Like he was watching an insect squirm before it got crushed.
Hiroki was suffocating. He was drowning. He was—
Move.
He gasped. The voice wasn't his. It wasn't real. It was something deeper, something primal, something that came from those unyielding crimson eyes staring at him from the door.
Move.
Hiroki's breath hitched. His vision blurred. His body screamed in protest.
But he moved.
His hand, weak, shaking, useless—Shot forward. Gripped Bird's wrist. Clenched as hard as it could.
Bird froze.
For just a second, there was silence.
Then—Laughter.
Bird grinned. Wide. Wild. Excited.
"Oh?" His voice dripped with mock surprise. "The piglet's got some fight in him?"
Hiyori snorted. "Cute."
Le Chua raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Bird tightened his grip around Hiroki's collar, lifting him higher. "You sure about this, Mazino?" His voice was lower now. More serious. More dangerous.
Hiroki's fingers trembled. His arms ached. His lungs burned.
But he did not let go.
Shotaro did not move.
Did not speak.
Did not save him.
Yet.
Shotaro instantaneously teleported between Hiroki and Bird, materializing like a phantom in the narrow space between them. In the blink of an eye, Bird's incoming fist—intended to smash into Hiroki's pudgy face—collided instead with Shotaro's impossibly broad chest. A dull, sickening crunch echoed through the tiled walls of the boy's bathroom. It wasn't the sound of flesh meeting flesh—it was the unmistakable crack of bone yielding under something far denser.
Bird's entire body locked up as a sharp, searing pain shot through his knuckles, traveling up his arm like an electric current. His breath hitched in his throat. He staggered backward, clutching his now visibly broken hand, the fingers trembling and twitching involuntarily. But Shotaro? Shotaro barely even acknowledged the impact. His stance remained relaxed, hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his high school uniform, his silver hair casting faint glimmers under the fluorescent lighting.
Instead of reacting to Bird, Shotaro turned his attention to Hiroki, his crimson eyes gleaming with something between amusement and mild exasperation. He smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Took you long enough, fatass," he said, his deep voice carrying an almost teasing edge, as if this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Hiroki, still half-pressed against the grimy bathroom wall, looked up at him in stunned confusion. His small, sweat-covered face contorted as he stammered, "Wh-what do you mean?"
Shotaro exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. His smirk faded, replaced with something more serious. "Come on," he said, voice lower now, edged with something sharp. "You know what I mean. How the hell do you expect me to save you when you won't even try to save yourself?"
A tense silence followed.
It was only now, in the eerie stillness of the bathroom, that the rest of them fully processed what had just happened.
Shotaro had been there. The entire time.
Watching.
Observing.
They hadn't sensed him. Hadn't heard him. Hadn't even felt his presence until now.
And then—just like that—he had appeared.
A massive figure, towering at 2.4 meters, broad-shouldered, built like he had been carved out of something far sturdier than mere flesh and bone. His silver hair, tousled yet effortlessly smooth, caught the harsh white light from the ceiling, contrasting against the deep crimson of his piercing eyes. His uniform, slightly loose on his frame but doing little to hide the sheer size of him, only made him look more unnatural—like he had no business being here, in this dingy, tiled room, among high school delinquents and their prey.
Bird, still groaning in pain, stumbled back, eyes wide in disbelief.
Le Chua, the Chinese exchange student, narrowed his eyes, tensing instinctively.
Hiyori Toyotaro, the principal's daughter, let out a long, slow exhale of smoke from her cigarette, observing the situation with an unreadable expression.
They had no idea who this guy was.
But what they did know was this:
A big-ass dude had just fucking teleported into the room.
"A newbie, huh… interesting." Bird muttered, rolling his injured wrist as he took a step back, the dull throb of his fractured knuckles only barely registering through the rush of adrenaline. His lips curled into a sharp grin, one that reeked of amusement rather than concern. As if breaking his own damn hand against this guy's chest was nothing more than a warm-up.
Then, with the same casual arrogance that had made him infamous among the school's worst, Bird reached out and delivered a sharp slap to Le Chua's backside.
The impact made a crisp sound against the stagnant bathroom air.
Le Chua merely laughed, the same sick, low chuckle that always carried a sense of mockery. She stretched lazily, her sharp, catlike eyes glinting as she turned her head slightly. "Shit, Bird. Do him instead." She jerked her chin toward Shotaro, whose towering frame remained unmoved, watching them with the patience of something ancient and indifferent.
Bird rolled his shoulders, glancing back at Shotaro with a new kind of curiosity, like a predator sizing up unfamiliar prey. "We got new blood here, huh? Things just got fresh."
Le Chua smirked at the thought, but her gaze flicked toward Hiyori.
The principal's daughter had remained quiet through all of this, standing slightly apart from the group. Her long, ink-black hair cascaded down her back, partially covering the oversized male uniform jacket she always wore over her actual school attire. The cigarette between her fingers burned softly, the tip glowing an angry orange as she inhaled.
She held that breath for a long moment, then exhaled, a lazy stream of smoke curling into the bathroom's flickering fluorescent lights.
Her dark eyes, heavy-lidded and unreadable, drifted toward Bird. "Just fuck that dude up for all I care." Her voice was slow, indifferent, as if she were discussing the weather.
Bird grinned, licking his teeth like he had just been given permission to play with his food.
Cracking his neck, he took a step forward.
Shotaro hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken.
Hadn't even reacted.
But as Bird closed the distance, something in the air shifted. The bathroom felt smaller. The walls tighter. The space between them—no longer empty, but suffocating.
Bird either didn't notice.
Or he didn't care.
[1] the world has forgotten the messiah's name just as he once imagined, so no one knows who Shotaro Mugyiwara is the child that 'died' in hokkaido incident