"No way… This is total despair…"
The words slipped out like a final, defeated sigh from the lips of high school student Kuroha Akira. He stood frozen before the glimmering vending machine, a monument to modern convenience that now felt like a cruel, unyielding fortress. His hands, desperate and clumsy, patrolled every pocket of his uniform trousers and blazer. Not a single 10-yen coin answered his call. His ammunition was spent, his campaign for a cold, sweet respite utterly routed.
Zeeeeee— The cicadas' chorus was a relentless, screeching soundtrack to his demise. The air itself wavered and danced in the brutal afternoon sun, turning the school courtyard into a shimmering mirage. A bead of sweat traced a lonely path from his temple down his cheek, and he felt a distinct, almost spiritual wooziness—as if his very soul were being steamed out through the top of his head.
"Ugh… Damn this island nation summer… Tokyo, you're a monster!" he grumbled internally, though his face remained a stoic mask. Even on this last day of August, the season clung with the tenacity of a final boss, refusing to relinquish its fiery grip.
With a sigh heavier than the humid air, he reluctantly bent down. Maybe, just maybe, the universe had left him a parting gift. Perhaps some careless soul had bought a drink and forgotten their change in the return slot. His fingers, fueled by a last flicker of hope, probed the metal opening.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The void mocked him.
A profound sense of injustice welled up within him. In his past life, he hadn't been a winner, but at least he'd been a functioning corporate drone—a cog with a wallet! He'd never been brought this low, never been so utterly defeated by a simple craving for a canned coffee.
"Talk about a bad roll on the reincarnation gacha," he thought, the bitterness acute. "No cheat codes, no legendary starting gear, and now… can't even afford the basic potion. Pathetic."
Now, he stood at a crossroads of pride. Option one: slink away from the vending machine like a background character whose scene had just ended. Head hung low, accepting total defeat.
Or… Option two.
One final, glorious gamble! The protagonist's last stand!
A fiery glint sparked in Kuroha Akira's eyes. Well, for a man with even a shred of pride left, the path was clear, right? He wasn't about to fade to black without a fight!
"Alright, you crazy old heavens! Witness this!" he declared to the cosmos in his heart.
He sank lower, his knees bending, palms flat on the sun-baked concrete. His posture shifted into something primal—a lion stalking its prey, a hero charging his ultimate move. His gaze locked onto the narrow darkness beneath the machine.
Success or failure… life or thirst… rested on this one move!
"Come on… Critical hit! Koi!"
For a true duelist, every draw was destiny! This had to be it!
"Kuroha-kun."
A voice, clear and melodic, sliced through the cicada symphony and his internal monologue.
"No matter how financially challenged you are, lying on the ground to peer under a vending machine is… ill-advised. Your uniform will get irreparably dirty."
What filled his vision was not the glint of a life-changing 500-yen coin, but a pair of impeccably polished black leather shoes. A swift, analytical part of his brain, honed by his previous life, immediately calculated: 23cm… that's a size 36. Owner's height, approximately 155cm.
For a Japanese high school girl, that was decidedly above average.
His gaze traveled upward, over sleek black over-the-knee socks that defined a pristine "absolute territory." A hand rested casually, yet strategically, on the hem of her pleated skirt, maintaining a defense that was both elegant and impenetrable. There would be no accidental glimpses of the abyss today.
Caught in such a compromising, utterly defeated pose, Kuroha Akira felt… remarkably little shame. With the grace of a seasoned actor ending a scene, he pushed himself up, brushed the dust from his knees and palms, and adopted an air of profound seriousness.
"A misunderstanding," he stated, his voice calm. "I wasn't foraging for lost currency. I was merely… conducting a terrestrial geomantic reading. Checking the day's luck flow, you see."
The girl's reaction was not the expected sigh or eye-roll. Instead, her already large, expressive eyes widened into perfect saucers. A delicate hand flew to her lips, not in reproach, but in genuine, wide-eyed astonishment.
However, her surprise wasn't directed at his flimsy excuse.
"Kuroha-kun… you can speak?"
A beat of silence hung between them, filled only by the relentless zeeeeee.
"…I lack the biological traits of a mute, so yes, speech is within my capabilities," he deadpanned, finally allowing himself to fan at his collar with a hand. The movement was languid, belying his internal relief at forming a complete, coherent sentence.
The girl lowered her hand, a thoughtful finger tapping her own cheek. "But, it's been an entire semester, plus a full summer vacation since class assignments. And in all that time, I have never once witnessed Kuroha-kun engage in verbal communication with another human being. Not a 'good morning,' not a 'see you tomorrow.' It was starting to seem like a mysterious, unspoken rule."
"Hmph…"
Kuroha Akira had no rebuttal. Her observation was flawless. He had been a ghost in the classroom, a silent specter in a seat. He'd only uttered a handful of words to Kobayakawa-sensei, their homeroom and Japanese teacher, who had been so moved she'd nearly shed tears, as if hearing a rare bird sing.
It wasn't by choice. It wasn't some cool, aloof character trait. The reason was agonizingly simple: he, Kuroha Akira, former office worker and otaku, could not speak functional Japanese.
Sure, his past life was steeped in anime, games, and manga. He could sing along to opening themes, recognize seiyuu on sight, and had a mental library of iconic lines etched into his DNA. But actual, fluid, daily conversation? Asking for directions? Discussing the weather? It was like knowing the theory of rocket science but being asked to build a toaster. The moment he opened his mouth during those first terrifying days, he knew he'd sound like a malfunctioning robot.
The realization of his transmigration—with zero benefits, no glowing system menus, not even a basic 'Native Language Proficiency' skill—had prompted a silent, internal scream that would have shattered glass:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! YOU SENILE, LAZY, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING COSMIC ADMINISTRATOR! WHERE ARE MY STARTER ITEMS?! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO 'HIGH SCHOOL' MY WAY THROUGH THIS?!
But rage solved nothing. Since the return ticket seemed lost, survival was key. And so, with the grim determination of a soldier preparing for a solo infiltration mission, Kuroha Akira began his grueling training arc.
He borrowed dusty elementary school kokugo textbooks from his landlady-obaa-san's granddaughter. He wore headphones during class, not for music, but to painstakingly dissect the flow of sensei's lectures. After school, he haunted the library, wrestling with grammar structures that felt alien. At home, he endured the sharp but not unkind corrections of his short-tempered landlady, practicing basic phrases until they lost all meaning.
Day after day, through a summer vacation that felt more like a linguistic boot camp, he grinded. And finally, his 'Japanese' skill had dinged to a solid Lv.1: Conversational Beginner. It wasn't flashy, but it was functional. A native might note a slight formality or unusual word choice, but they'd likely just think, "Huh, he talks a bit like an old book," not, "Ah, a dimensional traveler!"
And this girl—her uniform crisp, her smile now softening her initial shock—was the first person from his school life to hear the fruits of his labor. Patient Obaa-san had been his test subject and drill instructor.
"So," she mused, her head tilting slightly. "Was there a catalyst? A specific reason the 'Silent Kuroha' protocol has been terminated?"
"Nothing so dramatic," he waved a hand dismissively. "My delayed puberty finally concluded. I've simply decided to dismantle the mental barriers I constructed during that turbulent phase."
He almost cracked a smile at his own absurdity. Fifteen-year-late puberty. Sure.
The girl blinked, then… accepted it. She nodded as if he'd explained the most natural thing in the world. A bright, charming smile blossomed on her face—the kind of smile that, aimed at a true, innocent high school boy, would have been a one-hit KO, a dokidoki critical event.
"I see," she said, her voice taking on a playful lilt. She clasped her hands behind her back, leaning forward just a fraction. "So that means… I am Kuroha-kun's first."
...
In that moment, even Kuroha Akira's jaded, twice-lived heart experienced a brief, unauthorized palpitation. That wording… it held a dangerous amount of ambiguity!
He studied her face—the perfectly innocent sparkle in her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips. He couldn't tell. Was this the natural coquettishness of a charismatic school idol, or was there a layer of deliberate, playful teasing beneath the surface? The uncertainty was… intriguing.
"However," she continued, taking a small, deliberate half-step closer. She leaned her upper body in, bringing her face to a distance that was polite yet undeniably within 'personal event' range. "I would hope Kuroha-kun isn't speaking to me simply because you've decided to be friendly to all strangers. That would feel a bit… presumptuous on my part. It's nicer if we both know each other, don't you think?"
She paused, letting the cicadas fill the silence for a beat.
"So, Kuroha-kun." Her eyes held his, a gentle challenge in their depths. "Do you know my name?"
...
Kuroha Akira's pause this time was not due to a lack of recognition. He knew her face. In a class of just over thirty, after nearly half a year, forgetting a face like hers would require amnesia or a severe lack of observational skills. The problem was rooted in a critical failure during the game' introductory tutorial.
On that fateful first day of school, during self-introductions, Kuroha Akira had been a man adrift in a sea of incomprehensible sounds, grappling with an existential crisis. The chorus of "Hajimemashite, I'm Tanaka who likes bread!" and "Yoroshiku, I'm Sato from the volleyball club!" had washed over him like meaningless noise. Even if she had announced her name with the clarity of a news anchor, it wouldn't have stuck.
His own "introduction" was now class legend. It had gone like this:
Stand up.*
Dead silence.*
Gaze fixed on the far wall, as if seeing into another dimension.*
Thirty seconds… a full minute… of profound, world-contemplating silence.*
After a suffocating, soul-scorchingly awkward minute, Kobayakawa-sensei, their homeroom and Japanese teacher, could bear it no longer. With the strained smile of someone trying to defuse a social bomb, she had gently interjected, "Ah, this is Kuroha Akira-kun, everyone! Please… do your best to befriend him!" Her words were a lifebuoy thrown into a sea of palpable discomfort.
But how could a single act of teacherly kindness salvage a self-introduction that had radiated an aura of absolute zero? That moment of profound, world-obliterating silence had etched itself into the class's collective memory. From that day forward, Kuroha Akira was branded. Not just as 'quiet,' or 'shy,' but as the certified 'Gloomy Weirdo'—a title that placed him even lower on the hypothetical classroom social ladder than the openly proud otaku. He was a black hole of social interaction, a person unanimously, silently voted as 'Not Recommended for Approach.'
And Kuroha Akira? He was utterly indifferent.
Frankly, he was a little pleased. The cost had been an entire semester of living as a classroom myth, a phantom of loneliness, but he'd successfully gleaned two critical pieces of intel: his new name, and its proper pronunciation. A steep price, but for a transmigrator in survival mode, vital information.
Perhaps the girl now standing before him—Asato Hitomi—had first learned his name during that very same train-wreck of an introduction.
He had assumed, quite comfortably, that this state of peaceful, mutual non-interference would last until graduation. To have his first real schoolyard conversation here, of all places, and worse, to have her initiate it… it sent his adult mind into a wary overdrive.
Why now? Is it because it's summer break, with no other classmates around to witness this social violation? But wouldn't that make it riskier? 'Alone with the gloomy weirdo by the vending machine' sounds like the opening scene of a cautionary tale… Surely, she'd be more cautious?
Yet her attitude is disarmingly friendly. Too friendly. What's the objective here?
He didn't feel the fluttering heart of a teenage boy being acknowledged by a popular girl. Instead, he felt the cold, analytical suspicion of a former corporate drone. Was this some kind of social experiment? A test to see if even the class pariah had a crush on her, to confirm the breadth of her charm? Should he play along, act like a lovestruck puppy, and maybe—just maybe—maneuver her into buying him that desperately needed drink…?
His dignity, currently melting along with his brain in the Tokyo heat, was on the auction block. The starting bid: one canned coffee.
Returning to the present, Kuroha Akira's internal debate ended. The 'lovestruck puppy' plan was too high-risk. He opted for a safer, compromise answer.
He didn't know her name, but her 'role' was unforgettable.
"You're the Class Monitor, right?"
"Phew…"
A visible wave of relief washed over her. She placed a hand over her heart—a distinctly curved silhouette beneath the summer blouse—and exhaled softly. The sound was oddly gratifying.
"Hmm? Got it wrong?" Kuroha Akira feigned confusion.
She shook her head, and a charming, sun-dappled smile returned to her lips. "No, it's perfect. I'm just glad my face managed to leave an impression on Kuroha-kun."
She didn't call him out for not knowing her name. Instead, she framed it as her honor. Her smile seemed to say, 'To be remembered by the enigmatic Kuroha-kun is a privilege.'
If this were a shoujo manga, this would be the 'she must like me!' flag… Kuroha Akira snorted internally. More like a hidden route with an unknown difficulty rating.
Deciding to test the waters, he allowed a teasing edge into his voice. "Well, you don't really look the part of a Class Monitor. That's probably why I remembered."
"Oh?" Her curiosity seemed genuine. "And what, pray tell, should a Class Monitor look like in Kuroha-kun's world?"
He decided to go for broke, deploying a barrage of otaku shorthand. "Let's see… jet-black hair, thick round glasses, twin braids—the quintessential 'yamato nadeshiko' from the countryside. Top-tier academic prowess, of course. A catchphrase like, 'I don't know everything, I just know what I do know.' And, crucially, a benevolent willingness to provide… cultural insights." He waved a hand vaguely, leaving the 'insights' ominously undefined.
If she were an ordinary girl, such a blatantly eccentric and borderline-harassing comment would have sent her running or earned him a slap. But Asato Hitomi's psychological defense stats were clearly maxed out.
Not a single eyelash fluttered. She simply absorbed his words with a thoughtful hum. "That is a remarkably… detailed archetype. Is that Kuroha-kun's ideal image of a Class Monitor?"
Seeing his provocations bounce off her serene smile, Kuroha Akira lost interest in the game. He shrugged, deflecting. "Just kidding. It's a character from a novel."
"Hmm… I don't believe I've encountered that novel. My literary knowledge seems lacking compared to Kuroha-kun's. How impressive."
Of course you haven't, he mused. It's from a universe that doesn't exist here. Her response, however, was pure social artistry—turning his weirdness into a compliment for him. This girl… was she a master of flattery? Was she grinding his 'Favorability' points?
"I think I might only fit one of those points, though," she said lightly, a finger tapping her chin.
She was actually engaging with his absurd checklist.
Black hair? No. Her hair was a soft, sun-kissed flaxen, cut in a chic, shoulder-grazing bob with ends that curved forward in a simple, modern 'C' shape. Glasses? None. Braids? Not a one. Her light, tasteful makeup and shimmering lip gloss spoke of a girl deeply in tune with current trends, a far cry from any 'unfashionable' stereotype. She was a core figure of the popular crowd, often seen surrounded by a lively group.
So, the single matching point was… the one about physical development. And it was true. While not exaggerated, compared to the average first-year high school girl, Asato Hitomi was blessed with a noticeable, graceful fullness that promised further potential.
Was this a boast? Or a subtle counter-tease? Kuroha Akira couldn't decipher the strategy behind her perpetual smile.
"Although I'm happy you remember my face, I'd be happier if you remembered my name. So, please allow me a proper re-introduction."
She took a slight step back, then delivered a small, perfect bow. Her demeanor shifted to one of poised formality, yet her eyes still sparkled with a friendly light.
"My name is Asato Hitomi. As you know, I serve as the Class Monitor for Class 1-A. While some may overestimate me, I can't do everything. I can only do what is within my power to do."
Ah. So that was the point she meant. She'd adapted the classic line. Hearing it, a strange nostalgia momentarily displaced Kuroha Akira's wariness, pulling him back to his own high school days in another world—a time of textbooks, fatigue, and simple, pixelated joys.
Wait. If that's the point she claims matches… does she think her chest isn't noteworthy enough? His internally inconsistent logic short-circuited for a second.
"Kuroha-kun." Her soft voice reeled him back to the simmering present.
"This time, you must remember it properly."
"Roger that, Class Monitor. No problem, Class Monitor."
"My, my. I had no idea Kuroha-kun could be such a smooth talker."
He shrugged. "Don't worry. 'Asato Hitomi' is committed to memory. But 'Class Monitor' does roll off the tongue more naturally."
"Now that the formalities are concluded…" She extended her right hand gracefully. "A handshake to seal our new understanding?"
"Hmm."
His gaze fell to her offered palm. Even without this gesture, the name 'Asato Hitomi' was now indelibly printed in his mind. For in this moment, he realized she might represent something significant.
Because of this encounter, I might have just found a turning point, he thought, a plan beginning to crystallize in the back of his mind.
He took her hand. It was smooth, slender, and soft.
Wow, with a hand like this… get a grip, man! I'm a feet person! His internal monologue aggressively course-corrected.
But the true revelation was not the feel of her hand. It was the faint, shimmering text only he could see, imprinted clearly on her palm:
[Academic Ability: A]
It was a gleaming tag of exceptional talent. So the rumors were true. She wasn't just a social star; she was the top student in their grade. The brilliant, high-hanging flower admired by all.
They say 'big breasts, no brains,' but here she is, defying the trope with both assets intact… What does a perfect, intelligent creature like her want with me? I absolutely cannot let my guard down, no matter how gentle or ambiguous her approach!
"Well then," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she shyly averted her eyes. "Since Kuroha-kun insists on calling me 'Class Monitor'… I should strive to live up to that title's… responsibilities."
Her free hand drifted to the hem of her pleated skirt. Her fingers lightly pinched the fabric and began a slow, deliberate ascent—a 0.5x playback of impending scandal, steadily expanding the borders of her absolute territory.
She leaned in, her breath a ghost of a whisper against the humid air.
"Do you… want to see my panties?"
The question hung in the space between them, a direct hit to the protagonist's sanity.
Kuroha Akira's mind, for a single, glorious second, white-screened. All tactical analysis, all wariness, evaporated in the face of such a devastating, unexpected special move.
His response was pure, unfiltered, biological instinct.
"YES!"