Others might have missed it—that brief, subtle exchange of folded paper. But Alisa sat directly beside Akira. She saw everything.
Yesterday, she recalled, Saeko Busujima was ice itself. Distant. Deliberately isolated. No warmth for anyone.
And now she was passing notes? To Akira?
Something is definitely going on.
Akira, oblivious to Alisa's silent observation—or perhaps aware and simply unconcerned—glanced at the note. Then, with a pen in hand, he did something far more audacious than writing a reply.
He wrote it on Saeko Busujima's back.
The small thrill of it—this juvenile trick, this secret communication happening in plain sight—filled him with unexpected nostalgia. Schoolyard romance. Hidden messages. The electricity of doing something forbidden in a room full of people who couldn't see.
Saeko's back twitched slightly at the sensation of pen against fabric. But her heart, not her skin, received the message. She didn't turn. Didn't write back. Just continued facing forward, eyes on the blackboard, the picture of diligent study.
But a tiny, almost invisible smile played at the corner of her lips.
Meanwhile, across town...
A heavy truck rumbled to a stop before a warehouse, its engine coughing once before falling silent. The location was industrial—forgotten, ignored, perfect for business that preferred darkness to light.
Beneath a black tarp in the truck's bed, something stirred. Something massive. A "sculpture" that stood taller than a single-story building shifted slightly, its form pressing against the covering.
"Boss!" The driver hopped down, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Goods are delivered. About that final payment..."
"Yeah, yeah." The yakuza boss waved a dismissive hand. "Don't carry that much cash on me. Come to the office—I'll settle up."
"Right, right." The driver grinned, already counting profits in his head.
He turned to follow—
And the world exploded into pain.
A crowbar, swung by a "worker" who had been "unloading" cargo, connected with the back of his skull.
Thud.
The driver crumpled. Blood spread across concrete.
"Idiots." The boss spat on the ground, glaring at the shambling figures now gathering around the body. "Even as zombies, you're still useless. Drag him inside. Strip what's valuable. Then add him to the ranks." He kicked at the nearest shambler. "Move, move, move."
The zombies obeyed—slowly, mindlessly, but they obeyed.
From the warehouse shadows, a figure emerged. Middle-aged. Weasel-faced. Eyes that darted with greed and fear in equal measure.
Saeko Busujima's uncle.
"Boss." He bobbed his head obsequiously. "The perimeter's secure. No witnesses."
"Hmph."
"Also... Boss..." The uncle's voice dropped, taking on an oily quality. "About my niece..."
The boss's eyes narrowed. "What? You want to protect her now?"
"No, no, no!" The uncle's hands waved frantically. "Nothing like that! I just thought... when the time comes... maybe I could be... first?"
His lips parted in a wet smile. His eyes gleamed with something that had nothing to do with familial affection.
Bang.
The boss's fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling.
"Hahahaha!" The laughter of the surrounding yakuza echoed off warehouse walls.
"Your niece is merchandise," the boss growled, looming over the groaning man. "High-value goods. You think anyone pays top yen for damaged goods?" He spat again, this time near the uncle's head. "Get lost."
"Yes, boss. Yes. Sorry, boss."
The uncle scrambled away on hands and knees, not daring to meet anyone's eyes.
Behind him, in the warehouse's shadowed interior, the "statue" had already risen to its full height. Two stories of twisted flesh and hungry malice. The Zombie Devil's true form, awakened and waiting.
Ring-ring-ring.
The lunch bell shattered the morning's tension. Akira rose, bento in hand, and moved with purpose toward the door.
The temporary mission timer still counted down: just over ten hours remaining. Time pressed. The stakes mounted. For now, all other characters—all other priorities—would wait.
Whoosh~!
The rooftop wind greeted him as he stepped through the door, carrying the faint scent of earth and sky. Perfect weather. Beautiful day. The kind of day that made a person want to...
"Akira."
He turned. Saeko Busujima stood behind him, already changed into her training clothes, a wooden sword extended toward him in both hands.
Eighty-five favorability. Bound permanently. Absolutely loyal.
She probably wouldn't refuse, he thought, accepting the blade.
He stepped back several paces, settling into a ready stance. No words needed. They understood each other now.
"I'm coming."
She moved.
Afterimage. That was the only word for it—Saeko Busujima's body blurring with speed that would have seemed impossible yesterday. But she'd grown. Adjusted. Spent the morning internalizing everything he'd taught her.
Her slash, ordinary in appearance, split into three distinct trajectories in Akira's perception.
S-rank potential indeed, he acknowledged. In one night, she's grasped the fundamentals.
But fundamentals, no matter how refined, remained merely commonplace before the current Akira.
He could have ended it instantly. Could have demonstrated the vast gulf between Grandmaster and Beginner. Instead, he fed her moves—attacks that pushed without overwhelming, that taught without crushing.
Because Saeko's growth was his growth. Fivefold multiplied. If he could have poured his entire understanding directly into her mind, he would have.
But Perfect Swordsmanship... He probed the edges of that unreachable realm as they sparred. Still no breakthrough.
Thwack.
Saeko's sword spun through the air, clattering against concrete.
"You're improving quickly, Saeko."
She smiled—that soft, unguarded smile meant only for him. "Because Bai teaches so well."
She bent to retrieve her weapon. The movement drew his eyes: long legs, taut and straight beneath her uniform skirt. The twin peaks of her chest, constrained by fabric but impossible to hide completely. The curve of her back as she reached down.
Good opportunity.
He moved.
Behind her in an instant.
"Oh—Akira, what are you—"
"Don't move." His voice was warm, amused. "Strike while the iron's hot. No—" He corrected himself with a chuckle. "Training. It's for your training."
"B-but... here?" Her voice carried a note of uncertainty, but her body didn't resist. Didn't pull away.
Slap.
"If you dare to disobey, you must be trained."
Saeko Busujima's earlier exertions had left a fine sheen of sweat on her skin. The rooftop wind swept across them both, carrying coolness—except in one localized spot, where warmth radiated with unmistakable intensity.
"Mmm~!"
There.
Not there.
Can't—can't do this—
"Very good." Akira's voice was calm, instructive, as if he were merely commenting on her swordsmanship form. "That reaction is perfect."
He followed the basic training principles embedded in his system, selecting a cultivation path tailored to her needs.
"This session focuses on agility and stamina," he explained. "Strength too, as a secondary. Try to endure."
Her body obeyed before her mind could question.
"First: hands off the ground. Straighten here."
Saeko's knees hadn't yet weakened—she was too disciplined for that—but her entire frame tensed at his words, at the position he guided her into.
"Yes. Exactly like that."
The back of her uniform skirt lifted slightly, revealing the absorbent white cotton beneath. Faint indentations marked the fabric—evidence of pressure, of presence.
Passing by the door three times without entering.
The move never grew old. And skirts, he reflected with clinical appreciation, were vastly superior to tracksuits for this particular form of training. The access. The visibility. The effect.
Pfft.
"Mmm—!"
For a moment, Saeko's concentration shattered. Her body threatened to collapse from the 7-shape posture he'd arranged. But Akira was there, steadying her, supporting her weight.
"Akira..." Her voice was breathless. "This move... it's so hard..."
"That's why I'm helping you." His tone was gentle, almost tender. "Isn't it?"
The Platinum Capture Ball's feedback vibrated through their connection—intense, precise, perfectly calibrated. Akira manipulated the controls with the skill of a veteran player, guiding her through each stage of training.
The progress bar filled. The session completed.
Whoosh~!
Whoosh~!
Saeko slumped against the rooftop's wire mesh, her body finally surrendering to the intensity. Even with her newly enhanced physique, Akira had pushed her to her absolute limit.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. And despite everything—despite the exhaustion, the exposure, the sheer overwhelming intensity of the past hour—she smiled.
"Akira." Her voice was soft, reverent. "I love you."
He returned the smile, genuine warmth in his expression. "I love you too. Now rest."
The Platinum Capture Ball materialized in his palm. Light enveloped her, and she dissolved into streaming particles, drawn into the ball's interior for recovery.
[Character: Saeko Busujima]
[Potential: S]
[Loyalty: 85]
[Strength: 5.2]
[Agility: 5.3]
[Endurance: 5.3]
[Skill: Beginner Swordsmanship Mastery 80%]
[Evolution Progress: 45%]
Significant growth, Akira noted with satisfaction. Today's session substantially outperformed yesterday's. More frequent training accelerates development.
He turned toward his abandoned bento, hunger finally asserting itself—
And stopped.
On his mental radar, a new marker had appeared. Close. Approaching.
[Character: Kasumigaoka Utaha]
[Potential: A]
[Favorability: ???]
[Status: Seeking Solitude, Unaware of Presence]
Akira's lips curved into a slow smile.
Well, well. The reclusive author finally emerges.
He retrieved his bento, settled against the wire mesh in a casually comfortable pose, and waited.