Hello!!! Toyotaro Miracle high!!!- V

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.