Hello!!! Toyotaro Miracle high!!!- VI

"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.

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.