Chapter 111: The Prince of Poverty

Fuji Kenji is a genius.

He is Rank Number 1. He is also currently defeated by a washing machine.

Not because he does not know how to use it. He has lived alone since middle school. He knows how to do laundry.

He is defeated because of capitalism.

"It demands tribute," he says, staring dolefully at the coin slot on my family's ancient washing machine.

"It is 100 yen, Fuji. Not a dragon horde."

"I have exactly zero yen, Aoi. My father froze everything. I cannot even afford clean socks."

He looks genuinely devastated. The boy who had a black card last week is now stopped by a single coin.

I sigh and fish a 100-yen coin out of my pocket.

"Consider this a loan. Interest rate is one chore."

He catches the coin. His eyes light up.

"Deal."

He inserts the coin with extreme precision. He sets the dials. He knows exactly which settings to use for his expensive shirts so they do not shrink.

"See?" he says, proud. "I am a master of domestic arts."

"You are a master of mooching. Come on. Lunch time."

We go to the kitchen.

"Since you are broke, we are eating survival food," I announce, slamming two Cup Noodles on the counter.

I expect him to look confused.

Instead, he looks nostalgic.

"Ah. Seafood flavor. The taste of freedom," he murmurs.

"You... know Cup Noodles?"

"Aoi, I lived alone for three years. Do you think I cooked a three-course meal every night? When finals week came, this was my fuel. My father would have had a heart attack if he knew."

He takes the kettle.

He does not just pour the water.

He gets a thermometer. He measures the water temperature. 98.5 degrees Celsius exactly.

He pours it to the exact millimeter of the fill line.

He sets a timer on his phone. 3 minutes. 00 seconds.

"You are terrifying," I whisper.

"Precision is key, Rival," he states. "A second too long, the noodles are soggy. A degree too cool, the shrimp do not rehydrate optimally."

The timer beeps.

He peels the lid. It is perfect.

He takes a bite. He looks content.

"Delicious sodium," he says happily.

Okay, so he is not helpless. He is just weirdly intense about everything.

"We still need money," I say, slurping my less-perfect noodles. "I cannot fund your laundry forever."

He nods grimly.

"I know. I need employment. I must enter the workforce."

"What can you do? That normal people will pay for?"

He thinks.

"I am excellent at data analysis. I can play classical violin. I can identify vintage wines by smell."

"None of those help at the convenience store down the street."

He sets his jaw.

"Then I shall learn. I mastered the art of the perfect Cup Noodle. I shall master... minimum wage."