"Good," he replied, and the resulting smile was real. Not ironic. Not mocking. Just plain, startlingly sincere.
It took her aback. Hiyori blinked, her voice hung up somewhere between suspicion and bewilderment. "Uhhh. "What?"
"You want to rebel against me," he repeated, as though it was the most wonderful thing he'd heard all day. "That's great. Means you want to oppose me."
There was no sarcasm in his tone. Just something oddly soft—like thanks wrapped in armor.
Because here's the thing about Shotaro Mugiwara.
To the world, he may appear like a storm in flesh, a walking miracle with power that warped physics and shattered history. An eight-foot teenager demigod who could shatter the sky in two if you provided him with a motive.
But inside?
He was paranoid. Scarred. Temple-built, held together with fears he couldn't verbalize. And his greatest fear—the thing that kept him up when his powers weren't—is not losing. Not pain. Not death.
It was being worshipped.
Because worship was being treated like a god.
He despised that more than anything.
So when people stood up to him—when they resisted, revolted, and rebelled—it didn't outrage him.
It saved him.
With each finger pointed at him, each "You're wrong," it was like a lifeline tossed to a man drowning. A reminder that he was not above everyone. That someone could pull him back down to earth if he ever began to float too high. That regardless of how powerful he became, no matter how many miracles dripped from his fingertips, there would always be at least one who was bold or stupid enough to spit upon his face and remind him he was not a god—only a boy struggling not to come apart at the seams under the weight of power.
So Shotaro smiled, really, beautifully, ridiculously, at the girl who wanted to begin a revolution against him. Not because he was masochistic. Not because he needed a fight.
But because the fact of rebellion existed, it meant that he could still be challenged.
And challenge meant that he was still human.
At this moment, the tall boy in the penguin outfit wasn't simply ridiculous. He was relieved.
And Hiyori, with blood on her thighs and revolution still burning in her throat, didn't know what to say. Because how the hell do you reply to someone who's grateful that you hate him?
For what felt like an eternity, the wind simply blew between them as if attempting to make something of the silence, and perhaps it did—because when she did eventually break the silence, her voice was no longer loud or furious. It was level. A bit raspy. But sincere.
"My mom told me there's more to you than what you show," she grunted, as if talking to herself. "Perhaps she was correct."
And then she clenched her fist and struck him—not hard, not hurtfully, but like the signing of a contract. A statement.
"And I'll get it," she said. "I'll extract it from you if I have to claw it out with my fingernails."
Shotaro gazed down at her, the ridiculousness of his penguin costume balanced by the subtle sheen of something old in his gaze—like some dormant deity who'd always had an eye out for a worthy adversary to knock on the door. Not to kill him. But to define him.
He smiled. And not the snarky variety. The sort that makes you realize the world is larger than it was five seconds prior.
"Challenge accepted," he replied, the phrase warm and warlike simultaneously. "I could use a little competition."
He meant it.
Because if anyone was going to pursue the truth within him—even the hidden pieces, even the bad pieces that terrified him—then perhaps, perhaps he would not lose himself to the power within him. Perhaps the boy within the tempest would remain whole.
And so on that morning, between a shattered riverbank and a lost road, a bruise-covered girl and a bird-clad boy clasped hands with destiny.
"Good," he replied, and the resulting smile was real. Not ironic. Not mocking. Just plain, startlingly sincere.
It took her aback. Hiyori blinked, her voice hung up somewhere between suspicion and bewilderment. "Uhhh. what?"
"You want to rebel against me," he repeated, as though it was the most wonderful thing he'd heard all day. "That's great. Means you want to oppose me."
There was no sarcasm in his tone. Just something oddly soft—like thanks wrapped in armor.
Because here's the thing about Shotaro Mugiwara.
To the world, he may appear like a storm in flesh, a walking miracle with power that warped physics and shattered history. An eight-foot teenager demigod who could shatter the sky in two if you provided him with a motive.
But inside?
He was paranoid. Scarred. Temple-built, held together with fears he couldn't verbalize. And his greatest fear—the thing that kept him up when his powers weren't—is not losing. Not pain. Not death.
It was being worshipped.
Because worship was being treated like a god.
He despised that more than anything.
So when people stood up to him—when they resisted, revolted, and rebelled—it didn't outrage him.
It saved him.
With each finger pointed at him, each "You're wrong," it was like a lifeline tossed to a man drowning. A reminder that he was not above everyone. That someone could pull him back down to earth if he ever began to float too high. That regardless of how powerful he became, no matter how many miracles dripped from his fingertips, there would always be at least one who was bold or stupid enough to spit upon his face and remind him he was not a god—only a boy struggling not to come apart at the seams under the weight of power.
So Shotaro smiled, really, beautifully, ridiculously, at the girl who wanted to begin a revolution against him. Not because he was masochistic. Not because he needed a fight.
But because the fact of rebellion existed meant that he could still be challenged.
And challenge meant that he was still human.
At this moment, the tall boy in the penguin outfit wasn't simply ridiculous. He was relieved.
And Hiyori, with blood on her thighs and revolution still burning in her throat, didn't know what to say. Because how the hell do you reply to someone who's grateful that you hate him?
For what felt like an eternity, the wind simply blew between them as if attempting to make something of the silence, and perhaps it did—because when she did eventually break the silence, her voice was no longer loud or furious. It was level. A bit raspy. But sincere.
"My mom told me there's more about you than what you show," she grunted, as if talking to herself. "Perhaps she was correct."
And then she clenched her fist and struck him—not hard, not hurtfully, but like the signing of a contract. A statement.
"And I'll get it," she said. "I'll extract it from you, if I have to claw it out with my fingernails."
Shotaro gazed down at her, the ridiculousness of his penguin costume soaked through balanced by the subtle sheen of something old in his gaze—like some dormant deity who'd always had an eye out for a worthy adversary to knock on the door. Not to kill him. But to define him.
He smiled. And not the snarky variety. The sort that makes you realize the world is larger than it was five seconds prior.
"Challenge accepted," he replied, the phrase warm and warlike simultaneously. "I could use a little competition."
He meant it.
Because if anyone was going to pursue the truth within him—even the hidden pieces, even the bad pieces that terrified him—then perhaps, perhaps he would not lose himself to the power within him. Perhaps the boy within the tempest would remain whole.
And so on that morning, between a shattered riverbank and a lost road, a bruise-covered girl and a bird-clad boy clasped hands with destiny.
She shut her eyes.
Because somewhere else far away—though not far enough to be forgotten—Sakura Toyotaro was likely exhaling deeply in dismay. Her mother, the well-dressed principal with voice like law and eyes which had witnessed too much disorder ever to forgive it, had instilled in her daughter one thing more than anything else: order is all the mercy this world still possesses. A maxim sharpened not through peace, but war. A philosophy tempered by standing firm when others would not. From seeing pupils shatter one another in school corridors, from living through years in which society was merely a broken mask over violence and famine and need. And in that broken world, Sakura had fought stability into existence—one habit, one punishment, one imposed rule at a time.
She did not hate Shotaro Mugyiwara for being dangerous—although he was. She did not hate him for being ridiculous—although he crafted absurdity as performance art. She hated him because, to her, he represented breakdown. For chaos in the guise of charm. For a form of untempered free will that didn't mind what it destroyed as long as it could sing while it did it.
He was not a delinquent. Delinquents were correctible.
He was something more than that.
He believed in people-even the worst of them.
Shotaro's philosophy hadn't been spoken like hers, with quotes and theories and citations. It existed in his decisions. It breathed in each wound he endured for someone else, each time he allowed someone to punch him simply to allow them to feel human once more. To Shotaro, there were no good. No bad. Only choices. Moment to moment. Pain to pain. And every human being, no matter how shattered, earned the right to make another choice.
That was why Sakura hated him.
Because she had witnessed what decisions do when left to themselves. She had witnessed the cities burning. The daughter is shattered. The boys are dangling from staircases because someone had chosen to "opt" incorrectly and no one halted them in time. Freedom, as far as she was concerned, wasn't sacred. It was a fabrication. A justification. And people like Shotaro—who wouldn't judge, who wouldn't punish, who didn't believe in monsters and saints—made everything worse.
But Hiyori, crouched on the threshold of shame and awakening, at last came to see: they were both correct. Her mother, with her merciless passion for order. And this absurd boy, who dressed like a penguin and ranted like a prophet of mayhem.
For the world required rules—but it required also someone to shatter them when they no longer supported the shattered.
And perhaps—perhaps only—there was a sort of balance in that.
And somewhere, Sakura Toyotaro may have felt it: her daughter was following a path that neither of them had mapped out. Not her mother's. Not Shotaro's. But something horribly her own.
And somewhere, deep within the creases of a dying morning dream, Sakura Toyotaro may have sensed it—a shiver in the thread, a gentle tugging at the weave of fate. Her daughter was in motion now, going forward and by herself, away from all the charts that had ever been plotted for her. Not her mother's safe lines. Not Shotaro's sweeping strokes. But something else, gnarled and snarled and frighteningly her own.
And that, above all, was how freedom started. Not with a banner. Not with a scream. But with a silent breaking.
"Oh, we are only fifteen minutes away from being late," he declared, already yanking off the head of his penguin suit, and with it, decency's limits.
She hardly had time to blink before his shirt was removed—then his pants—and he stood there in nothing but boxers, which, ridiculously, had a cartoonish chibi of himself striking a victory pose.
"Customized? You're joking, right?" She squeaked, her voice breaking somewhere between hysteria and something much more sinister.
The breath was caught in her throat. She screamed—half surprise, half anger—twisted around, hands flung up to guard against the image but not quite fully committed to it. Her fingers split. Barely. She swore at him in a flurry, breathless, incoherent. Her heart didn't know whether to run or capitulate.
She had never looked at a man before. Not this way. Not really. Only a fuzzy childhood recollection of her brother at seven, a figure in summer light of ribs and skin. But this—this was different. He was not a boy. He was a figure cut from legend. Broad, sun-kissed shoulders. A sculpted waist. Firm thighs. He was crafted of nerve and courage, and she was drowning in the warmth of him.
And then—the movement, so smooth and ridiculous—he reached into the empty belly of the costume and produced his uniform as if by magic, producing silk from thin air.
The white shirt, pressed and smooth. The maroon blazer that caressed his form with absurd elegance. The green tie, its fibers catching light—with "TMH" embroidered in gold like a cipher. The belt was tight, the school sigil shining, proud and age-old.
In seconds, he changed—mischief and naked skin to flawless protocol. And still, she hadn't breathed.
And somewhere far away, in the place where destiny sits in silence, something moved again.