The afternoon sun filtered through the library windows, casting warm stripes across the table where Kuroha Akira sat processing the class monitor's revelations. The pieces clicked together in his mind with the satisfying precision of a well-crafted plot twist.
So the Class Monitor had seen everything from the beginning. She'd long ago detected the hidden fault lines between Shirai Shiori and Aizono Moe, that delicate balance threatening to shatter. From this perspective, her decision not to intervene in yesterday's confrontation wasn't negligence—it was strategy. Let the smaller conflict burn so the larger one could be resolved.
...Hmm?
Which meant he'd been used as a pawn by the Class Monitor again?
Wait. Why did "again" slip out so naturally?
After neatly organizing her bento box, Asato Hitomi rose with a theatrical pout that wouldn't have looked out of place in a slice-of-life anime. "But honestly, it stings a bit that Shiori actually bought into the whole 'love-struck fool' act. I simply wanted to make friends who could walk beside me through life—real friends, the kind that last. I genuinely thought Shiori would understand that."
"I'm pretty sure that nuance escapes approximately ninety-nine percent of the population," Kuroha observed dryly.
He didn't believe for a moment that Shirai Shiori shared the Class Monitor's appreciation for deep friendship. To Shiori, Aizono Moe represented something more primal—forbidden fruit she'd claimed as hers alone, untouchable by outsiders. Yet in her protective fervor, she'd ended up wounding the very person she sought to shield, all because Kuroha's careless words had pushed her past her breaking point.
Moe probably hated him now with the burning intensity of a thousand suns.
He could only hope Shiori had noticed how her words had cut her precious friend.
Please, let her not be one of those low-EQ 'heroines' who remained blissfully unaware of the damage they caused.
Stretching his arms overhead, Kuroha rose from his seat. His mission stood crystal clear before him: dismantle this yuri pair!
Well, not literally. More like serve as a human wedge, forcing Shirai Shiori to reexamine her relationship with Aizono Moe through fresh eyes.
The mechanism was elegantly simple. If Kuroha won this publishing showdown, Moe would have no choice but to collaborate with him. And Shiori would be forced to watch helplessly as her beloved best friend fell under the sway of some despicable man, coerced into producing lewd illustrations of beautiful girls...
Why did this suddenly feel like he was stealing someone's girlfriend?
No, no, no! He was following orders! The Class Rep had given her tacit approval!
"So," Kuroha ventured, "does this operation come with any reward?"
"As for rewards, haven't you already selected your own, Kuroha-kun?"
"Huh?"
"Defeat Shiori, and Moe becomes yours for the taking, doesn't she?"
"The way you phrase that makes it sound..." He trailed off, recognizing how it must appear.
Like he planned to mold Aizono Moe into his personal waifu. Not that Kuroha lacked that exact intention, but his motives weren't base—he coveted her talent, not her body.
Well, mostly.
"I understand how crucial Moe is to you, Kuroha-kun." Asato Hitomi's voice carried an edge he couldn't quite decipher. "When you examined her hands, your eyes literally sparkled."
"Uh... Was it that obvious?"
"You possess absolutely zero self-awareness, you know that?"
"My profound apologies. I got carried away." Kuroha bowed his head in genuine contrition.
But when he looked up, the Class Monitor had already gathered her empty containers and started walking ahead. He scratched his head apologetically and followed.
Was she angry?
Perhaps he truly needed to mind his expressions more carefully. Casual banter worked with the Class Monitor, but other girls might not appreciate his particular brand of humor. Not everyone could roll with his jokes.
Here's the thing about Asato Hitomi's anger, though—it wasn't directed at Kuroha Akira at all.
It was directed at herself.
Because when she'd witnessed Kuroha's intense reaction to Aizono Moe yesterday, something small and sharp had lodged itself in her chest.
Not envy, exactly. She recognized the distinction.
She genuinely wanted Kuroha and Moe to get along, to collaborate fruitfully.
Yet in some hidden corner of her heart, jealousy had kindled like an ember catching wind.
It came from defeat. From the mortifying realization that she'd been outdone.
Asato Hitomi couldn't verify whether Kuroha's so-called 'palm reading' held any validity, but the contrast between his reaction to her hand and his reaction to Moe's was unmistakable.
Night and day. Lukewarm tea versus boiling water.
According to her meticulous observations, Kuroha Akira only ignited like that for things or people that could "benefit him." He'd practically tattooed that philosophy across his forehead—admitted it openly, without shame.
Which meant when she'd first positioned herself before him, all the carefully accumulated experience she'd gathered over the years had proven utterly useless.
She'd felt exposed. Raw. Like a stage performer who'd forgotten every line.
Nothing about her attracted Kuroha Akira.
That was her first failure in front of him. A defeat before the battle even began.
In desperation, she'd fallen back on the most obvious strategy—things men universally found interesting. Her body. Her panties. The currency of feminine allure she'd never needed to spend before.
When Kuroha mentioned his impression of her, she'd deliberately steered toward the glimpse beneath her skirt.
Classic bait.
And Kuroha had taken it.
Halfway.
Because he proved even more... materialistic than she'd imagined.
His greed for money overpowered his base instincts. He'd actually resisted exploring further beneath her skirt, leaving Asato Hitomi feeling strangely helpless. Cornered, she'd resorted to her ultimate weapon: trading her underwear.
Even suggesting it had felt like madness. The shame had been so overwhelming she'd withdrawn the offer mid-sentence.
Unable to tempt him with her body, she'd finally voiced her confusion directly. And when he'd examined her palm and made that simple request—"Make me a bento"—the relief that flooded through her had been almost embarrassing.
Now here she was, genuinely passionate about cooking for the first time in her life. The hours she spent planning and preparing bento dishes had eclipsed her study time, and she eagerly devoted herself to mastering new recipes, even the complicated ones she'd previously avoided.
But all that came later. At this particular moment, standing in the library, Asato Hitomi was still quietly furious.
Because after the initial euphoria of discovering her self-worth faded, she'd grown increasingly agitated walking home. The more she reflected, the more indignant she became.
Her underwear had lost to a bento box?
Meaning he'd rather fill his stomach than... than...
Even if she stood completely bare before him, positioned next to a luxurious meal, he'd choose the food without hesitation?!
Was she truly that unattractive?! She was the recognized freshman belle, for heaven's sake!
Asato Hitomi had never cared about such superficial titles before, yet here she was, clinging to that hollow distinction to validate her worth. The irony wasn't lost on her.
But her acting skills remained flawless. None of this internal turmoil showed on her serene face when she'd calmly asked if she could read his light novel manuscript.
However—and this was crucial—mortification had its limits. Feminine pride could only endure so much. When she'd offered Kuroha a drink and witnessed his expression grow happier than when she'd mentioned underwear, something inside her snapped.
Like a character possessed by spite, Asato Hitomi had once again performed the vulgar act of volunteering her intimate apparel.
The regret hit her the moment she returned home. Buried under her pillow, she'd spent half an hour screaming variations of "What was I thinking?!" "I've lost my mind!" and "How utterly shameless!" into her mattress.
This was her second failure.
When she'd handed over her underwear out of sheer unwillingness to lose, she'd lost completely.
And now...
Now she'd lost to Aizono Moe.
The third failure stung worst because it came from watching someone else claim what she couldn't. She'd witnessed everything—Kuroha's eyes lighting up when he examined Moe's hands, the spark of genuine excitement that she herself had never managed to ignite. He'd judged Moe more valuable, extended his collaboration offer unprompted, and Asato Hitomi could only observe from the sidelines, without even the right to compete.
If this continued, she'd fail countless more times.
He would keep discovering valuable people, approaching them eagerly, reaping benefits from their talents. And each time, Asato Hitomi would be forced to confront her own inadequacy.
Ah...
So this was it.
This feeling—this burning refusal to accept defeat—this was 'competitiveness.'
Asato Hitomi had never ranked lower than first in any examination. She'd never needed to discover this part of herself before.
Throughout her life, her generous, kind-hearted father had never imposed expectations on her. When her mother attempted to groom her into the perfect wife, Father had firmly intervened, shelving those plans indefinitely. The Asato family wanted her to be happy, not accomplished.
Consequently, Asato Hitomi had never possessed anything resembling a dream. No goals. No ambitions. No direction.
But she had one now.
The key lay in money—the ability to generate it.
Aizono Moe possessed exceptional artistic talent. That was why Kuroha wanted to harness her abilities for his light novel, aiming for substantial royalties. His motives were transparent enough.
Which meant...
If she could develop skills that produced significant income. Enough money to make Kuroha Akira's jaw drop in genuine astonishment. Enough to rival or surpass whatever Moe could offer.
Then he'd finally look at her with that same sparkle in his eyes, wouldn't he?