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570 — You Call Yourself a Good Person?
🕑 Added 2025-10-06 16:26:07 +0000 UTCThe boy who stepped out of the car scanned the area.
His gaze was warm and calm, like sunlight personified — dazzling, but somehow inviting.
When his eyes swept over them, the girls from Kaihin High’s kendo club blushed and looked away, only to peek back moments later with bright, curious expressions as they sized up the suddenly-appearing handsome stranger.
Leading the group, Mikiyo and Tamanawa were both taken aback by his presence.
It wasn’t that they’d never been in cars before — both came from well-off families, and their own family cars were fancier than the black Toyota parked in front of them.
But those cars were merely vehicles; this boy made it feel like serving him would be an honor.
When he stepped down, the driver’s door swung open and a burly man in a black suit — clearly the driver — snapped to attention behind him.
The man’s stare was so fierce it seemed like he’d flatten anyone in front of him into a carpet just to keep the boy’s shoes clean.
Despite his youth, he looked about the same age as them.
But Tamanawa felt something about him that neither their school principal nor the cultural affairs official who’d visited last time had.
This boy’s presence was on another level entirely.
Of course, the newcomer was Hojou Kyousuke.
Although he’d already decided he wouldn’t join the training camp, how could the club captain not at least show his face?
Besides, this was more than just a joint four-school kendo training — it was a gathering of the so-called “Rampaging Angels.”
From where he stood, he could see a group loitering near the entrance even before they reached the dojo.
They weren’t in uniform, but the shinai bags they carried were embroidered with school crests — that told him who they were.
But why hadn’t they gone inside yet? Were they nervous?
Right, Tamanawa’s profile mentioned Kaihin High’s kendo club didn’t have much presence at school.
They hadn’t even had enough members to field a full team last year, and there was no mixed-gender match to make up for it.
That explained the awkwardness: they were excited but embarrassed, inexperienced and hesitant to step in.
Having worked that out, Kyousuke offered a smile and spoke up:
“You must be from Kaihin High, right? I’m Hojou Kyousuke, captain of the Soubu High kendo team. Nice to meet you.”
Those words worked like magic.
The nervous tension evaporated — the Kaihin students visibly relaxed.
“Uh—y-yes. I’m Mikiyo Ryuushi, captain of Kaihin High’s kendo club. Nice to meet you.” Mikiyo snapped to attention and gave him a deep, formal bow — a perfect ninety degrees.
The others followed, bowing in unison with heartfelt politeness; if a celebrity in trouble apologized with that much sincerity, they’d get forgiven no matter what.
Kyousuke caught sight of a row of bowed heads and paused.
What on earth — did they all just join the “Rampaging Angels” club?
Didn’t I ban that exaggerated bowing ceremony?
Mikiyo realized mid-bow that she’d overdone it; she had instinctively treated him like a VIP and felt embarrassed.
Luckily, when she straightened, everyone — except for the visibly confident Tamanawa Jun looked reasonably natural.
“Oh~ so you’re the director of Soubu High?” Tamanawa blurted — now fully in overdrive, as if to make up for his earlier formality.
He peppered his Japanese with English words, switching mid-sentence like someone trying to show off.
His hands kept moving in frantic gestures, like a rotor revving up.
Kyousuke blinked, a little lost.
Was this kid…trying to summon a spirit technique?
An earthling from a different planet?
He glanced past the energetic Tamanawa at the others; at his look, Mikiyo and the team all reddened and averted their faces.
Oh no — how embarrassing.
Please don’t let Hojou think our whole school is like Tamanawa!
The girls exchanged panicked looks, each reading the same murderous regrets and shame in the others’ eyes.
Why hadn’t they just taken care of Tamanawa before Hojou arrived?
Seeing their reactions, Hojou thought it through and smiled in understanding.
Kaihin High is a comprehensive school with an international track — students tend to be wealthy, they’ve studied abroad, or they’re about to.
Tamanawa likely grew up overseas, so his Japanese wasn’t smooth.
“Ahhh — that explains it. Welcome…” Kyousuke began.
Since Tamanawa wasn’t confident in Japanese, Hojou switched to English to put him at ease.
He spoke fluently, the kind of English that came not just from studying for tests but from a natural talent.
Mikiyo, who’d been hiding her face out of embarrassment, froze and stared at Hojou with wide eyes.
The other girls were similarly dumbfounded, mouths agape.
All eyes went back to Tamanawa.
Even he, the polished, English-speaking elite, looked stunned; his frantic gestures stopped mid-air, and the cardigan slung over his shoulders drooped.
What is Hojou doing?
Mikiyo glanced at vice-captain Saimeiji Mizuki for an explanation.
Saimeiji — the one who’d been cursing internally that they hadn’t “taken care of” Tamanawa earlier — replied with a look that said: Maybe Hojou’s trying to tell Tamanawa, “Don’t embarrass yourself with that level of English in front of me.”
Mikiyo suddenly realized what was going on.
Ah, so that’s what Hojou was doing! And judging by Tamanawa’s face, the effect was perfect!
Why didn’t I think of that?
Then again, after half a second of reflection, he had the answer: he couldn’t even understand half the English words Tamanawa threw around — no point dreaming about joining in.
Hojou Kyousuke kept speaking, delivering a stream of polished English laced with British idioms he’d picked up from his mentor, Mr. Spencer. His words were witty and full of warmth, like he was trying his best to make this “returnee student” feel right at home.
Meanwhile, Tamanawa Jun’s brow furrowed and his lips trembled. He focused all his attention on listening, desperately trying to understand what the “director” in front of him was saying — but the more he listened, the redder his face became.
Even Mikiyo and the others, who had suffered through Tamanawa’s bizarre mix of English and Japanese for weeks, couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy for him now.
I swear, I’m going to study English properly from now on — and talk to Tamanawa in English too!
The group watched with barely concealed anticipation, all waiting to see how Tamanawa would handle this. Would he pretend he understood? Or admit defeat and apologize?
“Um…”
Tamanawa’s face was now a deep shade of crimson. His “rotor-engine” hands were no longer spinning imaginary spheres in front of his chest — instead, they hung stiffly at his sides, rubbing his pants in nervous fidgeting.
“I’m very sorry,” he said loudly, bowing deeply. “I didn’t quite catch that. Could you please repeat it? Maybe… a little slower?”
Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he whipped out his phone, opened a recording app, and prepared to record Hojou’s every word — ready to look up the meaning later if necessary.
The entire group froze for a moment, then looked at him with newfound respect. It was the same as before — when Tamanawa had volunteered to take the blame for something dumb, he’d shown a weird kind of courage. Once again, he proved himself a true student council elite. If you don’t know something, just admit it and learn — no pretending.
Still…
For crying out loud, if your English sucks that bad, why not just speak Japanese?!
Vice-captain Saimeiji Mizuki rolled her eyes in exasperation.
Hojou, amused, arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t help smiling. “Ah, sorry about that. I thought you were a returnee, Tamanawa — that’s why I used English. I was just welcoming you all, nothing serious.”
“Pff— hahaha!”
The Kaihin High kendo members burst into laughter. Tamanawa’s already red face darkened to a mortified shade of purple.
Waving casually to his driver, Hirata, Kyousuke signaled for him to park the car inside.
Then he turned back to the group with his usual calm smile.
“Come on, let’s head in. The training camp is set up inside.”
“Right!”
The girls — led by Saimeiji — perked up instantly, responding with bright, cheerful voices as they hurried after Kyousuke, not even glancing back at their own captain.
As they reached the gate, their eyes naturally drifted toward the motorcycles lined up on both sides.
Noticing this, Kyousuke explained casually, “The other schools are already here. Those bikes belong to their members.”
“Ohhh, that makes sense.”
Mikiyo let out a relieved sigh, and the others followed suit.
So those scary-looking bikes were just… transportation.
Or so they thought — until the reality sank in.
‘Transportation, my ass!’
‘What kind of “normal” high schooler rides something like that? Ever heard of a scooter? And who can afford all that gas?!’
Mikiyo tensed again but, seeing Hojou’s calm, mature demeanor ahead of him, decided not to comment — instead sharing a few harmless anecdotes about their own school.
From the outside, the dojo already looked impressive, but stepping inside made them realize they had underestimated it.
A massive, traditional wooden hall stood in the center — the kind you’d see in anime set during martial arts tournaments.
Its wooden frame was raised slightly above the ground, the floor polished smooth.
There were no decorative trees yet — just solid, packed earth all around, suggesting the grounds were still under renovation.
The open courtyard was enormous — big enough to host an F1 race, Mikiyo thought.
That comparison popped into his head because the yard wasn’t just home to the black sedan that had brought Hojou, but several other identical black cars and at least a dozen gleaming motorcycles that screamed money.
“So pretty…” Mizuki whispered in awe.
These motorcycles were nothing like the ones outside.
The ones outside looked like trouble.
The ones inside? They were… cool.
Everyone knew that while motorcyclists had a reputation for recklessness, they held a dangerous allure — especially to impressionable girls.
Drive a $20,000 car, and people might call you a show-off.
Ride a $2,000 bike with confidence, and suddenly someone wants to wrap their arms around your waist.
“These bikes belong to the other kendo club officers,” Kyousuke explained with another easy smile.
The ones outside were for the regular members; the ones inside belonged to the higher-ups.
Even here, the hierarchy was reflected in the smallest details.
After Kisaki had opened up new income streams for them, the “Rampaging Angels” members were doing better financially.
Some still clung to their old rebellious style, while others — following Kyousuke’s lead — traded in their wild biker image for something sleeker, more “refined rebel.”
“If you like them,” Kyousuke added, “you can ask for a ride later. I’m sure they’d be happy to show you around.”
He mentally gave himself a pat on the back.
‘What a thoughtful leader I am,’ he mused. ‘Always looking out for my crew — maybe some of the guys will even find girlfriends at this rate.’
Still… there weren’t enough girls.
His gaze landed on Mikiyo, full of mock reproach. ‘This is your fault, captain. Recruit better next time!’
“Really? We can?”
“Can Hojou-senpai ride too?”
“I want to ride with Hojou-senpai!”
The girls lit up like fireworks, voices bubbling with excitement.
Their enthusiasm made Kyousuke chuckle.
In his usual calm, older-brother tone, he downplayed it.
“I’m not that great at riding, honestly.” Then he turned to Mikiyo and added, “Captain Mikiyo, use this experience to sharpen your skills — and try to recruit more members next year. Then we’ll train together again.”
Mikiyo, who had been staring longingly at the shiny bikes, snapped back to reality.
He didn’t quite understand why Hojou had said that, but he nodded hard.
“Yeah!”
Just then, a loud sound echoed through the air as the dojo’s massive wooden doors swung open from the inside—
