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507 – Cousin, It’s Time for You to Contribute to the Family
🕑 Added 2025-09-09 15:00:14 +0000 UTCBefore Kyousuke could exchange a few more words with the kendo club members, the loud commands echoing across the field suddenly came to a halt.
What followed was the chaotic stampede of feet, like a herd of wild boars charging forward.
‘Boom—'
Dust filled the air as a group of boys in baseball uniforms thundered across the dirt field.
Kyousuke stood in the center.
On his left, the baseball club in crisp white training uniforms, their tall frames and solid muscles visible even beneath their shirts.
On his right, the kendo club in black practice gear—members of Takemichi’s infamous circle.
If it came to sheer size and build, the baseball team had the advantage.
But if it came to fighting, the kendo club would crush them.
After all, no matter how often the baseball club brawled off the field, they couldn’t compare to the kendo club’s discipline and experience.
The former kendo captain, Tamaki Aonobu, and the baseball captain, Tsuchiya Ryouta, glared daggers at each other.
Their club members bristled with hostility, especially the baseball boys, who were already exhausted from running laps—their tempers boiling over as much as their labored breaths.
Just as the clash seemed unavoidable, Kyousuke chuckled and spoke up:
“So, what now? Should I just shout ‘one, two, three—start’?”
The moment his words landed, the tension melted away like mist in the sun.
“Ahaha I just took my guys out for a run,” Tamaki forced a laugh.
He shot Tsuchiya one last glare, then led his club away toward the track without another word.
“I’m here to get you fitted for your gear, Hojou,” Tsuchiya said.
Surprisingly, he didn’t badmouth Tamaki.
Instead, after ordering a vice-captain to take their members back to training, he turned to Kyousuke with a broad, ingratiating smile.
And just like that, the scene of a potential all-out brawl dissolved.
The soccer and track clubs, who had been watching with gleeful anticipation, sighed in disappointment and went back to practice.
Both captains knew one thing well—what Kyousuke hated most was trouble.
Push him too far, and he might just shrug everything off and go home to sleep.
For them, the national tournament was everything.
For him, it was just a passing distraction.
Competing was fine—but crossing the line would ruin everything.
“Your uniform’s custom-made to your measurements.
As for bats, the club has plenty of new ones, but if you don’t like the feel, you can buy your own outside and we’ll reimburse you.
Gloves… well, I heard you already have a pitcher’s glove, so we didn’t prepare one. But for first base—”
As they walked into the club’s locker room, Tsuchiya rambled on and on.
The facilities weren’t fancy.
Compared to powerhouse schools like Osaka Toin, they were downright shabby.
Still, it had the basics: showers, lockers, even a modest gym.
“When I first joined, Soubu High didn’t even have showers,” Tsuchiya muttered with a faint smile. Then his tone sharpened, his eyes burning with determination.
“Last year, Soubu High’s baseball team crashed out in the third round of the preliminaries. That was my limit—but not Soubu’s limit!”
His voice trembled with intensity, his words almost spitting fire.
“Hojou-kun! The mission of winning back our massage chairs and cafeteria privileges—I’m entrusting it to you! Next year, when the freshmen arrive, they’ll see a completely transformed baseball club, right?”
He pointed at the wall between two rows of lockers. Kyousuke looked up. Hanging there was a white banner with bold black lettering:
“Enjoy baseball. Use your brains to win.”
Tsuchiya’s voice grew thick with emotion.
“I know it’s shameless to pin all our hopes on you, Hojou. But I’ve already reached my limit. Not even in my dreams could I see the championship flag hanging on this wall. I don’t even dare imagine it.”
It wasn’t for lack of effort.
Most baseball boarding schools woke at six to train.
Soubu’s team somehow managed to match that schedule—without the resources, without the prestige, purely on his persistence.
Convincing his teammates to show up that early had cost him untold effort.
But effort without hope was the cruelest despair.
Against raw talent, hard work and passion were worth less than dirt.
“As long as you can take us to Koshien, Hojou-kun, I’ll do anything. I’ll wash your uniform, clean your cleats, scrub the locker room.
You won’t have to worry about a thing. If you demand shaved heads, we’ll shave them all. Mohawks? Fine. All anyone wants is victory.”
Tsuchiya’s voice shook, but he pressed on.
He knew about Kyousuke’s middle school days—how schools like Higashi and Kaijou had even paid him wages to play. Soubu couldn’t do that.
Their greatest accomplishment was barely reaching the third round of the Tokyo prelims.
The board of trustees had only agreed to fund showers after that.
To get more money, they needed results. But to get results, they needed money.
That was why they needed Hojou Kyousuke.
Look at the kendo club! Just last year, they were the school’s laughingstock.
This year, with Kyousuke’s arrival, they’d flipped everything upside down.
Luxurious training halls, overflowing budgets—it was obscene.
He knew damn well that bastard Tamaki was already planning to take the kendo club to Hawaii for a training camp after winning nationals.
Hawaii! Was that really training, or just a vacation? Would they even be able to stand straight on the competition floor afterward?
The guy had completely lost his head after getting Kyousuke on board.
Unforgivable.
With his so-called “friend” Tamaki dining on heaven-sent fortune, Tsuchiya had no choice but to claw for scraps of hope.
Hojou Kyousuke. Yes, it had to be him.
Why should Tamaki alone enjoy this feast from the heavens? Wouldn’t he choke on it?
Someone like Kyousuke—so versatile, so brilliant—was wasted if he didn’t shine everywhere.
A gift from the gods shouldn’t rot in a single corner.
The pie from heaven hadn’t landed in his lap, but at least it was big enough for him to grab a slice.
A bamboo sword is a stick. A baseball bat is a stick. Swinging one or the other—what’s the difference?
Hadn’t anyone heard of the term “two-way player”? Pitcher and batter—Kyousuke was made for it.
Tsuchiya didn’t dare dream of instantly winning a championship with Kyousuke on the team.
But at the very least, Kyousuke could give them hope.
Enough hope to convince the trustees to invest, enough to show everyone that Soubu High could actually win.
Then, even if he graduated, Tsuchiya could proudly say he was once captain of Soubu’s baseball club.
For that dream, he would sacrifice anything.
Even pushing his own cousin into Kyousuke’s harem.
“So please, Hojou-kun!”
Tsuchiya ripped off his baseball cap, pressed his hands straight against his pants, and bowed deeply.
His shout echoed in the locker room.
Kyousuke didn’t reply.
Instead, he turned and slowly swept his gaze around the room.
The room was old, and no amount of cleaning or upkeep could hide the peeling stains on the walls.
The locker doors were dented here and there—whether by fists or foreheads, no one could say.
A thick mix of sweat and deodorant clung stubbornly to the air, an oddly pungent scent.
In the far left corner stood a glass display case—completely empty.
Hojou Kyousuke imagined the founding senior of the Soubu High baseball team standing before that cabinet, brimming with ambition, vowing to fill it with trophies and medals of honor.
‘Victory is ours!!’
That kind of rallying cry seemed to echo faintly in his ears. But the display case, its paint chipped and worn, remained stubbornly bare.
A dream of glory, crushed by reality—laid out before Kyousuke with brutal clarity.
In front of him, Tsuchiya Ryouta still hadn’t raised his head.
The captain who had cursed his own limits yet kept the team alive through sheer effort was bowing low now, staking everything for the chance to give his players a glimpse of victory.
Kyousuke could feel that determination.
It moved him.
For a fleeting moment, he thought of Shouko, of Eriri, of Yukino, Mitsuha…
Kyousuke was, by nature, lazy.
He lived by clear goals, never lifting a finger unless there was something to gain.
‘Taking the long way when there’s a shortcut? That’s just asking for punishment.’
That was the Hojou family motto.
Not from his grandfather, who would’ve flown into a rage at such a saying, but from Hojou Mikiko herself.
Only three disciples existed—Kyousuke, Yamauchi Sakura, and Hojou Kasuko.
Every step of his life had been pragmatic: learning kendo for self-defense, drawing manga for money, acing entrance exams for connections, writing mystery novels for prestige.
Always chasing something concrete, always leaning on his talents.
Hard work mattered, sure—but his path was paved with innate gifts.
Like leveling up in a game, he only had to keep moving forward.
And baseball? Baseball was just something he had casually agreed to.
A thankless grind, totally out of character for him.
Tsuchiya Ryouta, for all his grit, was already halfway to becoming a classic villain.
Conviction, effort, obsession with victory, the willingness to sacrifice anything—change his personality just a little, and he’d be a flawless aristocratic villainess.
…But surely, Kyousuke thought wryly, Ryouta had no plans to undergo gender reassignment.
Even if he did, Kyousuke doubted he’d pass the system’s standards.
“Ahhh—”
The sigh made Ryouta’s heart plummet.
His expression almost broke, but he gritted his teeth, lowering his head even further, sinking as though into an abyss.
Then, Kyousuke’s voice—clear and calm—cut through the heavy silence.
“No need to wait until next year.”
Ryouta’s head shot up, his eyes widening like a startled ox.
“This year,” Kyousuke said evenly, “I’ll take you to Koshien. We’ll bring the trophy back to Soubu High and give everyone the glory they deserve.”
What?!
Ryouta swore he wasn’t gay, nor did he have a voice fetish—but right now, he felt like he’d fallen in love.
How could words sound that beautiful? They should replace every school bell in the nation with Hojou Kyousuke’s voice, so everyone could bask in it daily.
His chest burned hot, as if it were about to explode.
“H-Hojou-kun, are you really saying…?” He still couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Didn’t you say reaching the third round of prelims was your limit, but not Soubu’s?” Kyousuke asked, wearing a refreshing, quiet smile.
“Yes,” Ryouta admitted quickly. “I believe we can do better—especially with you on the team.”
“Wrong. You’re part of Soubu too, aren’t you? Why would you be the one to hit a limit first?”
Kyousuke’s words struck harder than any pitch.
Ryouta, who’d painted himself as a tragic, worn-out captain, suddenly looked less like the weight holding Soubu back and more like the one being held back by it.
“As long as life isn’t over, who can say where their limit is?” Kyousuke’s voice carried an unwavering conviction. “Let’s push together—through prelims, Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, Hokkaido. We’ll win it all and claim every last shred of glory!”
Then, to Ryouta’s astonishment, Kyousuke bent at the waist, bowing deeply.
“Please take care of me, Captain Tsuchiya.”
“Y-Yes! Please take care of me!” Ryouta shouted back, blood rushing to his face.
This wasn’t just chicken soup for the soul—this was soul barbecue, sizzling hot and overflowing with energy.
The two exchanged a smile.
Kyousuke was already thinking about how often he could skip kendo practice from now on, while Ryouta was secretly plotting how to convince his uncle to transfer his cousin into Soubu High.
The room’s atmosphere brimmed with optimism—until…
“…What is this? Why am I wearing two pairs of socks? These things are basically pantyhose, aren’t they?” Kyousuke scowled, holding up a stiff-looking garment.
“Ah, that’s a stirrup sock,” Ryouta explained quickly. “They protect your calves and the long socks underneath. Buying new ones all the time gets expensive.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, his mood wobbling.
‘Right. Hojou-kun really doesn’t know a thing about baseball.’
The uniform had layers: long white socks underneath, stirrup socks on top for protection—especially important since everyone wore cleats.
Sliding tackles without them could be brutal.
After a good deal of fumbling, Kyousuke finally managed to put the uniform on.
He stood before the full-length mirror, inspecting himself.
The Soubu High uniform was a simple black-and-white classic: white fabric lined with thin black stripes.
“Classic,” of course, really meant “no budget for a designer.” The chest bore two bold kanji—「総武」—and the back displayed a black number 2.
A black cap finished the look.
“…Not bad. Pretty sharp,” Kyousuke muttered, half amused.
“Hojou,” Ryouta suddenly called.
“What?”
“From now on, be careful with pitches aimed at you.”
“Hitting me?” Kyousuke blinked. “Like, on purpose?”
“Yeah. A pitch to the face.”
Ryouta was dead serious.
With a face that handsome, even without trying, Hojou Kyousuke was a walking insult to every other guy on the field.
