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461 – The True Yakuza Ojou-sama
🕑 Added 2025-08-20 15:00:22 +0000 UTCIt was some time earlier, when flashy motorcycles roared down the streets of Tokyo, their riders like lunatics hunting for cherry blossoms that still bloomed at the end of April.
Blazing headlights carved streaks of white across the asphalt, weaving together into totems of modern civilization.
Inside a luxury high-rise apartment—
A spacious bedroom.
On a bed large enough to fit four or five people, the snow-white sheets looked pristine, yet even they couldn’t compare to the pale, dazzling beauty of the legs sprawled across them.
Legs so perfect that just seeing them was enough to make you think the upper body was unnecessary.
They fulfilled every fantasy imaginable.
The length?
Let’s just say they were so long they made the old saying true: “An elder sister’s legs are worth more than a younger sister’s life.” Skin white as fresh snow, flawless from top to bottom.
Relaxed calves, slim and straight, flowed seamlessly into thighs that were neither soft nor flabby, but firm and rounded, the balance of strength and elegance.
These weren’t just beautiful—they were honed, a weapon born of training.
Tracing upward, the hem of a loose white T-shirt barely covered the tops of those thighs, leaving only the faintest glimpse of shadow in the valley beyond.
Half-hidden, half-revealed, an allure strong enough to steal one’s soul.
Even the lecherous moonlight couldn’t resist, spilling across that flawless figure inch by inch.
The oversized shirt rose high and proud over her chest, bringing to mind the old saying:
“From the front they’re mountains, from the side they’re peaks—each angle a new landscape.”
From below, between those legs, you’d see nothing but two round, majestic hills and the canyon between them.
From above, you’d take in the full panorama, two perfect peaks like porcelain bowls turned upside-down, with just the faintest spill of white escaping through the collar.
No curtains hung over the floor-to-ceiling windows, no screens to block the night.
The moonlight poured freely in—but there was no one outside to see.
The tower stood high above its neighbors, a favorite of Tokyo’s wealthy elite.
Kisaki had once strongly recommended this kind of place to Kyousuke.
“For the same price, you can live next to washed-up celebrities, dentists, or small factory owners… or here, where your neighbors are A-listers and CEOs.”
So what was the woman who lived alone in such luxury doing at this very moment?
Applying a face mask while listening to classical music?
Laughing at the endless stream of thirsty texts lighting up her phone?
Reading German philosophy as a bedtime book?
“Zooey! Grand Order Form! Zooey!!”
The sudden roar shattered the elegance.
The woman with those perfect legs bellowed like a madwoman.
But when her phone screen lit up, her hands went limp, and the device slipped onto the bed.
On the display wasn’t the newest limited character, Grand Order Zooey. No. It was—of all things—SR Lamretta.
Yes—she was playing Granblue Fantasy.
Really, what kind of refined woman stays up until three or four in the morning?
Does she have a death wish? And yet, her skin was still that smooth and firm—an injustice worthy of execution!
“Uuuugh…”
She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow, kicking her legs like a child and thumping the mattress hard enough to make it shake.
“That’s already ten ten-pulls!!”
Tears welled up as she sat up again, her pitiful, despairing face so heartbreakingly beautiful you’d think—well, maybe just her upper body would be enough.
She grabbed her phone, ready to vent to her friends about her tragic misfortune, to denounce the sins of this exploitative game.
Everyone knew about bad gacha luck… but why did she have to be the unlucky one? Who decided she was born on the wrong continent?
She’d changed games, even changed phones, yet her fate never changed.
Was this… account-bound destiny?
Real-name verification for being cursed?!
Her fingers flew as she opened chat after chat.
Not copy-pasting—oh no.
Her rage couldn’t be contained in a few lines.
Besides, she was a Japanese teacher.
Writing impassioned mini-essays was second nature.
The chat windows were titled: Yukari, Miki, Annoying Brat Haruno.
But! No matter how many heartfelt essays she sent, no one replied.
“Ahh, Yukari, Miki, Haruno… why won’t you answer me?”
The one benefit of getting older, she thought, was that you rarely needed to use honorifics anymore.
But life… life was as lonely as snow.
Her mood sank further. Fortunately, she noticed the time.
3:40 a.m.
“Oh. No wonder. Damn game, stealing my youth! I could’ve been chatting with a dozen people by now!”
Not that she ever actually talked to strangers online.
Still, she consoled herself:
“Good. At least my friends are all sleeping properly. That’s how it should be—you need rest if you’ve got school or work tomorrow.”
Yes, she might stay up gaming, but she was still a responsible teacher.
She knew the dangers of addiction, the harm of late nights.
She lectured her friends about it all the time.
Her own hypocrisy didn’t bother her in the least.
But with no one to complain to, the frustration festered.
She had no choice but to open a gaming group chat she’d joined.
Of course, they were all addicts too—wide awake at this ungodly hour.
Didn’t any of them have class or work tomorrow?!
Sighing, Hiratsuka Shizuka typed a message:
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“Good evening. You’re all awake already? Impressive. Only three hours until it’s time to get up, after all.”
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The chat, lively a moment ago, froze. Then the flood came.
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“As expected of Mud-Cat. Every time she speaks, it makes me question my existence.”
“Damn it, thanks for reminding me… Three hours of sleep… Screw it, I’ll just pass out in class.”
“I have one question: why does humanity have to work?”
“This is torture… my brain has stopped functioning…”
“Mud-Cat’s words always hit home.”
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“Mud-Cat”—that was Hiratsuka Shizuka’s nickname, borrowed from Natsume Sōseki’s haiku: ‘Rain falls endlessly, the mud-cat sleeps to death on the sutra.’
She’d only been using it for the last two years. Before that, her handle had been: ‘Grandma said, I am God.’
In PvP games, that kind of name was like waving a red flag—you got mobbed instantly.
She loved it.
After all, what kind of woman who devoured fighting manga would ever settle for a quiet, casual playstyle? Pets and scenery screenshots?
Please. PKs and brawls were where the fun was.
As for her new, poetic nickname? That had been bestowed upon her by none other than the ink-wash-painting beauty herself, Yukino Yukari.
At first, Shizuka had resisted, thinking her old handle was far cooler.
But then Miki had mercilessly asked:
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“What kind of person do you imagine when you see that name?”
————————————————————————
“Obviously, a brilliant, handsome genius!” Shizuka had replied proudly. “It’s the distilled essence of Kamen Rider Kabuto, you know!”
“…If you really want to call that chuuni nonsense ‘brilliant and courageous,’ fine, I won’t argue. And ‘handsome’? Ugh, whatever. But you— you’re a gorgeous woman!”
Oh, right. She was a gorgeous woman.
Hiratsuka Shizuka suddenly had an epiphany.
Damn it. Nearly thirty, never dated once.
Got thrown out of a matchmaking event for decking a thief when she was supposed to be the damsel in distress.
Scared men half to death on double dates just by glaring at them—one even raised his hand timidly before speaking, as if asking permission.
After all those humiliations, she’d practically forgotten the obvious fact: she was a stunning beauty.
“Seriously, why don’t I have a boyfriend? Why am I not married yet?
Why am I still gaming at this hour?
Why is some stupid gacha mocking me as an unlucky scrub?
Why am I sleeping alone on a bed this big? Why…?”
Her tragic flashback ended.
Radiating a black, ominous aura, Shizuka posted her cursed gacha screenshot in the group chat.
Sure enough, the other insomniac addicts showered her with sympathy.
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“I once bragged to my friend about my ‘spark intuition,’ and he threw a pile of useless free single-pull tickets in my face. But if he saw Mud-Cat-sensei, he’d kneel and beg forgiveness.”
“I knew gacha had shills, but I didn’t know they had Astral-plane level bad luck.
My dad always told me to study biographies of businessmen for strategy, but I never expected to witness such masterclass suffering in Mud-Cat herself.
This is the ultimate move—‘Laugh at me for being unlucky, but in truth, we’re all unlucky!’”
“Brilliant, brilliant. If I hadn’t pulled Zooey on my first ten-roll, Mud-Cat’s screenshot would’ve given me a brain hemorrhage.”
“….”
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Reading their replies, Shizuka felt her fiery rage cool into something darker—like black liquid slowly pooling in her chest.
“This month’s salary… I’m rolling it all.”
The air, late at night, felt weirdly cheerful thanks to the presence of one pitiful unluckster.
Suddenly, the group chat lit up with a different kind of message:
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“Breaking news: Yakuza vs Delinquents! The downfall of the Yamazakura Group?!”
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Yamazakura Group? The words made Shizuka’s eyes sharpen.
The sender was “Hanabana Tarou,” a random high school kid.
Barely spent money, grinded the game for everything, just your everyday student.
They’d chatted a bit once when both were up late.
If she remembered right, he lived somewhere in Katsushika.
As for the Yamazakura Group—Shizuka flipped to her contacts and, sure enough, found “Doma Village (Yamazakura Group).”
She had them filed in a special category.
Every name in it carried a “—Group” suffix.
She glance at the time that shown—almost 4 a.m.
‘Are the yakuza this overworked nowadays?’
Her eyebrow twitched.
Even if they had to fight, shouldn’t it be over by now, with everyone lying in a hospital bed groaning?
And delinquents?
Images flooded her mind: pompadours, long coats, “Erobu Yuu,” bad graffiti.
Weren’t those kids supposed to be asleep by now?
And since when did delinquents have the guts to pick fights with the Yamazakura?
That wasn’t some petty gang—that was a legit syndicate, with members who’d chopped off their pinkies.
She frowned at her phone again.
And the group was as confused as she was.
But the longer she read, the more absurd it became.
Maybe she really was just too sleep-deprived to think straight.
A flood of nonsense filled the chat.
‘A yakuza ojou-sama in a black kimono with a katana?’
Well, a yakuza ojou-sama did exist.
Long, glossy black hair that swirled like a crescent moon with every turn.
Long, straight legs that could steal hearts at a glance.
A breathtaking beauty pursued by every man from teenage punks to middle-aged bosses.
‘But a delinquent girl in a sailor uniform wielding a machine gun?’
Get real! Delinquent girls were all tacky posers.
Next to a yakuza ojou-sama, they didn’t even compare.
Of course, all of it was pure fantasy.
Anyone with a brain could guess exactly who they were describing.
A woman whose “daily hobbies” included gaming, tokusatsu, and fighting manga.
Who couldn’t care less about flower arranging or tea ceremony, but excelled in aikido and mixed martial arts.
Who spent weekends drinking—and if she wanted to be “classy,” she’d wear camo pants and a tank top, then drive her off-road vehicle into the wilderness… to keep drinking.
Her day job? A Japanese teacher who sometimes blew too much money on gacha and lived off instant ramen.
But her home was a luxury tower apartment in central Tokyo.
Her cars? A Toyota Land Cruiser and an Aston Martin Vantage.
Almost none of her friends knew anything about her family.
Even her closest companions had never once visited her home.
With a profile like that—what else could she be but an assassin?
Even spies at least bothered to fake a husband and a kid.
In truth, this ordinary-seeming Japanese teacher—always spouting outdated memes—was none other than the daughter of the Higashikawa Syndicate, one of Tokyo’s three great yakuza families.
Right now, this “ojou-sama” was reading the group’s over-the-top praise for the so-called yakuza princess, secretly delighted while sneakily giving a few thumbs-up of her own.
She even thought smugly:
‘If these idiots flatter me just a bit more, I might even forgive their earlier insults.’
‘If they really butter me up, maybe I’ll even show them what a real yakuza ojou-sama is like.’
A black kimono? Please. Unless her old man died, no one wore that.
A katana? How low-class.
Who used blades and guns anymore?
The modern way was to open a bigger, flashier pachinko parlor across from the enemy’s, fill it with machines themed after the hottest anime, drive the competition into bankruptcy when they couldn’t make payroll.
That was true yakuza survival—adapting with the times.
As for being a “princess”? No way she’d ever set foot in such shady places.
She’d attended all-girls schools her whole life, capped off by Ochanomizu University—the so-called “women’s Todai.”
That was what a real ojou-sama was.
