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451 – Sailor Uniform Delinquent Girl vs. Yakuza Heiress
🕑 Added 2025-08-15 15:00:19 +0000 UTCThe night was pitch black, but the grey mansion blazed with lights, glowing like the final treasure chest in a video game.
Even though the members of the Rampaging Angels had reined in their engines and shouting under Kisaki’s orders, the sheer size of the gathering was enough to wake the nearby residents.
A few house lights flicked on—only to quickly go dark again.
Kisaki casually turned his head.
In the nearest house, behind a half-closed curtain, he could faintly make out half a head peeking out. Someone was spying.
He looked away, unconcerned.
In Japan, the reason yakuza groups had survived so long wasn’t just history and legal loopholes—it was also how they operated.
Registered syndicates could set up headquarters in residential neighborhoods without issue… even right next to a police station if they wanted.
The Japanese constitution granted the right to free association, so in a twisted way, yakuza groups were no different from a neighborhood committee.
And in certain times, neighborhood committees had even created their own regional laws—executing people wasn’t unheard of.
If yakuza fought yakuza, the authorities would often turn a blind eye.
But if civilians got caught in the crossfire, the group could be labeled a terrorist organization and wiped out completely.
That’s why, while the locals were worried, they weren’t terrified.
Still… anyone who called the police might find themselves the target of retaliation later.
Even so… this couldn’t drag on too long.
Kisaki thought to himself.
“Gorou, go say hello,” Kisaki ordered.
“Got it.” Gorou nodded, stepped forward, cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed:
“Listen up in there! You’re surrounded! If you don’t want to die, then—”
‘BANG!’
Before he could finish, Kisaki’s fist slammed into his head.
“Idiot! Don’t wake people up!” Kisaki barked.
A few more house lights flicked on in the neighborhood—then just as quickly off.
“But they’re making so much noise, Shizuka and the others are definitely already awake,” Gorou muttered, rubbing his head.
“Moron! It’s about the rules!”
Yes, the rules—ridiculous as they were.
Even if they ended up beating each other bloody and giving the neighbors heart attacks, they couldn’t officially disturb the peace.
Kisaki knew all about these face-saving, hypocritical codes of conduct.
While Kisaki scolded Gorou, in a single-family home next to the Yamazakura HQ, a chubby man in a T-shirt and shorts was peering through his window.
What’s going on? Did one of Yamazakura’s rivals show up?
A midnight ambush? How shameless!
The man’s name was Hataro.
He wasn’t woken up—he simply hadn’t gone to bed yet.
Why would he? It wasn’t even 4 a.m.
His body might be stuck in the present, but his mind lived in tomorrow.
Normal people slept at midnight.
He slept at noon. Think about it—he was basically living in the future.
When the first motorcycle passed by, he didn’t care.
But after the fourth one roared past, he yanked off his headphones in irritation.
Which bastards were ruining his isekai adventures with his anime wives?
Don’t get him wrong—he wasn’t planning to shout at them.
He wasn’t some Showa-era old man with the guts for that.
He was just going to jot down their license plates and report it in the morning.
But when he finally dragged his heavy body out of his chair, pulled the curtain aside, and looked out the window… his plump face went pale.
These weren’t yakuza—they were delinquents!
Flashy bikes, matching uniforms—you could spot them a mile away.
And unlike yakuza, who usually stayed in their own shady circles, delinquents were troublemakers who looked for problems.
Idiots! They had the money for those ugly oversized backrests—why not slap on a cute anime girl decal? Itasha bikes were the height of romance!
Even if you didn’t have a girlfriend, you could still ride with a beautiful waifu. What could be happier?
In Hataro’s mind, the perfect bike would have:
A gorgeous anime wife decal on the gas tank—a blue-black ponytailed beauty with her legs spread just enough so her hips rested at the bottom curve of the tank.
The rider would only need to glance down to see her blushing face and pale chest, leaning just close enough to touch.
Custom handlebars—if money was tight, just rip a mousepad and stick it on.
A backrest shaped like a cute anime girl, so leaning back felt like being hugged.
A modified exhaust—not that horrible wailing, but the sweet moan of a waifu (or at least a speaker playing it).
Painted wheels with a blonde-haired jerk on them, so he’d be crushed over and over.
Looking at the bikes below, Hataro shook his head.
These idiots didn’t know how to spend their money.
No wonder the Yamazakura group was getting ambushed in the middle of the night.
Pulling the curtain closed, he left just a sliver open to peek through.
He had no intention of calling the cops. If you offended Yamazakura, you could still get help from your parents or work to kick them out—they were businessmen, after all.
But delinquents? That was another story.
———————————————————————
“Breaking News: Yakuza vs. Delinquents! Is Yamazakura Finished?”
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He was scared, sure—but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the show.
His short, stubby fingers flew over his phone as he posted the news in a gaming group chat.
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“Yakuza? People still have yakuza groups? Do they even have money to touch up their tattoos?”
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“Uh, I’ve never seen their tattoos, but Yamazakura still has some kind of income, I think,” Hataro replied honestly.
For once, people were actually responding to him—and that put him in a great mood.
He typed furiously, ready to describe the scene in detail and grab more attention.
But before he could hit send, more messages popped up.
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“Is there a kimono-wearing yakuza princess with a katana? You know, the type with white bandages around her chest, pale shoulders, swan-like neck?”
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‘What princess?! Have these guys read too much manga?’ Hataro raged internally.
If such a girl existed, would he be chatting here?
No—he’d already handed over his life savings!
He quickly checked the sender’s ID to make sure it wasn’t one of the group’s popular members.
Then, just as he was about to shatter their fantasy, another message popped up:
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“Well? Well? Hurry up and take a picture! If you get me a photo, I’ll give you ten sets of ten-pulls.”
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Ten-pulls?! Hataro’s eyes widened.
He glanced at the sender’s ID—Tengoku Ichitou, the group’s resident whale.
Swallowing hard, Hataro lowered his phone, placed his hands on the window frame, and slowly leaned his head out to look.
There were no mafia princesses here—just a bunch of rough-looking delinquents.
If you were into guys, a few of them downstairs weren’t bad-looking, but for Hataro, that was cold comfort. He let out a regretful sigh.
Fine, no beauties among the delinquents.
But what about the Yamazakura family?
Usually, it was just a bunch of greasy old men, but in a situation like this, surely they’d reveal some hidden trump card… right?
From his vantage point on the second floor, Hataro had a clear view of the Yamazakura courtyard.
There they were—a group of middle-aged men in striped pajamas huddled behind the gate, butts sticking out, pressing their ears to the wood to eavesdrop on the commotion outside.
Two others were sprawled across the wall in the exact same pose as Hataro himself, peeking over to spy on the scene beyond.
Yep. Old men were still old men.
And seeing them in pajamas instead of suits? Even more of an eyesore.
Hataro grimaced and gagged twice.
Damn it, Yamazakura Group—this is exactly why you’re so weak.
Do you even know what era we’re in? Stop playing by those outdated rules!
Haven’t you heard of the “cute girl economy” yet? If you had even one mafia princess, you wouldn’t be in this sorry state!
Seething, Hataro cursed them in his heart.
Ten full sets of ten-pulls—wasted! He lowered his head to type out a report to his wealthy client: no mafia princess present. But then… a lightbulb went on.
There wasn’t one here in real life—but online?
Oh, there were plenty. And the rich guy wasn’t here to verify anything.
A quick Photoshop job, and nobody would know the difference!
———————————————————————
“Of course there is! She’s gorgeous—long black hair like the night sky draped over her back. Starting today, she’s officially my goddess!”
“Drooling face x10”
———————————————————————
That one line blew up the chat—lurkers came crawling out of the woodwork.
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“Twenty pulls! Take as many pictures as you can!” — Slicing Blade
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Hataro, now thoroughly motivated, imagined all those pajama-wearing geezers as cute mafia girls.
He eagerly opened his browser to hunt for images—but then another message popped up:
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“Do you have a bad girl in a sailor uniform with a machine gun?
Black bob cut, red ribbon bow tie, skirt past the knees, pale slender calves, black strap on the thigh to hold a pistol, and black shoes with heels over three centimeters.”
———————————————————————
What the hell? Even real gangsters usually only carry pistols—who the hell rides a bike with a machine gun?
And in a sailor uniform, no less! That’s practically a death wish. Hataro glanced at the sender’s ID—it was one of his usual online rivals.
Forget looking for pictures; he was ready to start a fight.
‘If such a bad girl existed, do you think I’d be wasting my time talking to you right now?’
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“Do you? Quick—if you find her, I’ll give you every single SSR I own!”
———————————————————————
Hataro’s eyes went wide, and his phone nearly slipped from his hands.
When he recovered, he didn’t even check for damage—he just stared at the sender’s ID: False Words.
This guy was even richer than Slicing Blade!
“Boss… you mean…?” he typed cautiously.
“As many pulls as it takes—until you get them all. Stop talking. Is she there or not?”
The rich man was impatient.
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“Yes! Absolutely yes!”
———————————————————————
He didn’t even hesitate. Sailor-uniform bad girl? Martian princess? He’d deliver anything.
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“Are you serious? First a mafia princess, now a machine-gun bad girl? You dreaming?” Slicing Blade chimed in suspiciously.
“Sorry, my mistake earlier—no mafia princess. Just the machine-gun bad girl.”
———————————————————————
Twenty pulls were nothing compared to unlimited pulls. He wasn’t stupid.
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“How do you even mistake something like that? Isn’t there supposed to be a big fight? Send us a wide shot first.” — False Words
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A wide shot?
Hataro hesitated. If that photo got out and either side saw it, he might not live to see tomorrow.
———————————————————————
“You’re just lying, aren’t you? It’s bad enough you suck at games, but now you’re wasting our time?”
“Yeah, a sailor-uniform machine-gun girl is way too unrealistic.”
“I still believe in the mafia princess!”
———————————————————————
“It’s a real fight! The Yamazakura HQ is surrounded, and there are over a hundred delinquents out there!” Hataro typed frantically.
If they thought he was lying, his online rep was done for.
And the group wasn’t just guys—there were plenty of girls, including one who had posted a selfie before and fit his exact type.
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“Alright, don’t be too harsh. Hataro’s probably just hallucinating from staying up all night. Go to bed, man.” — Mud Cat
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Someone was defending him—Hataro almost cried in gratitude.
Unfortunately, Mud Cat wasn’t a girl, but a foul-mouthed man with terrible gacha luck, probably old enough to be his uncle, who often quoted anime from the Showa era.
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“Boring. I’m out.” x18
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And to Hataro’s horror, one of the copy-pasters was the girl he liked.
Gritting his teeth, he stuck his phone out the window, clenched his jaw, and took the shot.
A bright white flash lit up the night.
Hataro froze, sweat pouring down his face.
‘Oh no… I forgot to cover the flash!’
He was dead. Absolutely dead.
Fear gripped him like a vice, squeezing his heart in a cold, merciless hand.
But before dying, he had to prove he wasn’t a liar.
Forget Mud Cat—he couldn’t let the girl he liked think less of him!
Hands trembling, he opened the chat and sent the photo.
His eyes locked onto the screen, waiting for her reaction.
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“Holy crap!? For real? Hataro, you actually took the shot? You trying to get yourself killed?”
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Damn it—that was her. The one who had been mocking him the loudest earlier.
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“Wait… did you have the flash on? This is so touching—were you afraid it wouldn’t come out clear?”
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Touching, my ass! That wasn’t fear of a blurry photo—it was fear of dying faster!
Still, despite himself, Hataro’s heart soared—because it was her who sent that message.
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“I’m not trying to show off how brave I am. I just want you all to know—Hataro is an honest man!”
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