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442 Whose Knight Are You!?
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 15:00:18 +0000 UTCIf sarcasm were a formal field of study, the residents of the Ruyi Dormitory could easily be ranked into three tiers.
Sitting at the absolute top, on the throne in the heavens, was none other than Kasumigaoka Utaha.
She could look a bothersome person dead in the eye, keep a perfectly straight face, and say, “Seeing something that ugly is truly bad for my eyes. I feel like my abilities just dropped by about 0.5.”
But truth be told… this was still the entry-level stuff.
Yukinoshita might also be a master of sharp-tongued remarks, but unlike Kasumigaoka’s stormy, treacherous depths, her chest metaphorically speaking was perfectly flat and open.
Her barbs didn’t stop at verbal attacks either. Just ask Ishida Hidenori.
When she says something like, “Oh my, you actually have two arms. That must be so inconvenient. Here, let me snap one off for you,” you’d better not assume she’s joking.
After all, someone that harsh toward herself was never going to go easy on others.
In her endless war against Eriri, even if she had been the one to provoke the conflict, she would never just sit there and let Eriri’s counterattacks slide.
Case in point: after she’d exposed the golden-haired princess’s devious little scale trick, she simply left with a haughty, reserved glance leaving behind a fuming little blonde stomping her feet and swatting at Kyousuke with twin golden ponytails.
“Want some tempura?”
Someone’s gentle voice cut through the tension.
The aroma of oil drifted through the air.
One crisp bite and the golden batter scattered in the mouth, mingling the sweetness of fresh shrimp with the nutty fragrance of sesame oil.
A food so magical it could make you forget all your troubles.
And of course, if there’s tempura, there must be ice-cold cola, it was a perfect match, rivaling even beer itself.
Because while fried food is irresistibly fragrant, it inevitably feels greasy… and chilled, fizzy cola is the ideal counter.
Beads of condensation slid down the glass, as if even the calories from the last bite had been cooled away.
One satisfying burp later, all guilt vanished, leaving only joy and appetite.
Right now, with chopsticks in one hand holding a shiso-leaf tempura and a personal glass of cola in the other, all of Eriri’s earlier resentment had vanished.
If it weren’t for the late hour, the TV would already be on.
Watching her eat so blissfully, Kyousuke’s conscience—the one that hadn’t truly run away from home—piped up again.
‘Look at her! Look at Eriri! This pure, innocent, angelic girl, how can you treat her like this? I, your conscience, am in pain! Deep, unbearable pain!’ —Hojou Kyousuke’s Conscience
Kyousuke kept smiling.
Sure, being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to cook in a smoky kitchen was tough for any man… but seeing a girl take a big bite of food he’d made, watching her face light up in happiness, made it all worth it.
Heck, he’d even bring back dirt from Koshien to help her plant flowers—never mind that the dirt was terrible for gardening, and that he would never lose a game in the first place.
‘How shameless can you be?! Don’t pretend this isn’t just because you took Kasumigaoka’s request to tempt Eriri with food at night!’ —Hojou Kyousuke’s Conscience
Kyousuke ignored the accusation, refilled Eriri’s glass, and matched her sweet smile with one of his own.
“So, what do you want next?”
What could he say?
When Utaha-senpai asked like that, who in the world could refuse?
Compared to her, Eriri—who didn’t even pay him—was more like an exploitative boss.
He was practically a saint already.
“…True. If Utaha said that, then there’s no helping it.”
Even Kyousuke’s conscience, famed across the land for its integrity, had to nod in agreement.
Right? If he’d turned Utaha-senpai down in that moment, even Eriri would’ve lost respect for him!
His mind drifted back to two hours ago, to the sight of Utaha-senpai’s alluring form.
Her pale fingers had rested lightly on her full, red lips. “I’m feeling a little hungry~” she’d murmured.
With that beautiful face, those wine-red eyes, and the teasing glimpse of snow-white skin… she was like a succubus from hell, capable of awakening the deepest desires in any man.
Really, the fact that he’d merely agreed to cook something—rather than signing away his soul—was proof of his iron will.
The more he thought about it, the prouder he felt, even giving himself a mental thumbs-up.
Seeing Eriri’s plate emptying, Kyousuke quickly stood to prepare the next batch of tempura.
Whether it was pork cutlets, shrimp, or potatoes, nothing beat the taste of something fresh out of the fryer.
Leave it too long, and it dropped to the same tier as stir-fried green peppers.
Not that green peppers weren’t tasty, but… well, this was Eriri.
If Doraemon actually existed, she’d order her ever-loyal knight, Kyousuke, to capture that blue raccoon-cat and use the “If Phone Booth” to erase every single green pepper from existence.
Whether that destroyed the world or drove pepper-lovers to suicide was none of her concern.
So yes, while stuffing Eriri after a defeat was Utaha-senpai’s scheme, Kyousuke’s cooking was 100% serious.
A man with an entire room full of chef’s knives put his whole heart into it.
It definitely wasn’t to please Utaha-senpai so he could enjoy the satisfaction himself.
And it certainly wasn’t so that Eriri would be too embarrassed to yell at him when she realized she’d gained weight.
…And yet, the next morning, a scream loud enough to pierce the dorm’s soundproof doors and walls rang out.
Shouko, looking alarmed, rushed to open the door marked with a lily-shaped nameplate.
Inside, Eriri stood frozen, staring wide-eyed at the scale as if it were the herald of the apocalypse—her expression screaming, “If this is reality, then green peppers are kindness itself.”
Before Shouko could even ask what happened, a perfectly composed Kasumigaoka strolled into the room.
This dreamy little paradise that would make any young girl squeal and worship its owner.
Back when she lived in the Old Furukawa Garden mansion, a place grand enough to be a tourist attraction, Eriri’s room looked like the top suite in a five-star hotel. Or perhaps more like the chamber of an aristocrat.
A deep British-green bed, luxurious sofas, a lattice glass door leading to a wide balcony, a Persian rug, rattan chairs for afternoon tea, ornate plaster molding on the ceiling, and a canopy over the bed with every detail radiated refinement and elegance.
The only problem? It didn’t look like a teenage girl’s room at all.
Now, in a room smaller than the Spencers’ bathroom, every corner overflowed with girlish charm.
Just last week, the wallpaper featured cheerful lemon-yellow “Mr. Lemon” prints.
Today, it had changed to a cocoa-brown “Princess Cola” pattern.
The rug was no longer covered in symbolic geometric patterns or grand medallion designs—instead, it displayed a mysterious magic circle whose meaning was anyone’s guess.
Kyousuke didn’t know if it actually worked, but he was sure Eriri had designed it herself.
Maybe she was preparing to become a magical girl someday?
Personally, he thought it wasn’t exactly a great career choice—whether a real magical girl or just a middle-school delusion, those stories rarely had happy endings.
Wait a second... watching Eriri sitting in seiza in the center of the magic circle with a face full of tragic despair, Kyousuke suddenly had a thought.
Could it be… the magic circle had actually worked?
In any case, Utaha had already dressed in her school uniform and pushed her way through the crowd.
Her long black-stockinged legs moved with feline grace, her short skirt swaying as she glided into the room.
She glanced at the number on the scale and let out a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of the abyss.
From the doorway, Kyousuke could almost hear Eriri’s heart shatter.
Of course, a single midnight snack wouldn’t make someone gain that much weight.
But just like Eriri had once asked him to tamper with Utaha’s scale, Utaha had also secretly messed with Eriri’s—only she’d come up with the idea on her own, long before Eriri ever did.
As the black miasma of despair began to rise from Eriri’s shoulders, Kyousuke quickly stepped into the room.
“It’s okay! Starting today, I’ll run with you every day!” he declared, kneeling beside her and pulling her into his arms.
Shouko hurried to comfort her too. “It’s fine, Eriri! I’m two kilos heavier than you!”
Eriri, about to unleash her emotions into Kyousuke’s chest, turned to her in gratitude—only to be greeted by the sight of Shouko’s… formidable chest, straining against its buttons like they might pop at any moment.
The kind of “bursting forth” that the term must have been invented for.
“Waa—aaah—!”
The blonde princess tilted back her head and let out a heartrending wail.
“Oh! That’s exactly the kind of despair-cry our music teacher described!” Shouko gasped behind her hand, even though she knew it wasn’t the right time to say it.
Naturally, this only made the princess cry harder, clutching Kyousuke’s thigh with even more force.
Outside the doorway, Utaha high-fived Sakura with smug satisfaction.
In this long, drawn-out war, there would never be a true winner—only an endless cycle of skirmishes.
Out in the garden, Eriri was slumped in a chair, gasping for breath so hard she could barely speak, while listening intently to Sakura’s “strategic advice.”
“Think about it,” Sakura began. “Getting fat doesn’t even have a clear definition, right? What exactly is the perfect body? Just because your weight went up doesn’t mean you’re fat. Maybe you’re moving toward your ideal shape!”
She spoke with the conviction of someone debating Martian resource extraction.
“Look, people without friends can question the definition of friendship and free themselves from loneliness.
So why can’t people who’ve gained weight redefine the standard of a perfect body, so that the weight gain makes sense? Running yourself half to death just because you gained a little weight is ridiculous!”
Sakura sounded downright indignant—like she’d been the one forced to run laps.
In truth, she had run with Eriri, the exact same distance.
But even after doing morning exercises every day, Eriri’s stamina still couldn’t match Sakura’s.
No matter how much her fitness had declined, Sakura’s ten years of effort weren’t something fate could erase easily.
Suddenly, she glanced to the side.
“Sorry, Momotarou, I wasn’t talking about you.”
She lightly nudged the white, fluffy dog lying on the grass, belly-up and limbs splayed.
As Eriri’s best friend, Momotarou had naturally joined the run.
And really, with both “Aniki” and “Big Sis” going, how could he sit it out?
Unfortunately, the little dog wasn’t yet sled-dog material, he’d collapsed halfway and had to be carried the rest of the way by Kyousuke.
Now, hearing Sakura’s apology, Momotarou didn’t even have the strength to say “It’s fine.” He just lay there, tongue lolling.
“You’re so useless, Momotarou. Dogs like you get looked down on!” Eriri scoffed.
“Woof-woof-oof!”
Momotarou barked in a tone that was unmistakably insulting—sounding far too lively for someone who’d just been half-dead.
Then again, Eriri was the same: too tired to talk to Sakura, but full of energy when it came to trading jabs with the dog.
“Stupid puppy!”
“Woof-Woof-Woof!”
The girl and the dog exchanged one last insult, then broke off hostilities and went back to panting in exhaustion.
They stopped just short of taking it too far — a rare show of restraint, unlike that other war they were waging.
The “dog-headed tactician” Yamauchi Sakura, having earned the golden-haired princess’s approval, became even more animated, firing off one questionable idea after another in excitement.
By the time Kyousuke walked out from the living room carrying a plate of honeydew melon, the next battle plan had already been finalized.
Eriri would mobilize every resource at her disposal, her most loyal knight Kyousuke, her most brilliant strategist Sakura, and her most steadfast backers, and her parents to establish a “perfect body standard” with herself as the baseline.
“Let’s start with that magazine that published Naoka’s work last time,” Eriri mused. “I bet a fashion magazine would jump at the chance to discuss the new-generation beauty standard.”
And Naoka would probably be on board too.
After all, if the standard changed, it would benefit her as well.
“Next,” Sakura added, “We send the Rampaging Angels out on the streets to ‘accidentally’ run into those TV street interview shows or some wannabe influencer with a camera.”
“And we can’t forget school,” Kyousuke chimed in. “Get your school’s broadcasting club to do a feature on it, have Katou-san as the guest.”
“The broadcasting club’s a good idea,” Eriri nodded. “They talk about boring stuff every day; they’d love something this fun.”
Then her blue eyes narrowed with a spark of cunning.
“But Megumi is out!”
Smart as she was, Eriri had no trouble recognizing that Megumi’s chest was bigger than hers.
“Send Naoka instead! It’s about time she did something to thank her senpai!”
Terrifying whenever it wasn’t about anything serious, Eriri’s IQ and EQ would skyrocket, slipping into “substitute player” mode without hesitation.
Sitting to the side, quietly spectating, Naoka sighed and covered her face.
She wasn’t planning to refuse, she’d taken part in this kind of nonsense more times than she could count.
Meanwhile, Shouko sat gracefully off to the side, a soft, gentle smile on her face, holding a white handkerchief.
She only moved when the juice from Kyousuke’s melon threatened to drip from his chin, delicately wiping it away.
Yukari-sensei, seated nearby, looked a little uneasy worried the golden-haired princess might suddenly order her to start promoting the “new beauty standard” during class.
But when she followed Kyousuke’s gaze downward, she relaxed.
Like Megumi, she was probably safe from being drafted into this madness.
