After devouring the free lunch with the satisfaction of a king who had just looted a neighboring kingdom, our protagonist leaned back, ignoring the two burning gazes locked onto him. One belonged to the shopkeeper, mourning the tragic loss of his hard-earned money. The other came from Hirata, whose soul was clearly leaving his body, his reputation crumbling into dust. Observing this pitiful scene, our protagonist sighed and muttered, "Pathetic people," before dusting off his hands and making his dramatic exit.
Hirata, still in shock, weakly called out, "But what about group study?"
With an air of benevolence, our protagonist turned back and declared, "I'll join after the exams. For now, I must prioritize more important matters." And with that, he bolted out of the mall like an Olympic sprinter, leaving Hirata standing there like a heartbroken damsel in distress, wiping away imaginary tears. If anyone had been watching closely, they would have seen the tragic evolution of Hirata's expression—from disbelief to betrayal to the haunted look of a man who had just realized he had been played.
The protagonist finally emerged from the mall, basking in the golden glow of the setting sun. His eyes zeroed in on his target: the lone tree where the black-eyed girl lay. Determination ignited in his soul, his fists clenched. He reached into his pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the stones he had carefully selected earlier. With steely resolve, he took a deep breath and muttered, "Today, I will really kill you."
Meanwhile, the black-eyed girl sat peacefully under the tree, lost in the pages of her book, diligently preparing for the upcoming exams. She sighed, muttering, "Life is so hard. If I fail, my class leader might actually eat me..."
Oblivious to her impending doom, she continued reading, completely unprepared for the chaos about to unfold.
With the precision of an elite marksman (or so he believed), our protagonist launched his first rock. It soared through the air, slicing through the tranquil evening breeze—only to be casually deflected mid-flight by some unseen force.
He blinked.
Determined, he hurled another.
*BANG!*
This one not only changed direction mid-air but shot back at him with twice the speed, whizzing past his ear like a sniper's bullet.
"Huh?!" He ducked instinctively, barely avoiding a tragic end.
Fueled by stubborn desperation, he began an all-out assault, flinging stones as if performing an ancient ritual of vengeance. But with every throw, the universe seemed to smite him back. The stones ricocheted, bouncing off tree trunks, swirling through the air like guided missiles, and striking him in various places—the knee, the shin, the forehead.
"GAAAH!" He yelped, as a particularly well-aimed rock smacked his head, making him see stars. "What kind of black magic is this?!"
The black-eyed girl finally looked up from her book, puzzled by the series of agonized groans coming from somewhere nearby. Tilting her head, she noticed the protagonist writhing on the ground, being mercilessly pelted by his own ammunition.
She blinked. "…Is he being attacked by nature?"
Meanwhile, the protagonist lay on the grass, defeated, staring at the sky as another rock thumped onto his stomach for good measure. He gasped out, "Even the laws of physics are biased…!"
The universe had spoken: currently was not the time he would claim victory over the black-eyed girl. Instead, it was the day he learned that sometimes, even inanimate objects had a personal vendetta against you.
Our protagonist, witnessing the universe's blatant bias, awakened his inner revolutionary freedom activist. Raising a fist to the sky, he declared, "I hereby proclaim that this universe discriminates against bad people like us! This unjust favoritism is a violation of the universal laws, and I will protest against this biased world!"
With a sharp, defiant gaze, he turned to the black-eyed girl, issuing a silent yet unmistakable challenge through elaborate and exaggerated hand gestures that could be mistaken for an avant-garde dance routine.
The black-eyed girl, already struggling to focus on her studies, had finally reached her limit. Slamming her book shut with the force of a gavel, she muttered, "Life is already hard enough…" before stepping onto the branch. Then, with the grace of a descending celestial fairy, she leaped off, landing lightly on the grass below, her movements defying all logic and gravity.
Our protagonist's jaw nearly dislocated from the sheer unfairness of it all. "The world is conspiring against me!" he hissed. But his inner turmoil was short-lived as his mind took a sharp detour. Why is she so attractive? His eyes, once filled with rebellious defiance, now gleamed with a different kind of intensity. He found himself staring at her, eyes filled with the unmistakable gleam of lustful curiosity.
The black-eyed girl instantly recognized that gaze—the kind that saw through clothes rather than words. A vein popped on her forehead as she clenched her fists. Without hesitation, she sprang forward, unleashing a flurry of precise, merciless strikes.
Her fists moved like coiled vipers striking their prey. A sharp jab to the solar plexus—a feint. A lightning-fast hook aimed for the temple—redirected into a sweeping elbow. She pivoted with the fluidity of a seasoned martial artist, bringing her knee up, but it met nothing but air as our protagonist's body curved away like a gust of wind.
She switched to rapid hand techniques, her fingers a blur as she executed a wing-chun-style chain punch barrage, her knuckles grazing the very fabric of his shirt. A spinning backfist followed, cutting through the air like a razor, but he evaded by mere inches, his head tilting in slow motion, his hair fluttering from the force of the strike.
Our protagonist, however, remained unnervingly composed, his expression unchanged, still brimming with perverse fascination. He dodged every attack with a liquid smoothness, his body moving as though he had no bones, bending and twisting unnaturally at the last possible moment. Her roundhouse kick passed through where his ribcage should've been, only for him to arch backward like water slipping through a clenched fist.
His uncanny ability to evade made her attacks seem like a choreographed dance. No matter how fast she moved, his reflexes adapted. A sudden low sweep? He hopped lightly, his foot skimming the grass. A straight punch aimed at his nose? He leaned back so effortlessly it seemed gravity had lost its hold on him. The black-eyed girl gritted her teeth in frustration.
Is he dodging, or is he just too shameless to register my attacks?
Through the rapid exchange, he remained focused—not on the fight, but on her moving figure. Her flowing hair, the way her muscles tensed with each attack, the sheer grace of her movements—his mind was nowhere near survival. He dodged not out of fear, but with the nonchalance of a man enjoying a live-action performance of his own questionable imagination.
The black-eyed girl, finally realizing that her current approach wasn't enough, narrowed her eyes. "You perverted rat…" she hissed. Then, with a sudden shift in stance, she prepared for her next, decisive move.
Our protagonist, still avoiding blows without changing his dreamy expression, blinked. Oh? She's switching styles?
But before he could even appreciate the artistry of her movement, the true storm began.
As the black-eyed girl's movements became faster and faster, her strikes grew sharper, each blow cutting through the air like a blade. The male protagonist, who had previously been dodging like water slipping through fingers, started struggling to keep up.
Her fists blurred, her feet barely touched the ground before launching her forward again. Like a storm of relentless precision, she closed in with movements so refined they felt almost supernatural. Every dodge he attempted was met with an immediate counter. A feint, a sidestep, a low kick—she read his body like an open book.
Then, with an abrupt pivot, she stepped into his space. A sharp elbow crashed into his ribs, making him stagger. Before he could react, a spinning kick landed against his chest, sending him flying backward. He barely had time to register the impact before a well-placed strike to his knee brought him crashing down to the ground. His body slammed against a nearby tree, leaving a visible crack on its bark.
Coughing, gasping, he looked up, dazed. The world spun. The black-eyed girl stood over him, completely unruffled.
"Caught you."
Before he could even attempt to crawl away, she swiftly tied his hands with a rope she had prepared in an instant, like she had done this a thousand times before. In one smooth motion, she dragged him across the ground, his protests muffled by his own groans of pain. His body flopped like a defeated fish as she hauled him to another tree, where she firmly secured him to one of the main branches.
He let out a pitiful scream as he dangled there, his body swaying slightly with the evening breeze.
From that point, the forest echoed with his muffled cries, a mixture of protest and suffering.
The black-eyed girl, now completely ignoring his predicament, calmly returned to her study materials. She settled down beneath him, flipping open her book with a peaceful sigh. Then, as if he were nothing more than an inconveniently placed cushion, she rested her head against his trembling side, using him as a makeshift pillow.
The male protagonist, now reduced to nothing but a glorified piece of furniture, shuddered like a fish out of water, his entire body stiff with fear. His mind screamed at the sheer injustice of it all.
"I hate girls…" he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The black-eyed girl didn't even glance up from her notes. She simply muttered, "Shut up," and pressed down harder against him, shifting slightly to get more comfortable.
He let out another muffled whimper of despair, resigning himself to his fate, knowing that escape was nothing more than a distant dream.