The school building was already in sight when Hikigaya Hachiman got off his bike and began pushing it along.
The designated bike parking area was just to the left of the entrance—he'd already scoped that out ahead of time.
From a distance, he spotted the slope leading up to the school gates. His heart stirred with anticipation—it was finally about to begin.
Apparently, he wasn't the only one who liked to zone out dramatically in front of the school.
There, standing at the entrance, was a figure dressed in a brown trench coat, completely out of place among the sea of black uniforms.
Arms akimbo, the person looked to be almost twice Hachiman's size—intimidating, to say the least.
'Could he be the disciplinary head?' Hachiman wondered.
Instinctively, he fell in line behind a group of other students, hoping to sneak past unnoticed.
He hadn't done anything wrong, but just being near this kind of person made him anxious.
"Tokyo's Second Swordmaster!!"
The thunderous voice came from behind him.
At that name—long buried and thoroughly embarrassing—Hachiman froze.
'Don't stop, idiot! Keep walking!' he screamed at his legs internally.
'If you stop now, people will think they were yelling at you!'
Wait—maybe the smarter move was to pretend curiosity like everyone else.
Look around like you're trying to figure out who that ridiculous name belongs to.
Yes, brilliant plan.
With a perfectly practiced look of feigned curiosity, Hachiman slowed to a stop and turned his head along with his classmates, scanning the area as if genuinely intrigued.
'Okay... why is that trench coat guy pointing at me?' The confusion almost cracked his "innocent bystander" face, and he hastily shifted his bike to the side.
But the man's finger stayed locked on him.
Then, it hit him.
That wasn't a teacher at all.
Underneath the trench coat was a regular school uniform—the same as his. Judging by the necktie, he was also a first-year.
'Are you not hot?' Hachiman thought incredulously.
'It's spring—there's no reason to wear both a coat and a jacket. And don't even try to pass that off as fashion.'
But all of that was secondary.
'HOW DOES SOMEONE IN REAL LIFE KNOW THAT HUMILIATING NICKNAME!?'
Hachiman's expression began to crumble.
He didn't know how this guy knew, but one thing was clear: he must never acknowledge it.
If he did, his high school life would be over before it even started.
He turned away, dropped the act, and made a strategic retreat.
The sound of his bicycle wheels turning felt unnaturally loud in the quiet, and so did the heavy footsteps behind him—each one like Godzilla stomping ashore.
'Please don't let this be about me...' Hachiman silently begged.
A weight landed on his shoulder.
He turned to see a gloved hand—the kind with open fingers that you'd expect a pole-dancer to wear in a seedy nightclub.
Not that he'd been to one; he couldn't afford it, and he didn't have stylish friends who would take him.
He'd only ever seen that kind of thing on certain late-night TV shows. And even that required waiting until the whole family was out.
"It's me! It's me!" the stranger declared proudly.
'Yes, yes, I know exactly who you are.'
You're the weirdo who showed up on the first day of school wearing a trench coat over your uniform, looking like some bizarre blend of a drifter and a failed comedian.
In Hojou's novels, someone like you would be the puzzle piece in a twisted murder plot.
Wearing those fingerless gloves and striking bizarre poses at the school gate… you're the type who's guaranteed to spend three years of high school alone.
'Please, stay far away. I really don't want to end up like you.'
Hachiman summoned every ounce of acting he'd picked up from years of TV drama binging and forced an awkward, confused smile.
"Uh, who... are you?"
"It's me! The Third Swordmaster of Tokyo—General Kenhou!"
The guy's grin was over-the-top and shameless, but strangely warm.
Aside from the idiot captain from his middle school kendo club, no one had ever smiled so happily upon seeing him.
It was a smile full of pure joy—like meeting an old friend after years apart.
Wait, no way... it's actually him? The "General Kenhou" from the chatroom? We're meeting in real life?!
On the very first day of high school?! Screaming cringey nicknames at the school gates like we're in some kind of anime?!
If this were an anime, then dear gods of fiction, could I please have my bob-haired loli back?
Someone who calls themselves "General Kenhou" should obviously be a legally loli-sized girl under 150 cm tall.
That would at least be kinda cute.
I, Hikigaya Hachiman, would gladly don armor made of cardboard tubes if that were the case.
Let's get one thing straight: "Tokyo's Second Swordmaster" and "Third Swordmaster General" were middle school-era chuunibyou nicknames.
Everyone goes through that phase, right?
There were worldbuilding fantasies too—like how the world was ruled by seven gods, three of creation, three of destruction, and the last.
A nameless trickster god who threw the world into chaos: Hikigaya Hachiman, the god of endless debt and divine procrastination.
As a divine slacker, he kept a diary of the godly realm and submitted a report to the celestial government every three months.
Totally normal, right?
That was all middle school stuff.
The chatroom, the delusions—they were shattered and lost to the cracks of time.
Like an eraser that vanishes the moment it hits the floor—swallowed by some mysterious dimension.
That chatroom, by the way? "Tokyo Hero Association," obviously.
All the members were diehard One Punch Man fans.
Aside from their real accounts, they had throwaway ones with names like "Saitama," "Genos," "Tornado of Terror," and "Mumen Rider."
Everyone fully immersed themselves in the fantasy, addressing each other solely by their hero aliases.
At the top of this imaginary power structure stood their undisputed leader—Tokyo's First Swordmaster, Hojou Kyousuke.
A true hero even in real life.
With someone like that above him, Hachiman had humbly taken the title of Second Swordmaster.
But then came this guy—"General Kenhou."
Who just decided to join the Swordmaster hierarchy.
Without warning, without a proper duel of words, he started calling himself the Third Swordmaster, and eventually, "Third Swordmaster General."
Every time Hachiman posted in the chat, this guy would instantly respond with his full, embarrassing title.
There was no honor in it, no rules, no challenge—just raw, unfiltered cringe.
"…So it's you, General Kenhou," Hachiman muttered in defeat.
No use hiding now.
He had no choice but to acknowledge his past life in the dark corners of the internet.
Thankfully, no monsters were coming to assassinate him… or the world really would fall apart.
Haha.
He pushed his bike, praying for a quiet corner to escape to.
'Wasn't chuunibyou supposed to heal once you hit high school? Why was this guy still in full power mode?'
'And how did he even recognize me!? We all kept our real identities secret in that chatroom.'
'That's why I immediately disbanded it after sending out that one message…'
"That's right! It's me—Zaimokuza Yoshiteru, Tokyo's Third Swordmaster General! I've crossed the Dark Ages, slain countless Word Beasts and man-eating demons, and now… we meet again on this fated land!"
Back in his chunibyou (delusional middle school phase) days, he had a comrade-in-arms—oh wait, now he actually knew the guy's name: Zaimokuza Yoshiteru.
That guy had zero shame, loudly declaring how rare and miraculous this reunion between swordmasters was.
Hikigaya could clearly see people around them panicking and quickly distancing themselves.
He also understood exactly why Zaimokuza called their third year of middle school "the dark age."
Still, as he'd said before—aside from his family and that idiot kendo club captain—Zaimokuza was the only person who ever looked genuinely happy to see him.
On the first day of high school, he'd seen old classmates reuniting in front of the school gates, joyfully shouting each other's names and sharing the thrill of being at the same school again.
He'd imagined that scene once, too—just briefly—but knew it was never going to happen for him.
He didn't have any friends like that.
Hah. What's so great about it anyway?
Those guys were probably secretly annoyed.
Having someone who knows the real you around just ruins the chance to brag about your "glorious past." Might even get some dirt spilled.
Tough luck.
And yet, before he could finish scoffing at the thought—this guy came out of nowhere, genuinely and passionately calling himself an "old friend."
"So, why didn't you take the number two spot yourself? Why willingly hand it over to me?"
Hachiman lifted his eyes.
Strangely enough, two and a half years of kendo hadn't managed to fix his dead-fish stare.
Even a loser thrown into a sports club usually gets a bit fired up—but not him.
He was as stubbornly unmotivated as a turtle in winter.
"Actually, it's a good thing," his kendo captain had once said. "Opponents will never be able to read your attack intentions from those eyes. It's like fighting a void."
Unfortunately, even with his pair of "deathblow eyes," their team didn't make it past the first round of preliminaries.
Their dreams of competing in the national tournament were crushed before they even got started.
"Why, you ask?! Because of your heroic deeds!" Zaimokuza bellowed—then suddenly noticed the stares around them and dropped to a dramatic whisper.
"As the third-ranked swordmaster in Tokyo, I officially recognized your qualifications. You have the potential to become the Handless Demon—the second general!"
Hachiman knew exactly why he wasn't granted the top title.
They had discussed it before.
The guy always trailing behind Kyousuke, with those sly fox-like eyes—Kisaki Tetta—was clearly dangerous.
Best not to make him an enemy.
"Oh, that's why? I'm surprised you still remember all that, considering the chatroom's been dead for so long." Hachiman said flatly.
Zaimokuza had once described the disbanding of their "Tokyo Hero Association" group chat as a disaster on par with Ragnarok—like Fenrir swallowing Odin.
The end of an age.
The beginning of darkness.
Or maybe… trauma.
That word had a nice, teenage flavor. Made it all sound a bit more poetic.
Back then, drunk on heroic fantasies, they'd used the chat to share their so-called "heroic deeds."
Most of the group boasted about busting up crime rings or saving kids from car accidents.
Only Zaimokuza and Hachiman posted about helping old ladies cross the street or fetching laundry blown away by the wind.
But Hachiman had been Tokyo's Number Two Swordmaster!
A loyal follower of the Handless Demon!
There was no way he was going to stay a nameless nobody forever.
If Saitama-sensei could protect kids before he even had powers, then so could he!
So, he went hunting for school bullies.
The only problem was—he lived in Bunkyo Ward, where such creatures were basically extinct.
But he knew that was thanks to "that person," and he felt no resentment.
He just shifted his gaze next door, to Taito Ward.
Eventually, he found one—an actual delinquent, textbook material, mugging an elementary schooler.
This wasn't some anime tough guy.
This was the real deal.
Armed with a shinai he'd bought with a year's worth of allowance, he charged in... and got his nose broken with a single punch.
The rest was a blur.
When he came to, he was lying in a hospital bed, right hand and left leg wrapped in bandages.
In hindsight, he understood—never mess with real delinquents.
They're just as brainless as you, but with even worse impulse control.
Still, even while aching all over, he was weirdly elated.
First thing he did was ask the nurse to take a photo of him.
Then, with his non-dominant hand, he painstakingly typed up a 500-character account of his "heroic" deed and posted it to the Hero Association chat.
At that moment, the vice-leader—known as the "Green Storm"—was boasting about standing up to a brutal senior at his dojo.
Others chimed in, praising him and sharing their own tales.
Hah. I, Hikigaya Hachiman—no, Tokyo's Second Swordmaster—am no longer a nobody.
I saved a child from a delinquent using nothing but my sword and my wallet.
Sure, I paid a small price—but that's beside the point.
After posting, the chat went dead silent.
They must be stunned by my bravery, he thought. Struggling to find words to express their admiration.
Then the notifications started.
One after another, people left the group.
Before he could process what was happening, the chat had been disbanded.
Hah… they were probably devoured by some internet-born monster.
Swallowed whole, souls and all—forever unable to ascend to heaven.
Idiots!
Lying in bed with nothing better to do, Hachiman eventually figured it out.
Of course they were all chunibyou like him—but unlike him, they weren't stupid enough to try being actual heroes in the real world.
Every story they shared? He later traced them back to anime and novels.
They left the chat because they were afraid.
Afraid that whatever idiocy he'd stirred up might follow them through the internet and blow up in their faces.
Looking back now, only he and Zaimokuza were the real fools.
The only ones who tried to do good for real.
"Tokyo's Second Swordmaster, what nonsense are you spouting? Your heroic tale is so legendary, not even time distortions, the Earth's destruction, or the sun's explosion could erase it from my memory!"
"Look—I even wrote a commendation for you back then!"
Zaimokuza, offended to his core, raised his voice again as he dramatically held up his phone.
"No one wants to see that crap. And enough with the chunibyou already," Hachiman grumbled—even as he quickly snatched the phone.
His beady eyes scanning the screen like a paper shredder chewing through text.
Weirdly made-up words.
If he hadn't been through years of this kind of delusion, he would've had no idea what they meant.
So… Zaimokuza had decided to give him the title of Number Two back then, huh?
How disgustingly sweet.
For someone who looks like a battle-hardened tiger from Kōshū, the guy was unexpectedly mushy when it came to praise.
So embarrassing.
A flush spread across Hikigaya Hachiman's face—the kind of embarrassment that looked like he might cough up blood.
Yet there he stood, basking in two-years-late praise with the satisfaction of a man who had finally been recognized.
Damn it.
Why couldn't he just will the document into his own phone? What's the point of calling these things smartphones if they're not even a little smart?
While he grumbled to himself, the two had arrived at the bike shed.
Hikigaya parked his bike, drew in a deep breath, and summoned all his courage to ask:
"General Swordmaster… wanna exchange contact info?"
"Ahem, ahem. Since thou hast made such a heartfelt request, I, in all my magnanimity, shall grant thy wish!"
Zaimokuza Yoshiteru let out a strange, theatrical cough—a signature quirk he clearly crafted to fit his self-proclaimed Swordmaster persona.
Hikigaya noticed the awkward phrasing, of course, but didn't make a mental jab at it.
He understood perfectly well: this was how a socially anxious chuuni covered up his nervousness.
He had his own tricks too—like the way he now handed over his phone with both hands and a stiff forty-five-degree bow, as if submitting a marriage application.
"Hey… send me that post you just showed me, would you? You made it for me anyway, right?"
"Ahem… ahem…"
"…"
They chatted casually as they walked toward the notice board under the school building.
Hikigaya Hachiman was placed in Class 1-F. Zaimokuza Yoshiteru landed in Class 1-C.
'So we're not in the same class, huh…' Hikigaya thought, a little disappointed.
He had dared to hope, for a brief moment, that he might finally have a friend like the otaku guys in anime.
Not that he wasn't one of them himself.
Actually, the way he phrased that made it sound like he wasn't.
"Ahem, ahem."
There it was again—Zaimokuza's trademark cough.
Zaimokuza, you don't have to keep coughing to signal you're about to talk.
Just say my name.
Hachiman, Hikigaya, or even "Second Swordmaster of Tokyo"—I'd answer to any of them.
That's my loyalty… as a friend.
"What's up, General Swordmaster?" he turned around—just in time to see Zaimokuza suddenly teleport two meters away, wearing the look of a guy thinking, "Who's this Swordmaster fellow? Sounds weird."
You bastard.
Who was it yelling that nickname at the school gate five minutes ago?
"Zaimokuza," Hachiman called out, finally giving in.
They had already exchanged real names back by the bike shed, after all.
At the sound of his name, the guy in the brown trench coat—impossible to miss in any crowd—turned with the smug expression of a celebrity bothered by fans again: "So recognizable, what a pain."
"My dear comrade, are you still grieving that we cannot stand side-by-side in the same unit to face the coming darkness together?"
…Okay, you're not wrong.
That's like, fifty percent of what I was thinking.
But seriously, if some real darkness descends on us, it'll definitely be because of your chuuni nonsense.
These people around us might end up being my classmates!
"Ahem, ahem. Dost thou truly believe you would give up the chance to be in the same class as the Handless Demon Lord? Nay."
"With him in our ranks, we could show our true selves without fear of ridicule. The moment I learned he was enrolling here, I submitted a transfer request."
With his index finger and thumb, Zaimokuza made a sideways "7" under his chin.
Presumably, it was meant to symbolize his Swordmaster-level genius.
'Wait—he's in my class?'
If that's true… Zaimokuza really does live up to the title. How'd he get that info so fast?
Hachiman's spirit lifted.
Earlier, he'd only checked his and Zaimokuza's classes—he hadn't yet looked for Hojou.
He quickly scanned the list—and there it was: Hojou Kyousuke – Class 1-F.
Lucky! That accident this morning really was a divine omen! Hachiman was overcome with a deep sense of safety.
Unlike the so-called heroes who acted shady behind the scenes, Hikigaya—who had attended middle school in Bunkyo Ward—had actually benefited from Kyousuke's presence.
After getting beaten up and released from the hospital, Hachiman had expected the anime version of a hero's welcome: classmates shouting "You're amazing, Hikigaya!" or perhaps even a pink love letter in his locker.
None of that happened.
Okay, to be fair, someone did call him a hero… but it sounded more like: "Yo, if it ain't the big damn hero, Hikigaya."
Clearly, his classmates had flunked basic Japanese.
He chose to forgive them.
Normally, pulling such a stunt would land you at the bottom of the social ladder.
But nothing like that happened. Maybe it was because the school didn't really have any delinquents left… or maybe—
"You've got guts, kid. Wanna join the Kendo Club? You admire Hojou Kyousuke too, right? You might even get to face him in a tournament one day."
That was the Kendo Club's idiot captain talking.
Their club was so weak, it wasn't even taken seriously—they had nothing but a small spare classroom as a clubroom.
A far cry from the grand dojo setups he'd seen at fancy schools online.
The captain rocked an old-school buzz cut straight out of the Showa era, and his toothy smile revealed a chipped front tooth—apparently broken when he fell asleep holding his phone above his face.
That grin… Hachiman would never forget it.
He even made a portrait of it once, only for his little sister Komachi to roast him mercilessly: "Onii-chan, is this one of the monsters from One Punch Man?"
Ouch.
And when he actually was drawing monsters from One Punch Man, Komachi had the gall to say, "Ugh, your lines look all squiggly and gross."
That's why he never gave the captain his portrait.
It's hidden away in a "deep sea treasure chest under the Crystal Jade Bed where the temperature stays minus thirty degrees year-round."
In other words, a box under his bed stuffed with middle school journals and cosplay props.
Anyway, thanks to that captain—who dreamed of someday challenging Kyousuke on the field—Hachiman ended up joining the Kendo Club.
And surprisingly, his social standing improved.
Even in a bottom-tier club, being in a sports team put you near the top of the school hierarchy.
After six months of washing gear for his senpai, he finally became one of the five starting members in his second year, earning the right to represent the school.
That boosted his status dramatically—from "the class idiot" to "Don Quixote, the knight who charges fearlessly at windmills."
Hachiman was pretty sure his classmates had no idea who Don Quixote even was.
They probably just thought he was a different kind of idiot.
But they didn't know the truth.
They didn't know that even though his team lost in the first round of the qualifiers for two years straight, he had once witnessed that man's overwhelming brilliance.
That sharp, fluid blade.
The roar like a lion.
The aura so intense it felt like the mere spectators might get sliced in two. Just watching was enough to make him forget to breathe—he had to shout to remind himself:
"Breathe, breathe!" or he might've passed out.
Yeah, their Kendo Club was pathetic—but when you had a captain chasing a legend like that, it lit a fire in you.
Even if you were just some idiot with a bamboo sword, your blood still burned hot.
Although the only people Hachiman Hikigaya could really talk to in middle school were his fellow kendo club members, he still felt like those years had been fulfilling.
There were many student council members guiding the new students around the school.
Following their directions, the "two swordsmen" made their way to their assigned classroom.
Just before they stepped inside, a bright, cheerful laugh rang out.
In perfect sync, the two froze in their tracks and instinctively took a step back.
Wait a second—this wasn't middle school anymore.
Even if he wanted to be the top dog starting today, it wasn't entirely impossible.
He just had to grab Zaimokuza and chase after happiness together!
Hikigaya glanced back at Zaimokuza, who was wrapped in a heavy brown coat, and gave him a firm nod.
Even if they never made any other friends, having a true companion was enough!
He pulled open the classroom door—expecting stares, maybe even a bit of judgment—but none came.
Instead, both their eyes widened in shock.
"Hey, hey, Hachiman! Look—look at that!" Zaimokuza grabbed Hikigaya's arm, practically shaking with excitement, barely able to form words.
"Yeah, yeah. But first, lower your hand. Pointing at people is rude. Want to lose it?"
That's right.
Sitting at the back row by the window, surrounded by beautiful girls, was none other than him—the spiritual leader of the Tokyo Hero Association, the Handless Demon, the legendary Hojou Kyousuke.
That laugh they heard earlier?
Probably from the girl sitting to Hojou's right.
She clutched a blue backpack, her golden eyes cat-like and bright.
In front of Kyousuke was another girl, her light brown hair catching the sun in a way that made it shimmer pink.
"Hachiman! I've got insider info!" Zaimokuza leaned in, raising a hand to his mouth like a spy. "Those two girls—they transferred with him. They're his girls!"
"As expected of Hojou-san…" Hikigaya said with genuine awe.
Of course.
Only someone like that could be his ideal.
"As expected of Hojou-san…" echoed Zaimokuza, reverent.
Surrounded by that radiant atmosphere, Hikigaya felt like he might melt.
He quickly gave up on any hope of sitting near Kyousuke.
Well—not like he had a choice.
The seats by the windows and the two back rows were already full.
Kyousuke's front and right were occupied by the girls talking to him.
Further up sat a girl with light peach-colored hair.
Hikigaya's sharp memory kicked in—he'd seen her earlier that morning on his way to school.
One of the girls involved in that almost-car-accident.
They were classmates?
'Who takes their dog for a walk on the first day of school?'
Hikigaya had to admit—even if he ranked in the top ten in Japanese class—he still couldn't understand how girls thought.
To Kyousuke's right and right-again sat a girl with golden, wavy hair.
Another girl had dark hair tinged with blue, so silvery it shimmered. And yet another…
Even if Sobu High allowed dyed hair, wasn't this getting out of hand?
Was this a beauty school or a high school?
How about spending that hair money on study guides or cram school?
That would make your parents happier, you know.
Anyway—Hikigaya Hachiman was definitely not jealous of Kyousuke-san being surrounded by pretty girls.
That corner of the classroom, though no announcement had been made, was already undeniably the center of attention.
Sakura had her arms stretched wide, enthusiastically explaining to Kyousuke how enormous the pancakes were at a café near the school gate.
"Not even you, Kyousuke, could eat ten in a row!" she said confidently, nodding.
"Chocolate and strawberry syrup are delicious, too," Shouko added.
She'd turned her chair to face them, as if transported back to childhood.
Back then, she and Kyousuke had talked like this often.
Only difference was, back then it was Naoka beside them. Now it was Sakura.
She felt a little guilty, but… she was really happy.
She had waited three years for this.
Kyousuke, on the other hand, wasn't thrilled that Sakura sat beside him.
If possible, he'd rather have the two girls sitting in front of him, side by side.
That way, when he woke up from a nap, he could see both of them at once.
But now?
Sakura was likely to ignore the blackboard all class and just stare at him.
That was bad.
It might make him stare at her too. What a pain.
Then, without warning, the front door to the classroom slammed open with a loud BANG, like someone had thrown their whole body into it.
The lively chatter came to an abrupt halt. Everyone turned to the front, falling silent.