Morning hit like a face-slap from God herself.
The gymnasium, a battleground of dodgeballs yesterday, was now unrecognizable. Split straight down the middle by a shimmering barrier, the room looked like the aftermath of a divorce, with both sides fighting for full custody of insanity.
On the left, chaos had been raised on sugar and glitter.
Pastel curtains billowed in a nonexistent wind. Floating teapots poured themselves. Glitter dust hung in the air like a respiratory lawsuit waiting to happen.
And at the heart of it all, Seraphina Falcor twirled dramatically atop a rotating, heart-shaped platform—arms out, hair sparkling, like a magical girl five seconds away from triggering a budget-breaking transformation sequence.
"Welcome to the Magical Maid Café!" she beamed. "Where dreams are served with blushes and dangerously confusing eye contact! Our theme for the upcoming event is a delightful blend of magic and maid service."
Seraphina appeared beside Eiji like a boss cutscene—sparkling, smug, and undeniably fabulous.
She pinned a glowing heart-shaped brooch right over his chest.
"You are now Butler Prime," she declared. "The face, soul, and legally accountable being for everything that goes wrong in this café."
Eiji blinked. "What?"
"You heard it right~" Seraphina beamed. "Responsibility builds character. And it's your duty."
He groaned. "I wish I weren't meant for greatness… "
…I am Doomed," he muttered.
Meanwhile, on the right side of the gym?
Total tonal whiplash.
Obsidian chandeliers floated from invisible chains, casting gothic shadows over velvet banquet tables so elegant they looked allergic to joy. A quartet of levitating musicians played Bach in D minor while a fog machine hissed ominously like the breath of a disapproving ancestor.
Kirika Barbatos, arms folded and judgment cranked to the max, stood at the helm like a devil general from an etiquette-themed war movie.
"The Student Council presents the Elegant Banquet," she intoned, voice cold as an iced espresso. "Where refinement is respected, cleavage is restricted, and fanservice is punishable by law."
Seraphina gasped like she'd just witnessed a catgirl disrespected in public. "You dare insult the sacred art of a maid?! You iron-hearted villainess!"
Kirika blinked slowly. "I prefer the term 'dignified curator of taste.'"
At her side, Aika Lucros stood proud in a crimson noble dress that looked like it had been tailored by an elitist perfectionist with a grudge against joy. She flicked her hair and smirked.
"Unlike certain someone's… we don't think customer service means squeaky voices and skirts made of handkerchiefs."
Seraphina squinted. "Oh? Then why does your side smell like a retirement home for vampires?"
Tension crackled.
Somewhere between them, Eiji stood in a stiff, clearly haunted butler uniform that itched like a curse woven by a disgruntled tailoring god.
He tugged at the collar. "Why do I always end up in the middle of these magical theme wars? I didn't sign up to be collateral damage."
Ayaka said, "Well, you attract Trouble," marching past in her military-style maid outfit like a tactical waifu.
"…And lace," she added without looking back.
Eiji blinked. "That's oddly specific."
The Grand Opening
The moment the doors opened, a tsunami of students surged in—wide-eyed, wallet-ready, and already emotionally compromised. The shimmering barrier at the center of the gym pulsed like a magical heartbeat, splitting the world into two warring ideologies: cute chaos on the left and cultured carnage on the right.
It was a battlefield. And business was booming.
At the Maid Café, things escalated faster than anyone was emotionally prepared for.
Amane, radiant in pastel blue with ribbons that fluttered like they had their own personalities, greeted a trio of second-years with a smile soft enough to melt glaciers.
"Would you like your tea… with a story today?" she asked gently.
One boy turned scarlet and fainted.
The second dropped his wallet and confessed his love.
The third pulled out a 20%-off coupon and tried to propose.
Ayaka marched past them, tray in hand, like a drill sergeant on caffeine.
"ORDER UP! Sit straight, drink with discipline! Civility is not a suggestion—it's a standard!"
Thunder crackled above her head.
A pigtail girl saluted instinctively before sipping her tea like she was taking communion.
Miya ghosted between tables, expression unreadable. Her eyes scanned like silent daggers.
She approached a jock who was laughing too loud and gently placed a perfectly sliced piece of cake in front of him.
"Your Order"
Then stared. Unmoving. Unblinking.
The boy's chuckle died mid-throat.
"Uh… th-thank you… "
She said nothing. The cake said everything.
Meanwhile, Eiji was locked in a heated duel with the café's magical cash register.
"I said, two teas and a scone!"
The register blinked back, voice prim and smug.
"You mean: 'May I kindly request two premium teas and one freshly baked scone, thank you~?'"
Eiji's eye twitched. "I will unplug your soul, you cursed spellbox. Don't test me today."
Meanwhile, a small group of girls from the 1st Year walked by, giggling.
"Oh my god, who's that butler?"
Isn't he our senior from Class 3-A
"He looks like a prince out of a fantasy novel."
"Do you think he's single?!"
Eiji turned.
And there he was.
Riku.
Stoic. Calm. Effortlessly mysterious. Holding a tray of magical parfaits like he was born doing it. His uniform was perfectly fitted. The hair is slightly tousled. Eyes distant, tragic, poetic. It's like he'd walked straight out of a shoujo manga adaptation of Phantom of the Opera.
Eiji stared blankly. "…Must be nice being… handsome."
Miya patted his shoulder with the tenderness of a war veteran.
"There, there. Maybe next year, you can be the emotionally unavailable background prince."
Mr.Pervert
He groaned. "Ah, whatever."
At the Demon Banquet, it was a completely different kind of storm—cold, precise, and sharp-edged.
Aika Lucros moved like aristocracy dipped in sarcasm. Every step was calculated, every word a dagger wrapped in silk.
She leaned over a trembling first-year student, her smile the definition of terrifyingly beautiful.
"Your fork is misaligned by three degrees. But don't panic," she cooed. "Elegance is like acne—you'll grow into it… or learn to cover it well."
Reon, sleeves rolled and eyes fierce, juggled sizzling roast slices mid-air using water magic rings. The meat spun and twirled like elegant dancers—if those dancers were made of brisket and beef ambition.
"Roast Art!" he cried proudly, sweat glistening like theatrical seasoning.
Yura Stormglade, silent and still, sat in the corner strumming her infernal harp. Each pluck echoed with a strange gravity—half lullaby, half divine threat.
No one spoke near her table. They just… chewed slower. Or not at all.
Above it all, floating magic charts tracked the ongoing battle like a fantasy stock market:
Heart Rate: Maid Café – 98%
Elegance: Demon Banquet – 95%
Entertainment: Maid Café – 92%
Stability: Demon Banquet – 99%
A war of aesthetics. A perfect storm of style.
Then, somewhere behind them, a loud, joking voice rang out:
"Hey! Do we get maid marriage contracts if we win?"
Laughter exploded. Someone whistled.
And Seraphina—smiling all morning like the perfect hostess—twitched.
Just slightly.
Her eyes dropped.
"…Marriage…"
She whispered it. So softly, Eiji almost didn't catch it.
Almost.
But he did.
And in that moment, her mask cracked—just a hairline fracture—but enough.
Then she looked away.
Smile back in place.
But her hands didn't stop shaking.
But then—something shifted.
In the far corner of the gym, half-hidden behind trailing silver curtains, sat a cloaked figure in black and gold. It was silent. Still.
Too still.
Seraphina saw her first.
Her gaze snagged on the figure, and everything else dimmed. The noise dropped to a murmur. The lights seemed colder.
Her chest tightened. Her fingers trembled slightly.
Clink.
She dropped her teacup.
The porcelain shattered against the marble tray. Time seemed to pause for half a breath.
Eiji, across the room, wiped cappuccino foam off his jaw and frowned.
"President? Are you Okay?"
She shook her head quickly. Too quickly.
"Just… déjà vu," she lied, voice thin as mist.
But her eyes didn't leave the curtains.
By midday, the gym wasn't just a themed event anymore.
It had become a certified magical hazard zone, the kind insurance agents pretend not to see. The air was so thick with enchanted fabric resonance, hormonal chaos, and unchecked ego mana that reality asked for a sick day.
And the café?
Yeah—it was spiraling.
Amane now hovered a few inches off the ground. Literally.
Every time someone complimented her tea, her feet just… floated.
"Your tea… it healed my heartbreak," whispered a teary-eyed senior.
Amane blinked, hands clasped over her chest. "Oh my… I am thrilled to hear that~"
She levitated a few inches higher.
Eiji stared from the side, deadpan. "She's doing Great."
Ayaka, mid-espresso delivery, suddenly jolted as her corset snapped tighter on its own.
" And there was Riku.
Unbothered. Untouched. Radiating calm and sparkle like he'd stepped out of a daytime shoujo drama. His tray floated beside him. Pastries sparkled. Soft light followed him around like a loyal pet.
A girl squealed, "Thank you, Senior Riku~!" and flashed a heart sign.
Eiji glanced at the floating livestream feed. It was glowing with hearts. Comments, emojis, hashtags.
#RikuTheRomanceReaper
#MainCharacterEnergy
#MaidCafeIsSaved
He glared.
"I'm getting ratioed by a teapot, and that guy's collecting marriage proposals like breathing."
Across the magic divide, the Demon Banquet unfolded like a gothic symphony on fire.
Aika Lucros, draped in darkness and arrogance, stood at the head of a long table. She swirled her glass of shimmering grape potion like it held secrets.
"If you spill your drink," she instructed, "do not panic. Do not apologize. You smile. And pretend the floor was parched."
She sipped with lethal elegance.
"Only cowards cry over spilled wine."
Students nodded solemnly. Some took notes. Someone clapped.
Kirika, apron donned like she was entering a summoning ritual, assembled a six-tiered demon cake. The icing… blinked once. And then went still.
No one commented.
They just ate more cautiously.
Takeru, shirt sleeves rolled, and eyebrows furrowed in focus, tossed a saucepan mid-air while casting fire and water simultaneously. The result?
Flaming, steam-cooked meat art.
"Presentation is ninety percent confidence," he said, grinning. "The other ten is edible damage control."
The floating live stream feed continued to dominate gym wall space, lighting up with view count explosions.
Trending Now: Maid Warzone – Battle of Lace and Law
Top Comments:
"Riku is husband material confirmed."
"Ayaka's glare gave me religion."
"Eiji is my friend. Fighting for his life."
"Did that cake blink? Bro, tell me that cake blinked."
In the middle of it all, Eiji stood still. Tray half-lifted. Eyes dulled. Shoulders slumped.
Ayaka, passing behind him with her clipboard like a judgmental storm cloud, didn't slow down.
She took a sip of her espresso, gave him a once-over, and muttered:
"Finally. He gets it."
The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers rippling like the tension in a final boss cutscene. Even the enchanted ceiling dimmed its glow as if pausing to hold its magical breath.
Kirika stood statue-still, arms folded, posture regal, glare sharp enough to qualify as a bladed weapon.
Across the marble floor, Seraphina glided forward like a pastel war goddess; one heel clicks away from a divine monologue.
Now, the gym—once a glittering arena of clashing aesthetics and sugar-fueled absurdity—now resembled the aftermath of a magical festival that had gone three acts too long.
Velvet floors were littered with the debris of dreams: cracked teacups, half-melted parfaits, and glitter in tragic places. Confetti drifted through the air like tired lies, catching the light one last time before landing in forgotten corners where even brooms would fear to tread.
Eiji slumped over a table; face half-buried in a lace napkin that had seen things no napkin should.
"The sugar…" he murmured hoarsely. "It spoke to me. They told me to run… I didn't listen…"
Ayaka dropped into the chair beside him, sleeves rolled up like she'd just single-handedly shut down a rebellion—with sarcasm and elbow grease.
"If I hear one more girl squeal 'moé~' near me, I'm declaring martial law and banning pigtails," she muttered, cracking her knuckles with enough force to make nearby espresso machines whimper.
Amane skipped by, tray overflowing with pastel-colored tip envelopes. She sparkled—not metaphorically. Her outfit had been glowing since noon and refused to stop.
"Guess what~?" she sang, spinning on one toe. "I got 157 tips! One of them offered me land. In Hokkaido. With a pond!"
She sparkled brighter. Somewhere, the gym lights dimmed out of jealousy.
Riku, clipboard in hand, stood before the scoreboard like a royal scribe. His expression didn't change. Not once.
He spoke.
"Magical Maid cafe: 250 votes.
Eloquent Banquet: 250 votes
He turned slowly.
"…Draw."
Seraphina's brow twitched. "Impossible."
Kirika smiled coyly. "Or fated."
End of Chapter 20.