"Piggy Kid's Park, I'm on my way!" I shouted, darting out of the house with such speed that the door banged shut behind me.
Cherry's voice called after me, but I was already gone, wind slicing across my face like a blade. The night air carried the scent of damp earth and faintly blooming flowers—aromas I barely registered as adrenaline took over.
I've got to protect them... Damn! I feel like the protagonist right now!
Uh, wait, I forgot; I AM the protagonist.
(This is a novel about narcissistic characters assuming they're the protagonist)
The air swept sharply through my hair—a deep black with a faint sheen that reflected the streetlights—not because it was particularly windy, but because I was moving at a speed that defied standard human limitations. My footsteps barely made a sound, thanks to a technique I had mastered called Light Step;
Developed by my mentor, Mrs. Garcia—my father's enigmatic secretary—it relied on a precise breathing method that altered the oxygen saturation in the bloodstream.
The result?
Heightened muscle efficiency and nearly soundless movement. The intake of air had to be slow and deliberate—one minute in, one minute out. It was grueling to learn, but now I could sustain it without thought.
This morning, that overachieving perfectionist, Oka Kami, executed it flawlessly, his breathing practically undetectable when he came to Hana's rescue.
I'm decent at the technique, but he made me feel like a rookie…
Still, it saved me earlier when I narrowly avoided a clash with that narcissistic Akira.
(Again, this is a novel about narcissists calli—
But, wait, wait, wait!
Akira nearly matched my speed without any discernible technique! And I'm just thinking about it now!
T... Terrifying...
Her fluid movements mirrored Mrs. Garcia's teachings—the Ethereal Glide, designed to traverse uneven surfaces like walls or slopes as if gravity had decided to take a break, for just you, that is.
Does Akira, perhaps, know Mrs. Garcia?
Oh, it could be that Akira knows someone who also studied in the same school of martial arts as Mrs. Garcia.
No, that can't be it. Learning techniques like that requires years of refinement and even an understanding of biomechanics.
To replicate it without proper training would be... unnatural. Insulting to my six years of relentless training across some of the harshest terrains in the world.
I refused to believe anyone could achieve such mastery so easily!
∞
Ahead, the park's silhouette came into view, framed by dense foliage and a distant creek glinting under moonlight. Shadows from towering maple trees stretched across the path, their leaves swaying in rhythm with the soft, cool breeze.
The park's sandpit glistened faintly under the orange hue of flickering streetlamps. The faint hum of a creaking swing echoed through the silence, blending with the sporadic laughter of couples, maybe—an eerie contrast to the tension coiling in my chest.
I reached the sand of Piggy Kid's Park, skidding to a near-silent stop, as I bent my knees to absorb the force.
A faint cloud of dust rose and settled as my sneakers whispered against the grains.
My calculations suggested I had been moving at roughly 60 kilometers per hour. My breathing hitched briefly—just enough to remind me I was human.
Now... Where's my challenger?
Scanning the area, I initiated the perception techniques Father drilled into me.
Nothing.
It's either this challenger is THAT good, or they're not here at all.
Every organism emits subtle signals—heartbeats, blood circulation, the friction of their breath against their throat, even the weight of their gaze. With enough focus, these signals become like ripples in still water, impossible to miss.
It's almost as if their existence is walking around with their fly open.
But some people—like myself—can hide all these traitorous qualities.
I'd been hiding from that Butler throughout today at school. She's really good at finding me, but I'm better at hiding again. Definitely well-trained: not someone I'll like to tango with.
I shut my eyes, for further focus, extending my senses outward. The environment unfolded in layers—trees swayed gently in the breeze, a stream whispered in the distance, and faint mechanical creaks hinted at the swings nearby.
Life pulsed faintly within a 150-meter radius—children laughing, their parents' concerned voices cutting through the dark.
What on Earth are families doing out this late?
"Ah, I lost focus." Annoyed with myself, I reset my stance.
Before I could re-center, I felt a disturbance in the air—a sharp whistle slicing through the silence.
Instinct overruled thought. My hand shot up, two fingers snapping around the blade's hilt in a blur of motion. The weapon's cold steel pressed against my skin, but my grip didn't falter.
The intensity of the force made my hair flutter, as if whooshed by a gust of wind.
Its trajectory suggested it had been aimed to strike the side of my head, but it was precise enough to alarm me.
The craftsmanship of the weapon was impressive—balanced perfectly for both speed and stealth.
Whoever threw this wasn't playing around.
"What would you have done if I hadn't caught that?" I asked, still holding the kunai.
My tone was calm, but my mind raced to analyze the situation.
A voice answered from the shadows, soft and husky but unmistakably familiar. "Then I'd have another name to add to my long list of kills."
The figure emerged slowly from the foliage—a petite silhouette clad in a dark purple hoodie by the premium brand of the company "Saint."
"…Good evening, Kowai-san," I greeted, turning to face her fully. "So, it's you. Threatening my family now? That's not something I can overlook… even if it's you."
The uniform skirt she wore brushed her thighs, and long socks climbed from her ankles to meet the hem. Even if I had forgotten everything else about her, I'd recognize those warm, golden-brown locks anywhere.
"Uwah. It's the scrawny Makoto. Are YOU threatening me?" she replied, removing her hood to reveal a face that hadn't changed much.
Cute as ever, but her expression remained unreadable—stoic, almost doll-like. There was that faint shadow of malice in her eyes that had always been there.
Still emotionless as ever...
Wait, I'm I going to fight her now?
And what does she mean, "long list of murders?!"
What happened to Kowai when I was away?!
"Why did you want to see me?" I decided to ask, first.
"What? Can't I choose to meet up with my first crush?" she teased, her lips curling into the thinnest semblance of a smile.
I mean REALLY, REALLY thin; if I hadn't upped my senses in Thailand, I would've missed it.
Regardless, her words caught me completely off guard. They hit me like a slap, and heat rose to my cheeks.
"Y-You still remember...?" I stammered.
"Of course I do. You were begging me… like a street mutt..."
Street—?! Tsk!
Hey, don't get the wrong idea!
Let's do a small flashback to justify my action!
.....
....
..
10-year-old me knelt low on the cold stone tiles of the Nakamura estate's garden, bowing before another 10-year-old, Kowai-san.
"Please… Why?" I cried, tears spilling like an uncontrollable dam.
…Okay, before you crucify me, let me set the record straight: Kowai had just obliterated my dignity—and nearly, my future children—by delivering a devastating blow to my most sensitive area. My nut sack.
Apparently, it was the crystallization of her rejection. I didn't ask for it, though.
"Why, you ask?" Her soft voice was sharper than the air that night. "Look at yourself, Makoto. You're half a man. Weak as hell. What makes you think I'd ever consider someone like you? Or do you want me to be the man in the relationship?"
Kowai-san spat out literally venom. Literal venom, I swear.
"But… but I can change! I'm only six—"
"And so what?" Kowai interrupted, her tone colder. "Come back and grovel for my love when you're strong enough. Until then, shoo!"
I had come to the Nakamura estate under the pretense of visiting Akira, but my real goal was to see Kowai-san—the then love of my life.
Unfortunately, I was met with disdain instead of the affection I hoped for.
"I don't know if your shriveled brain can comprehend this, but Akira-sama has a thing for you. So, we would never work anyway—"
"But it's you I want!" I yelled, my voice cracking under the weight of my sobs. "You're kind to me, you always take good care of Akira without fail, you're beautiful, and, and…" My sniffling and hiccupping drowned out the rest.
I had been smitten with Kowai-san from the moment I met her. That rabbit-like cuteness, her petite stature, her mesmerizing hair and golden eyes—everything about her pulled me in.
But her expression was always detached, emotionless, as if carved from stone. I wanted to be the one to break that icy nature and show her warm love.
However, as emotionless as she had always been;
"Makoto," she said, her voice firm but eerily calm, "stand up."
I obeyed, trembling under her gaze.
"Go home," she continued, her tone devoid of mercy. "I don't love you. I can never love a weakling who cries and begs like a street mutt. I can never fall for someone who'd use my mistress to get closer to me. You're awful. The only thing I feel for you is spite. In fact…"
She paused, her golden eyes narrowing into slits. "Get out and never come back here. It's a shame for Akira-sama, but I'll comfort her in your stead. She should never realize what you truly are—a lying, spineless wretch who deceives her with sweet words while harboring ulterior motives for her servant."
With that, Kowai shoved me through the estate's gates with the strength of someone far beyond her small frame.
I felt like a ragdoll in her hands.
"Kowai…san…" I whispered, wiping away the tears that wouldn't stop flowing. "Remember this day… I'll become stronger… stronger than you. And then I'll make you fall for me!"
Kowai paused for a moment, her back to me. Then, without turning, she replied, "Do as you like."
The gate clicked shut behind her, a suited guard giving me a sympathetic look before locking me out completely.
The clang reverberated in my chest, leaving an ache that felt far heavier than mere rejection.