The system's chime echoed through Kazama Haru's consciousness, a gentle reminder that he wasn't here to indulge his wounded pride. He was here to farm affection points from Shinomiya Kaguya—nothing more, nothing less.
And if this ojou-sama insisted on treating him like garbage stuck to the bottom of her expensive uwabaki slippers? Fine. He'd simply employ some underhanded methods to provoke emotional responses from her. She wanted to play the ice queen? He'd melt her into a puddle of frustration and rake in the points.
Efficiency first.
With that settled, Kazama Haru let a slow smile spread across his face—the kind that made his features soften into something dangerously approachable.
Shinomiya Kaguya's reaction was immediate. Her body shifted backward, half a step of retreat she probably didn't even register consciously. The disgust swimming in those crimson eyes deepened, her upper lip curling faintly as if she'd caught a whiff of something rotten.
"Haah..." Kazama Haru released an exaggerated sigh, running fingers through his dark hair in theatrical defeat. "Maa, maa. What can I do? I've always been hopeless at refusing a woman's request. If Shinomiya-san is this determined to compete against me, then as a man, I suppose running away would be pretty pathetic, ne?"
What is this baka thinking now? Kaguya's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. She'd been preparing her next angle of psychological attack, ready to corner him with a different approach—and suddenly the fool reversed course on his own? Unpredictable. Annoying.
But ultimately irrelevant.
If he wanted to walk straight into her trap with that stupid grin on his face, she would crush him without mercy.
In Kaguya's mind, the image of Kazama Haru began to shift and distort. That infuriating smirk melted away, replaced by something far more satisfying: the same boy, prostrate on all fours at her feet. Collar tight around his throat. Tongue extended, pink and wet, hovering millimeters above the polished leather of her shoe. His eyes—those irritatingly pretty amber eyes—gazing up at her with desperate, pathetic devotion, silently begging for permission to lick.
The fantasy sent a small shiver of pleasure through her chest.
Yes. That's exactly where you belong.
"Hmph." The sneer that crossed her lips was sharp enough to cut glass. "Very well. I accept your challenge."
"This is..." Club President Aoyama Yusaku muttered, pressing two fingers against his temple where a headache was rapidly forming.
Unlike the regular club members clustering at the edges of the dojo—faces bright with the universal excitement of witnessing drama unfold—the third-year president felt only dread pooling in his stomach.
He remembered the principal's visit with uncomfortable clarity. The way the older man had appeared at the Archery Club's door personally, something he'd never done in Aoyama's three years at the academy. The principal's hand on his shoulder had been clammy, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur as he explained that a first-year named Shinomiya would likely be joining soon.
"Accommodate her completely," the principal had instructed, sweat beading at his receding hairline. "Every request. Reasonable or otherwise. Don't you dare act like a senpai with authority over her. If you make a single mistake—" The man's adam's apple had bobbed with a nervous swallow. "—it won't just be the Archery Club that suffers. This entire academy could face consequences."
The weight of those words had pressed down on Aoyama's broad shoulders like a physical burden. When Shinomiya Kaguya had actually appeared at their doorway—long black hair cascading past her waist, face beautiful and expressionless as a Noh mask, application form extended in one pale hand—his legs had nearly given out.
What kind of monster family produces a high schooler that makes a principal tremble?
But the weeks that followed had gradually eased his anxiety. Shinomiya-san attended practice punctually. Her archery form was immaculate, her arrows finding the bullseye with machine-like consistency. She followed club protocols without complaint, never once leveraging her mysterious family influence.
Just when Aoyama had started to relax—to think maybe things would be fine—Kazama-kun appeared. The school's certified ikemen, celebrity-status pretty boy, quietly submitted his application while the club was away.
And Shinomiya-san had started acting strange.
"Fuuuh—!"
Aoyama sucked in a deep breath through his nose. The dojo smelled of polished cypress, bowstring wax, and the faint floral note of someone's perfume—probably one of the female club members. Dust motes drifted lazily through slanted afternoon sunlight.
Get it together. You're the buchou. Handle this.
Steeling himself, he met Kaguya's expectant gaze. Those wine-red eyes held no warmth whatsoever, just cold evaluation—like she was measuring exactly how much trouble he'd be worth if he disappointed her.
I'm going to develop an ulcer before graduation.
"...Approved." He forced the word out with a strained smile. "You may proceed with your match."
Cheers erupted from the gathered members as the two competitors took their positions at the shooting line. Aoyama positioned himself to the side, raising one hand in the universal referee's gesture.
"Rules are simple," he announced, projecting his voice across the dojo. "Ten arrows each. Cumulative ring score determines the winner. Lowest total wins."
The two competitors stood perhaps half a meter apart. Close enough that Kazama Haru could smell her—something clean and expensive, like fresh snow and white tea, underlaid with a faint warmth that was purely her. Close enough that the sleeve of her kyudo-gi nearly brushed his arm when she raised her bow.
"START!"
Aoyama's English rang out in that distinctly Japanese accent—"Sutaato!"—and both archers moved into position.
The difference was immediately, painfully apparent.
Kazama Haru had only touched a bow for the first time today. Despite studying the textbook diagrams with characteristic diligence, his form remained rough at the edges—elbow angle a few degrees too sharp, weight distribution slightly uneven, grip just fractionally too tight.
Shinomiya Kaguya, in contrast, moved like water finding its natural course. Her body flowed into the shooting stance with fluid grace, every angle precise, every line clean. If someone photographed her at this exact moment, the image could replace every instructional diagram in every kyudo manual in Japan.
Tch. Show-off.
"Hyuu—!"
The whisper of her arrow cutting air came before he'd even finished adjusting his posture. A sharp thwack followed—the unmistakable sound of a dead-center bullseye.
Kazama Haru exhaled slowly through his nose. Took his time. Drew. Released.
Silence.
No thwack. No impact sound at all.
His arrow, propelled by grip strength better suited to crushing watermelons than precision archery—roughly 68 kilograms of raw power behind it—had sailed magnificently past the target entirely, vanishing somewhere into the padded backstop at the far end of the range.
Beautiful. Really stellar work there, me.
Kaguya's second arrow: bullseye.
Third arrow: bullseye.
Fourth, fifth, sixth—thwack, thwack, thwack—an unbroken rhythm of perfection. She wasn't just shooting; she was making a statement. Each arrow landed in the small white center circle with mechanical precision, the clustering so tight that the fletching nearly overlapped.
"So cool!"
"As expected of Shinomiya-san!"
"She's like a robot!"
The excited murmurs of the club members provided a constant soundtrack to his humiliation.
Five minutes later, Kazama Haru released his final arrow with considerably more composure than his first. It hit the 4-ring—his best shot of the match, which really said everything about how the rest had gone.
Final results:
Shinomiya Kaguya: Ten perfect bullseyes. Central white ring, all ten shots, clustering tight enough to cover with a single palm.
Kazama Haru: A scattered constellation of mediocrity, arrows peppered across the outer and middle rings. His single best: the 2-ring. His worst: that first magnificent shot that had left the target entirely.
Complete. Utter. Massacre.
"An undeniable victory, wouldn't you say?" Kaguya's voice dripped with contempt as she turned to face him. Her chin tilted upward, looking down the perfect slope of her nose at him—an angle that somehow managed to make their minimal height difference feel like she was gazing down from a throne. "A good-for-nothing like you will only drag down the club's average skill level."
Oh? That's how you want to play it? Kazama Haru felt his lips twitch. Her hostility was so naked, so beautifully uncomplicated. Each insult was practically gift-wrapped points waiting to be harvested.
"A-Ano, Shinomiya-san..." Club President Aoyama shifted uncomfortably, his sense of justice warring visibly with his survival instincts. "That's going a bit far, don't you think? Kazama-kun just joined today, so—"
"Ahaha, it's fine, it's fine!" Kazama Haru waved a hand dismissively, letting his expression soften into something self-deprecating and earnest. "Shinomiya-san isn't wrong. My current skill level is the lowest in the club. I'll just have to practice harder so I don't become a burden to everyone."
I'll squeeze every last point from this situation, ojou-sama. Keep the insults coming.
"Hmph. At least you possess that much self-awareness." Kaguya sniffed dismissively before turning her attention to Aoyama. The full weight of her gaze settled on the club president like a physical pressure.
She's staring at me. Why is she staring at me. Did I do something wrong. I'm going to die.
Aoyama felt cold sweat trickling down his spine despite the pleasant spring temperature. His broad shoulders hunched slightly, as if trying to make his considerable frame smaller under her scrutiny.
"Club President Aoyama." Her voice remained perfectly even, perfectly polite, and somehow that made it worse. "What I said just now wasn't merely mockery. Although this man—" the word dripped with disdain "—is a new member, I believe I should contribute to improving club standards."
"H-Hah?" Genuine surprise cracked through Aoyama's anxiety. "You mean..."
Kaguya's arm extended, one elegant finger pointing directly at Kazama Haru. The gesture was careless, dismissive—the way someone might indicate a piece of furniture to be moved or an insect to be removed. She didn't even look at him while doing it.
"Even if his skills are abysmal, this person has already joined the Archery Club. We can't simply ignore him." Her finger remained extended, unwavering. "He requires intensive remedial training. A truly skilled instructor should be assigned."
Her gaze flicked toward the two senior female members who had been eagerly preparing to volunteer for exactly this role. The faint curl at the corner of her mouth conveyed everything words didn't: Amateurs. Not worth my consideration.
"We needn't trouble the senpais. And I myself don't require a master." The finger finally lowered as she met Aoyama's eyes directly. "I will personally handle this man's instruction. That would be the most efficient approach."
"Efficient."
The word landed in Aoyama's chest like a small, cold stone. He understood what she meant, of course. Practical. Logical. Optimized for results.
But archery clubs weren't really about efficiency, were they? They were about finding something you enjoyed, making friends, creating memories. The actual skill development was almost secondary—a pleasant side effect of spending time with people you liked.
This ojou-sama really was from a different world.
Still. What choice do I have?
"Kazama-kun," Aoyama turned to face the first-year, an apologetic grimace tugging at his features. "What do you think about Shinomiya-san's suggestion?"
Silence stretched between the three of them. Around the dojo, the other club members had fallen quiet, sensing the strange tension crackling in the air.
What do I think, huh?
Kazama Haru studied Kaguya's face—that flawless porcelain mask with its sharp crimson eyes, currently watching him with the patience of a predator who had already cornered her prey. Whatever scheme was brewing behind that beautiful forehead, it definitely wasn't designed for his benefit.
But refusing her now meant potentially losing access entirely. She might never speak to him again, never give him another opportunity to provoke reactions, never allow him close enough to farm the points he needed.
Long-term investment over short-term gains.
Fine. I'll play your game, ojou-sama. But don't think for a second that I'll make it easy for you.
He let his shoulders slump, allowed his expression to crumple into something wounded and pitiful. Turned toward the two senior girls who had been hoping to claim the instructor role—both of them looking genuinely disappointed now—and bowed deeply.
"My apologies, senpai-tachi." His voice emerged small, apologetic, threaded with just enough tremor to tug at heartstrings. "Since Shinomiya-san has made such a... considerate... suggestion for my sake, I really can't refuse her kindness. I'm sorry I won't be able to experience your guidance..."
The effect was instantaneous. Both seniors' expressions melted from disappointment into something soft and protective, maternal instincts flaring to life at the sight of this beautiful kouhai looking so unfairly bullied.
"Mou, Kazama-kun, don't apologize!"
"It's not your fault at all!"
Good. Perfect.
Behind him, he could practically feel the temperature drop as the seniors' gazes shifted toward Kaguya. The wordless accusation was clear: How could you be so cruel to this sweet boy?
I wonder if she can feel their animosity?
Shinomiya Kaguya felt nothing of the sort. Or rather—she felt it, acknowledged it, and dismissed it as utterly irrelevant.
These foolish girls could resent her all they wanted. Their opinions carried exactly zero weight in her world.
What mattered was that her plan was proceeding exactly as intended.
Soon enough, Kazama Haru, you'll learn your proper place.
Her gaze lingered on the back of his head—on the vulnerable nape of his neck where dark hair tapered to soft skin—and the image from earlier resurfaced unbidden. Him on his knees. Collar snug against his throat. Eyes wet with desperate devotion as he waited, trembling, for her permission.
The fantasy coiled warm and satisfying in her chest.