The air wasn't hot—not even close.
Yet Satoru's forehead was a waterfall of sweat, completely unrelated to the weather, despite the blazing sun overhead, shining like some cosmic prankster had flipped the sky to noon.
"Spring? No way, it's December, right? But this warmth…?"
Satoru mumbled to himself, his voice fading into the breeze.
A sun? Seriously? He'd swear on his life he'd left home at eleven at night, just to grab some snacks from the konbini.
He trudged down a street so pristine it could've been ripped from a manga panel, only to stumble onto another… just as spotless.
The scenery tweaked slightly, but the golden sunlight drenching everything screamed "lazy afternoon" instead of "dead of night."
"Where in the world am I? A dream? Wait a sec…"
Satoru's brain was a glitching arcade machine, thoughts colliding in a chaotic mess.
Right—find someone to ask. He quickened his steps, determined to leave this street and corner a passerby for answers. Midnight flipping to high noon? Either his body clock was drunk, or this was the opening cutscene for the apocalypse.
Satoru reached the street's corner.
Peeking out, he saw more of the same—quiet row houses basking in a gentle breeze, air so cozy it felt like a warm hug, and a cleanliness so perfect it was almost creepy. Not a single candy wrapper or cigarette butt, not even in the shadows beneath utility poles.
But finally—people.
Not one, but a crowd.
More like two crowds, squared off like rival clans.
One side: a scrappy duo—a wiry boy and a poised girl.
The other: a beefy posse, seven or eight strong, led by a guy in a tacky floral shirt, skin tanned to a tropical bronze. Sleeves rolled up to flex a chiseled chest, a gold chain thick as a finger swinging from his neck, and earrings sparkling like he'd looted a pawn shop.
Oh, and his hair? A screaming neon yellow that could blind a bat.
His crew was a pack of dudes his age—some flashing knives, others gripping golf clubs like makeshift katanas. Weapons, plain and simple.
Across from them, the boy was all skin and bones, cowering behind the girl like she was his personal knight.
She sported a crisp JK uniform—pleated skirt, blazer hugging her frame—her jet-black hair tied in a high ponytail that danced like a warrior's banner. Her neck curved graceful as a swan's, pale and delicate. Lips pressed tight, eyes sharp with vigilance as they locked on the blond thug… yet, even in fight-or-flight mode, she was drop-dead gorgeous. A bishoujo straight out of a doujinshi splash page.
The groups faced off, glares so intense they could've ignited the air. No way Satoru was strolling in to play twenty questions—this was a powder keg ready to blow.
Huh? Is this about to go full shounen brawl? Satoru froze, eyes wide.
Before he could decide whether to bolt or spectate, the blond boss roared first.
"Yotsumoto Ryoka! Shirao High karate club captain!" His voice thundered like a villain hyping his own boss fight. "You made me a laughingstock on national TV! That shame? You're paying it back—with interest!"
Ryoka—Yotsumoto Ryoka—curled her lip in a smirk dripping with contempt. "Oh, crying over your loss at nationals? Pathetic. Can't handle getting crushed like a man?"
"You sharp-tongued brat!" Blondie's face twisted, veins bulging like overcooked udon. "You're finished!"
And with that, his goons swarmed the slender girl, weapons slicing the air, no mercy in sight.
But Ryoka? She moved like a storm given form—untouchable.
First up: a golf club swinging wide, aimed to crack her skull like a cheap melon.
Ryoka sidestepped, her skirt flaring like sakura petals caught in a gust.
Boom—knee strike!
Her knee slammed into the attacker's gut with bone-rattling force. Despite her slim build, her strength was monstrous. The club guy doubled over with a gurgled "Urgh!" like he was about to cough up his soul.
Satoru clocked a sneaky punk circling behind her, arms spread for a classic grapple.
Too late. Ryoka spun, fist rocketing upward in a textbook uppercut. The back of her hand smashed his nose—crack!—blood spraying like a gory anime effect as he stumbled back, regretting his life choices.
She's unreal.
Satoru wasn't some delinquent brawler; he'd barely seen a fistfight up close. But watching this girl carve through her foes like a shounen heroine? Yotsumoto Ryoka was a combat goddess.
Still, holding off three solo was god-tier, but—
"Gah!"
Ayumu—the kid—took a brutal fist to the cheek from Blondie himself, reeling with a pained yelp, staggering like he'd been hit by a truck.
"Ayumu!" Ryoka's focus wavered, panic flashing in her eyes. She dodged another swing, vaulting to his side in a heartbeat. "Ayumu, you okay?!" She reached to steady him, the boy curled up like a shrimp in a fryer.
"Ngh…" Matsubara Ayumu gritted his teeth, drool leaking from his mouth—a total wreck, pride in shambles.
"Matsubara Ayumu, huh?" Blondie sauntered closer, his laugh low and slimy. "Heard you're Ryoka's childhood crush. Didn't think you'd be this pathetic."
"Stay away from him, you creep!" Ryoka planted herself like a shield, fire in her eyes.
Blondie and his battered posse tightened their semicircle, boxing the pair against a brick wall.
From his perch at the alley's edge, Satoru saw it clear as day: Ryoka could dominate one-on-one—maybe even three—but a fourth? No way. And this gang was way past four.
"Yotsumoto Ryoka…" Blondie's grin turned predatory, fingers twitching in a sleazy, suggestive crawl. "Time to pay up."
"Stop right there!"
As doom loomed like a bad route flag, a chiseled figure burst from the other end of the street, all raw power and zero chill.
He was a blur. His shout still hung in the air as he materialized behind Blondie, snagging his collar and tossing him like a discarded ramen cup.
The gang froze, jaws dropping.
The rest lunged at the bespectacled newcomer—glasses, button-up, looking like a librarian gone rogue.
"Hah!"
One bellow, and he exploded outward, shrugging off their grabs like they were paper dolls. His speed was unreal—fists flew like meteors, each punch a face-crushing KO. One hit per punk, and down they went, bravado snuffed out like cheap candles.
Numbers meant nothing. The fight ended faster than a speedrunner's PB.
By the time Ryoka, Ayumu, and Satoru blinked, it was over: thugs sprawled across the pavement, some groaning "Nngh…" like defeated NPCs, others out cold.
Glasses Guy swept the wreckage with a piercing stare, like a king surveying a conquered field, then turned to Ryoka with a warm, disarming grin. Hand extended. "You good? Can you stand?"
Ryoka hesitated, then nodded. "I'm fine… but Ayumu…"
"I-I'm… okay…" Matsubara Ayumu rasped, dragging himself up on shaky legs, his face screaming not okay.
"Name's Aihara Yamato, local college student," the guy said, nudging his glasses with a smile that could melt ice. "Relax. You're safe now."
Safe?! This is a five-alarm disaster!
Satoru, clinging to the wall like it was his last lifeline, screamed in his head. It hit him like a truck-kun special.
These were characters from I Can't Reach the Distant You!
This… this was a manga world!
No—a hentai world. A full-blown, trope-heavy NTR cuckold nightmare!