It was the weekend.
Once again, all three girls were staying at Yukima Azuma's house.
As usual, Yukima welcomed the morning with a jog, cheerful and energized.
He'd woken up extra early today. His plan was to finish his run quickly, return home, and prepare breakfast for the girls.
At least, that was the plan.
Things rarely went according to plan.
Ochanomizu, Tokyo.
A lesser-known corner near Meiji Shrine—off the radar for most tourists.
Surrounded by top universities like Meiji University and Tokyo Medical, it was Japan's largest student district. The area was also home to several churches and Japan's largest bookstore, giving it a rare cultural richness.
Early morning shrouded Tokyo in a thin mist. Visibility was low—only about 50 meters—but the city wore a peaceful, mysterious veil.
Jogging through the quiet streets, Yukima passed an alley—and paused.
He heard fast, urgent footsteps and the sound of a girl panting.
He slowed his pace but didn't stop. He had no intention of interfering.
Yukima Azuma was polite and considerate, especially to women. But at his core, he wasn't a "good person." He didn't meddle in other people's business.
Then, just as he was about to move on, a familiar silhouette in the alley caught his eye.
Two girls were fleeing through the narrow space.
One wore a sleek evening dress and had black hair. The other—a blonde maid with a side ponytail—caught his full attention.
She had striking sea-blue eyes and porcelain skin, clearly of mixed heritage. Her face was delicate, leaning more toward Western features.
She looked… familiar.
She resembled Hayasaka Nao—his coworker, or rather, his subordinate—by at least 70 or 80 percent.
Nao-san had mentioned having a daughter around Yukima's age.
Her name: Hayasaka Ai.
The girls noticed Yukima at the alley entrance and froze.
"Oujou-sama, let me hold him off. You run," the maid said softly before charging at Yukima without hesitation.
Her movements were sharp—professionally trained.
Yukima sighed inwardly. He didn't want to fight Hayasaka Ai.
Physically, his base stats weren't high enough to overpower her quickly.
And if he used his "Cooking Vision," he risked hurting her.
So he chose a different method.
A terrifying aura erupted from Yukima Azuma.
In an instant, he no longer appeared human.
To the girls, he became a towering polar bear, over ten meters tall, claws scraping the edges of the alley, its roar rumbling like a storm through the mist.
Hayasaka Ai froze mid-charge. Her knees buckled. Her sea-blue eyes widened in shock.
She'd encountered trained killers before. Real assassins.
But none of them had radiated this kind of dread.
Behind her, the girl in the evening dress stopped as well, wary and tense.
The presence vanished. Yukima stepped into the alley calmly.
"Who are you?" the black-haired girl demanded. "How much did they pay you? I'll double it."
Hayasaka Ai quickly pulled her mistress behind her. She knew—this man couldn't be bought.
Footsteps echoed from deeper in the alley. Dozens of them.
Yukima sighed, eyes narrowing.
A group of men in black suits stormed in, wielding iron clubs and machetes. Yakuza.
(Yakuza weren't officially legal in Japan, but neither were they entirely illegal. The government largely turned a blind eye to their activities, so long as they played within certain lines.)
Ai and the black-haired girl, still shaken by Yukima's presence, dared not move. But the sight of the armed gang closing in clearly unsettled them.
"Hey, brat, this is Yamaguchi-gumi's business. Move."
"Stop talking, break his legs and toss him aside!"
A tall thug with an iron rod led the charge.
He swung straight for Yukima's legs.
Yukima didn't flinch.
He stepped forward just as the rod came down.
The thug barely had time to react before Yukima closed the distance.
A hand shot out and clamped around his wrist.
A sickening scream followed. The rod clattered to the ground.
What came next was less a fight and more a surgical dismantling.
Bones snapped. Flesh tore. The man's limbs twisted at impossible angles.
By the time he hit the ground, he was no longer recognizable as human.
Yukima reached down, grabbed the man's chin, and yanked.
Silence. His jaw dislocated.
The screaming stopped.
Hayasaka Ai swallowed hard.
Who was this man?
The assassins and mercenaries of the Shinomiya clan would be crushed by him in seconds.
Was he a rogue agent? A legendary master? Why was he here?
Yukima picked up the iron rod, tested its weight, and advanced toward the group.
His "Cooking Vision" didn't limit him to barehanded combat.
An iron rod worked just fine. In fact, it worked better.
The Yakuza froze as he approached.
They were tough—scarred, tattooed, and armed—but they hadn't signed up for this.
If Yukima had simply killed a man in one hit, maybe they would've charged.
But what they'd seen wasn't just violence—it was mutilation.
A few panicked and attacked with long knives.
Yukima studied their movements.
With Cooking Vision, he could see how their muscles moved, predict their next steps.
He swung the rod—calm, efficient.
Crack.
Arms twisted at 90 degrees.
Screams. Collapses.
He moved like a phantom, stepping over broken bodies.
Each tap of the rod shattered bones as if they were brittle tofu.
Within minutes, over ten men lay groaning on the ground.
The rest turned and fled in panic, tossing weapons and pride aside.
Yukima casually dropped the rod.
He wiped the blood from his face with a tissue meant for sweat.
Looking at the red stains on his shirt, he frowned.
'What a pain… The girls will definitely ask questions.'
He glanced back toward the alley entrance.
The two girls stood there, trembling.
Yukima sighed and walked over.
They shrank back like cornered animals.
But then, Yukima raised his hand and gently pinched Hayasaka Ai's cheek.
"You must be Hayasaka Ai. Given your seniority, you can call me 'uncle.'"