The truce brokered in Kobayakawa-sensei's office was official, but the social fallout within Class 1-A had already spread like a particularly juicy rumor. In the span of a single lunch period, Kuroha Akira's status underwent a subtle but seismic shift. He was no longer the 'Unapproachable Silent One'; he had been upgraded—or perhaps downgraded—to the 'Unprovokable Tough Guy.'
It was a familiar pattern, one he'd seen play out even in his corporate past. The presence of a known 'volatile element' in any group naturally creates a cordon sanitaire. People instinctively give a wide berth, governed by a simple, primal calculation: Who knows if I'll be next?
The exception, as always, was Fujiyoshi Michio. Perhaps because he existed outside the intricate webs of the popular cliques, or perhaps out of some otaku-brand courage, he remained willing to offer a hesitant nod or a quiet word.
Akira didn't mind the isolation. His primary concern was that Sumitomo Ryota's posse of 'good brothers' wouldn't interpret the incident as a clan insult requiring collective vengeance. If they did… well, he'd be reluctantly prepared to administer some 'personality adjustment' via his fists. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Paradoxically, the altercation yielded an unexpected academic benefit. During afternoon classes, the various subject teachers who had previously seemed intent on 'encouraging' him into participation now let him be. The visit to the staff room, with its visual evidence of Akira's… persuasiveness… had apparently circulated.
The message was received: Kuroha Akira was still not a student to be casually provoked. Thus, the classroom dynamic snapped back to its original, comfortable state: only Kobayakawa-sensei's boundless, optimistic affection and Asato Hitomi's persistent attention remained undimmed.
Of course, there was also the pressing matter of his loudly protesting stomach. Having missed lunch entirely, the final bell felt like a liberation siren. Right on cue, Asato Hitomi materialized at his desk, as reliable as a story flag.
"Kuroha-kun, it's time for club activities."
"Oh… yeah…" Akira's response was a masterclass in listless regret. His mind was still mournfully fixated on the luxurious, uneaten bento. He assumed it had been dutifully shared among the other (non-existent) Literary Club members by now.
When Hitomi approached, the classroom air didn't tense as it had before. Akira shot a surreptitious glance toward Sumitomo Ryota's seat.
Their eyes met in an awkward, silent beat. Akira braced for a sequel, but all he got was a single, crude, upward jerk of Sumitomo's middle finger. Then, the blond boy turned away, laughing with his friends about plans for karaoke or arcades, and swaggered out with his group.
This guy… he gave up just like that? Akira mused, mildly impressed. Young man, your simp endurance stat is surprisingly low. Then again, a simp's fortune was entirely at the mercy of their idol's whims.
A clean, decisive break was arguably the healthier choice—a chance to 'start anew,' as they say. Regardless, it was one less problem. Starting tomorrow, he could accept the Class Monitor's bento without triggering a classroom-wide incident. The thought was mildly uplifting.
He stood, offering a nod to the still-packing Fujiyoshi behind him. "See you tomorrow, Fujiyoshi-kun. Thanks for still talking to me."
"Ah! Y-yeah! See you tomorrow!" Fujiyoshi's eyes held a spark that looked suspiciously like… admiration? Is he the type who respects sheer audacity? Akira pondered. You have the makings of a loyal subordinate. A shame my ambition isn't world domination, but comfortable mooching.
"Shall we, Class Monitor?"
"Mm. See you tomorrow, Fujiyoshi-kun." Hitomi added her own flawless, polite smile to the farewell.
"Y-Yes! Have a good time!"
Right… he's probably just polite to everyone.
Once they were in the relatively empty hallway, heading away from the main student flow, Hitomi gestured in the opposite direction of the stairwell. "Kuroha-kun, let's go to the Home Economics room first. We can use the microwave. I've already gotten permission from the teacher."
"Huh?"
Seeing his confusion, a playful, knowing smile graced Hitomi's lips. "The bento. Aren't you going to eat it?"
"Is… is there any left?"
"Left? What do you mean?" Her smile widened. "I didn't go to the Literary Club to share it with anyone else."
She then executed a perfect, covert situational scan—a skill befitting a class monitor—ensuring most students had their backs turned, streaming toward the gates. Leaning in close, her whisper was a warm, secretive breeze by his ear. "This bento was made just for you. I hid it in the Home Economics room."
"OH!"
The single syllable burst from him, loaded with the profound relief of a man granted a last-minute stay of execution. There's still food! I'm saved from the Old Lady's Hellish Curry Repeat tonight! YES!
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!" His pace quickened from a trudge to a brisk walk, hunger providing a sudden burst of energy.
Asato Hitomi kept up effortlessly, a soft laugh escaping her. "Really, there's no need to be quite so impatient."
The Home Economics room was quiet and smelled faintly of vanilla and detergent. From a cupboard, Hitomi produced the pristine, three-tiered lacquered box. While it rotated in the microwave, Akira felt himself spiritually transforming into a gaki, a starving ghost, drawn by the promising hum and the faint, tantalizing aromas beginning to seep out.
Finally… finally! His internal monologue was a victory chant. A meal that isn't curry or mystery hotpot!
When the box was placed before him, warm to the touch, he opened it with the reverent care of a treasure hunter unlocking a chest. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the glittering, lens-flare sparkles common in culinary anime.
The first tier held rice—not just piled, but shaped into four delicate, easy-to-eat onigiri, each sprinkled with sesame and fragrant yukari dried seaweed. They rested on fresh shiso leaves, accompanied by tiny, flower-shaped garnishes made from rolled ham and tamagoyaki.
The second and third tiers were a symphony of balance. One was dedicated to protein: golden-brown shrimp tempura, juicy karaage chicken, glistening thick-cut teriyaki beef, even a few succulent crab legs, with a perfectly halved seasoned boiled egg for good measure. The other was a garden: one half a colorful mixed vegetable salad, separated by crisp lotus root slices from the other half, which held sweet strawberries and apple slices carved into adorable rabbit shapes.
This wasn't just food; it was a meticulously planned nutritional and aesthetic statement. Every color, texture, and flavor was considered.
Is this the power of Lv. 2 Cooking?! Akira's mind boggled. It completely eclipses the Old Lady's 'survival cuisine'!
He suddenly felt a wave of gratitude that Hitomi hadn't opened this box in the classroom. While the quantity looked generous, it was clearly curated for one growing teenage boy—enough to satisfy perfectly, not to share. The evidence of her effort was overwhelming.
Class Monitor, I will honor you forever! he vowed silently. But first, tradition. He clasped his hands together briefly. Itadakimasu.
Asato Hitomi presented him with a pair of lacquered chopsticks, her smile warm and expectant. "Please, enjoy."
"Then, I'll dig in!"
He didn't just eat; he attacked. The first bite of teriyaki beef was a revelation—perfectly seasoned, tender, the sauce a masterful balance of sweet and savory. The rice was flawlessly fluffy. The karaage was crispy outside, juicy within.
Hitomi watched his ravenous pace with amusement, then produced a white thermos. "Slow down, Kuroha-kun, you'll choke. I made miso soup as well. It's still warm, not too hot."
"Mmph! Mm!" Akira managed through a full mouth. His brain wanted to savor, but his stomach was an impatient tyrant, demanding more.
And the taste… it was impeccable. Seasoning perfect, ingredients fresh, love and care practically palpable in every bite. This was a solid 95-point bento.
But the most delicious ingredient of all, the one that elevated it to a perfect 100, was the price.
It's free.
The sublime, soul-deep satisfaction of a truly excellent, completely freeloaded meal washed over him.
He took a slurp of the perfectly warm, umami-rich miso soup, closed his eyes, and let out a contented, almost heavenly sigh.
Ahhh~ Freeloading… is truly the most delicious thing in the world.