It's Not My Genre. I want out! (Hentai World)

Hello, Dear Readers!

Author here.

I'm really pleased with how this chapter turned out. First and foremost, I want to emphasize that my writing leans heavily toward realism. You won't find an overpowered protagonist here, effortlessly taking down hundreds of men like some unstoppable force of nature. Let's be real—no single person can do that, whether barehanded or armed.

This chapter serves as an important foundation for future arcs, introducing key elements that will play a role moving forward. It's actually the first of a two-part sequence, so stay tuned for what's coming next.

Hope you guys enjoy.

---

Oga Masaru was having a great time.

Seated inside an arcade, surrounded by his usual lackeys and the girl he was entertaining—for now—he relished the satisfaction of the day's events. Running into Hanamura and that guy had been more amusing than he expected. Watching her cling to him so innocently, so sweetly, only fueled his anticipation.

Purity.

Oga had always had a fascination with pure things.

Growing up, his life had been anything but. His mother was a cheating whore, his father a drunken deadbeat. Their household had been a battleground of screaming matches and broken furniture, violence staining every corner of his childhood. There had never been anything pure in his world.

And that was exactly why he loved to corrupt it.

"Ugh, not again! You must be cheating, you bastard!"

"It's called skill, dumbass. You're just button-mashing at this point."

"You're lying! This game's rigged, I swear—!"

His lackeys bickered over a game, their laughter filling the otherwise empty arcade. The place had practically cleared out the moment he and his gang walked in. Seven in total—six guys, and the one girl perched on his lap, giggling as she toyed with his collar.

Oga chuckled, sliding a hand up her skirt. She shivered, giving him a half-heartedly reproachful look.

"Mou, Masaru-kun, we're with company~"

"And when has that ever stopped me?"

"Geez, you're such a perv."

She said that, but the next second, their lips met, tongues intertwining as they made out shamelessly. His goons barely spared them a glance, too used to his antics to care.

Oga gripped the girl's hips, pulling her closer. She had been a fun distraction at first—innocent, shy, the kind of girl who blushed at a dirty joke. But after a few nights with him, she had turned into nothing more than another obedient plaything. And, honestly? He was getting bored.

"Mmn~ Right there, Masaru-chi~"

The memory of Hanamura Sumire flashed through his mind.

Now she was a prize worth taking. Pretty, yes—but more than that, she had an air of purity, a kind of innocence that made his fingers twitch with anticipation. Her figure was perfect, tempting in a way that made him want to ruin her.

He would break her in, piece by piece, until she was just like the girl moaning in his arms now—desperate, hungry, a perfect little toy for him to use.

The only problem was him.

That guy with her.

Oga still couldn't get a read on him. The first time they met, he pegged him as one of those self-righteous types—probably knew a bit about fighting, played the hero when it suited him. But today, something had been off.

Oga had pushed it, taunted Hanamura right in front of him, expecting some kind of reaction. Anger, maybe. A threat. Anything.

But instead, the guy had just grinned. Uncaring.

"She's just a little shy right now, but don't worry—she'll warm up to you eventually."

The words echoed in his mind, gnawing at him. That reaction—why did it bother him so much?

He scowled, shaking it off.

"Kya! So rough~"

The girl beneath him gasped, and Oga smirked, pushing her onto the arcade machine. He closed his eyes, letting his imagination run wild. His fingers moved to his belt buckle.

Hanamura Sumire.

How would she sound, begging for him? How long would it take to break her? To turn her into a perfect little doll, desperate for his touch—

"Oh, finally found you guys. Took a bit of effort."

The voice was casual. Almost bored.

Oga's body went rigid.

The arcade fell into silence as every head turned toward the entrance.

Standing in the doorway was him.

The frail-looking guy from earlier, holding two short but sturdy sticks in his hands, leaning lazily against the frame. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in his eyes—something unreadable.

Oga narrowed his gaze.

The guy exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

"It won't take long." He tapped the sticks together, a sharp, deliberate sound. "Let's have a chat."

---

There have been moments when I've questioned myself.

Is it right to let my emotions run wild?

My life hasn't exactly been all sunshine and rainbows. Every step I took was monitored, every action judged, every emotion scrutinized. A bastard child wasn't supposed to step into the light—just lurk in the shadows, unseen, unheard.

That's why I stayed calm. Uncaring. I kept my true feelings buried, choosing indifference as my shield.

But even I had limits.

Even I had moments where control slipped through my fingers.

Where emotions took over.

"Whoa, shit! Thought it was the cops again."

"Look at this guy acting tough. Any of you know him?"

"Yo, punk. You got a problem?"

The group of delinquents eyed me with mockery, their gazes filled with mild annoyance and amusement. Six guys, standing in a loose circle. Three of them were unfamiliar, but the other three were people I was well acquainted with.

One of them, the guy I beat up last time, gulped nervously, glancing around as if looking for an exit. His friend, however, was already glaring daggers at me. And at the very back, exactly where I expected him to be, sat my main target—Oga Masaru.

The blonde douche.

He was lounging with a girl on his lap, her expression twisted in frustration at my interruption. Her hands were still clinging to him, nails lightly scraping against his chest, but the dude had gone still, his gaze locked onto me.

Calm. But wary.

"I'm just here to chat, like I said."

I twirled the sticks in my hands, taking a slow step forward. This body wasn't something I was completely familiar with yet—my muscles still felt stiff, unfamiliar. Three of them would be easy. Six? That would take a bit more effort.

"You know, you weren't exactly easy to find. Took me a while."

Oga's expression didn't change, but I caught the slight twitch in his fingers. After a beat, he smiled that same fake smile and nudged the girl off his lap. She pouted, whining at the loss of attention, but he ignored her. Damn. Sorry, lady. You aren't getting laid tonight.

"Ah, it's the boyfriend. What is it, buddy? Did you have something to say to me?"

He stepped forward casually, stopping just inches away from my face. Close enough that I could end this in one move.

Not yet.

"How'd you even find me?"

"Oh, it wasn't exactly easy. But since you're quite the local celebrity, I just asked around. Heard plenty."

The twitch in his eye was satisfying.

"That so? I hope you're not still mad about earlier. I wouldn't want to get on Hanamura's bad side."

"Oh, trust me. You're already there."

Before I could say more, a hand suddenly grabbed my collar and yanked me upward.

Whoa.

I blinked, staring down at the guy holding me. Holy crap, am I that light? I really need to work out.

"Why are we even entertaining this loser, Masaru? He interrupted our game, and right when I was finally winning!"

No, you weren't. I literally saw you lose.

"Let's just beat him up and go home."

"Yeah, let's fuck him up. It's for the best."

"Don't hit him too hard. He might die."

I sighed.

This was exactly the kind of situation I hated.

I let the sticks slip from my hands, letting them clatter onto the floor. And before he could even register the movement—

A flurry of precise, rapid strikes landed on his face and hand.

A crack. A gasp. A splatter of blood.

His grip loosened.

"Ugh, you fucking prick—!!"

The guy I'd beaten up before visibly winced from the sidelines, instinctively touching his still-bandaged nose. The rest of the group recoiled slightly, stepping back in reflex.

Oga narrowed his gaze, realization flickering behind his eyes. The talk was over. And I wasn't the one who started it.

I adjusted my collar, exhaling slowly.

"Don't grab my collar."

The group had finally dropped their mockery. Their bodies tensed, their expressions shifting from amusement to something more serious.

Well, shit.

"W-what the fuck was that?"

"This little punk—"

They moved in, closing the gap.

I sighed again and bent down, picking up the sticks.

The stance came naturally.

Krav Maga.

"Don't know about the world…" I exhaled, gripping the sticks tightly. "But fighting is definitely my genre."

Let's end this.

---

Oga Masaru couldn't believe his eyes.

His lackeys—six strong, cocky punks—were being demolished by a scrawny bastard who shouldn't have stood a chance. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of the arcade, barely winded, with two meter-long sticks in his hands, cutting through them like they were made of paper.

Kido Yuuto.

What the fuck was this guy?

Oga had no idea.

But one thing was clear—he wasn't normal. The way he moved, the way he handled those sticks with precise, surgical brutality… this guy was trained. Ridiculously so.

"You fucking piece of shit!"

"Stop shouting, idiot."

The first thug, Shoma, lunged, throwing a wild haymaker.

Kido sidestepped effortlessly, his right stick snapping out in a brutal arc—

CRACK!

Shoma's wrist bent at an unnatural angle. A pained howl erupted from his throat, but Kido didn't give him time to process it. The other stick rammed into his sternum, sending him sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath.

"Take this, you bastard!"

The second delinquent, Hibiki, rushed in from the left, swinging a metal pipe. Where the hell did he even get that?

Kido sighed.

"Don't shout before attacking. Geez, at least know the basics."

Hibiki's pipe came down in a brutal arc—only for Kido to deflect it with a sharp upward block. The impact sent vibrations down the thug's arms, his grip faltering.

Before he could recover—

THWACK!

The end of Kido's stick slammed into his knee.

Hibiki's leg buckled. His face contorted in agony as he collapsed onto the grimy arcade floor.

"Ha!"

The third goon tried to tackle him from behind.

Kido didn't even turn around.

"Ugh, morons."

He dropped into a squat at the last second, his sticks swinging backward in a precise motion.

CRACK!

A direct hit to the ribs.

The attacker staggered, wheezing, his arms wrapping around his side. Kido spun on his heel, shifting his weight—

And slammed the stick across the guy's temple.

The goon crumpled instantly.

The arcade fell into silence, the only sounds being the groans of the defeated.

Kido exhaled, adjusting his grip on the sticks. His breathing was a little heavier now, but he was far from exhausted. He rolled his shoulders, his gaze finally settling on Oga Masaru.

Oga's stomach twisted.

For a moment, all his confidence drained from his body.

His breath hitched.

What the fuck did he just watch?

"Eek-!"

The girl shrieked at the brutal display, scrambling behind an arcade machine as if the aging cabinet could somehow shield her from the chaos. Her wide eyes darted between Kido and Oga, panic clear on her face.

Then, she glared at Oga.

A silent demand.

Do something.

Oga almost laughed.

What the fuck did she expect him to do?

"W-what in the—"

"I told you he wasn't normal... This guy's the real deal."

"Would you two shut up?!"

Oga snapped at his remaining lackeys, his eyebrow twitching in irritation.

He wasn't in the mood for their pathetic commentary.

They still had a fight to deal with.

Kido relaxed his stance slightly, letting out a slow breath.

"Well," he said, tilting his head. "I guess we can have a chat now?"