Fist is the Answer
“Yawn...” Ritka opened the door and stepped into the living room, her cute mouth stretched wide in a yawn. It looked just about my size. I'd prepared in advance and smirked as I handed her a mug of steaming coffee.
“Ah, thank you.” Blushing bashfully, she took the coffee and curled up on the sofa, sipping away.
It'd been five days since the zombie outbreak hit. Ignoring the booms and blasts echoing from outside the mansion, we'd just been playing house together. Today, though, the streets had fallen into an eerie silence, exuding a grim vibe. At least the electricity and water were still holding up—no real hitches in daily life. Honestly, if those crapped out, I'd have called it quits.
Glancing sideways, I spotted Ritka decked out in men's boxer briefs and dolphin pants that matched mine. She fiddled with her smartphone, probably shitty signal. Over the past few days, I'd hammered a fabricated backstory about Takeru into her head—or maybe it was because she kept up that prim-and-proper act even alone in a room with a grown man and woman. Either way, her outfits and behavior had gotten downright casual.
Does she have zero self-awareness?
Every time she twisted her body, her braless nipples peeked through just a tease. Those healthy, toned thighs were impossible not to ogle.
Mighty Akalates above. I secretly swallowed hard, then stood up all casual-like, pretending I hadn't noticed a thing. Playfully draping last night's blanket over her head, I headed to the kitchen.
“Ah, Kazuma-san!”
Snickering at her whiny meows—annoyance or playfulness?—I stepped into the kitchen and fired up the pancakes. As I clattered around, she wrapped the blanket tight around her shoulders and naturally started setting the table. Humming a little tune, her upturned lips refused to drop—probably picturing that dream home life from her childhood.
In a setup like this, one little nudge and her type would cave instantly.
But nah... that'd be too easy.
I'm a shady bastard at heart. Cooking's got its courses—appetizers, soup, bread, fish—and you savor the buildup. A woman tastier than the meal deserves the full sequence, right? Etiquette and all.
Mid-meal, after everything was set, I spoke up.
“Kanzaki-san, think we gotta hit the mart today.”
“Huh?! Why?!”
“Well... food's running low, and we need to look for Takeru.”
“Ah... y-yeah, right!”
Her face soured, like Takeru had been totally wiped from her mind.
Your boyfriend ain't me...
“Get prepped by lunch and head out. We'll be moving, so lunch is MREs. Got it?”
“Yes. Got it.”
“Hate to say it, but if no Takeru... food secure's top priority.”
I left her nodding and geared up to head out.
Just tag along to the mart, then solo farm after... like a good breadwinning hubby.
Weather turning chilly—we'd need winter prep, just us two. Inventory was stocked heavy on survival gear, but more's always better. Full larder fattens the wallet, the mood, and the head-of-house authority.
That vibe? Endless entertainment options in this dead zone. Sex. Pure buildup for it.
Scheming our future on the sly, we suited up in the tactical pants and combat boots I'd prepped, topped with thick windbreakers.
I led with spear in one hand, easing the front door open. Ritka clutched her bow tight, letting out a shrill squeak as she scurried after.
Out in the hall, things had changed since last time—doors ajar, a few head-smashed zombies littering the floor. Looked like some gutsy folks saw me clear the hall day one and set off adventuring.
Otakus' paradise. Basement lardass spots hope in the apocalypse?
Idiots.
“I'll handle most, so Kanzaki-san, eyes on surroundings. Shoot if it looks dicey... yell for me if it's bad, I'll sort it.”
“Yes, yep!”
Trailing diagonally behind, she scanned around, fingers on an arrow.
Puk! Puk! I advanced down the hall, spearing the skulls of downed zombies one by one. Soon we descended the stairs to the first-floor lobby.
Lobby corner: lucky, just one zombie—back turned, thudding its head against the wall. I spoke up.
“Ritka, wanna take a shot? Practice while we've got breathing room.”
She bit her lip lightly and nodded. Quick aim and release. Thwip! The carbon arrow slammed into its skull in a flash.
I'd watched her home practice, ditched the wasteful moves for rapid-fire drills, but damn, she nailed it better than expected. I ruffled her hair in genuine praise.
“Hehe...”
“Good girl. Back's all yours now.”
“Yes! Just trust me!”
She retrieved the arrow, and we exited the mansion onto the street. Four zombies spotted us and charged.
“Grraaah!”
“Uwaaagh!”
I speared their skulls one after another. Someone had already thinned the herd on the street—no sweat for us two.
Mechanical work, advancing a ways... then the mart across the intersection. Not even a week in, and it'd morphed into a grotesque fortress. Corpse piles ringing the entrance, barbed wire twisted onto the door handles for defense. I swallowed a groan.
Fuck. Just dump some nearby, pretend we found 'em?
The Takeru snowball was a pain in the ass.
Nah, better than her bawling over a real body.
Sigh from the hassle, but no choice. We approached along the roadside; they must've been watching inside, 'cause a commotion hit and the barricade cracked open.
A middle-aged guy led four classic thug-types, gripping bloody tools.
“Excuse us. Looking for someone—mind if we ask around?”
They'd already carved out their turf, survival rules in place. Best play: confirm no Takeru, bail. Scout the area, subtly lock in his death—her goodwill and dependence would pull her to me natural-like.
“Looking for Yamamoto Takeru!” Midway through glaring warily, Ritka jumped in describing him.
Ah, fuck. Hassle.
Her apocalypse-mismatched beauty and pristine look hooked 'em—their eyes started gleaming.
As I clocked the annoyance and geared for a vague brush-off, the middle-aged guy sensed us leaving and blurted out.
“Ah, uh, Yamamoto-kun? Yeah, know him! Probably working third floor.”
“Y-yeah, strong dude we lean on. Sis!”
Smooth-ass lie, pro-level bullshit.
Fuckers blind to the spear and bow? Or clocked it and pushing anyway?
Ignoring we'd cleared the street duo-style, they got slimy. Five guards meant more inside—betting on numbers. Or just cock-eyed dog lust.
“Come on in, meet him. Friend's like family!”
Leering Ritka over and over, she shrank under the creepy stares—my irritation boiled over.
Ritka was unopened fresh goods.
Wait, fuck. Why'm I even playing passive?
Just normie punks strutting; hit me—my long 1st Awakening had me subconsciously too meek.
Houseplay vibes were worlds apart from this ballsy shit aimed at an awakener. Mind snapped sharp.
NPC glowing over their heads. Course of action locked.
Kill 'em.
Apoc solo was dicey now, playing safe-ish, but future powers? Unstoppable. No point dragging.
Decision made, I toed up a roadside pebble and chucked it at the middle-aged leader's skull.
Crack! Awakener force whistled it straight through, shattering his cranium mercilessly.
“F-fuck! What the?!”
“Kazuma-san...?!”
In the blink-of-an-eye murder and headless corpse shock, I yanked Ritka's arm and pulled her close.
“Kanzaki-san, no word from Takeru in days.”
“...!”
Laid out the contradiction with a solid excuse; she gripped bow and arrow tight. She eyed my freak strength sidelong but clocked the priority: not strong ally, but hostile survivors.
Nodded inwardly at her attack-ready stance, turned to the thugs.
Another pebble at a guy's feet as he bolted to warn inside.
Crack! Asphalt and stone powdered; they froze, gulping hard.
“Wh-what do you want?”
Mart setup screamed experience; the oldest thug soothed his crew and asked polite-like.
“We didn't ask you. Truth now.”
“Y-yes... never heard of him.”
Ritka glared daggers. They'd seen a pebble pulp a head live—docile answer earned a smile.
Yeah, trash bows to fists.
True law of the world, realized.