Chapter 759: Daddy’s Little kitten
The shirt hung loose through the shoulders yet somehow clinging in all the right places, the fabric sheer enough in the light to hint at the perfect, full swell of her breasts—firm, round, high and proud, straining the cotton with every breath until the material pulled taut and offered a glimpse of soft, golden cleavage that could make empires crumble.
Yuzuki had no gravity defying breasts but they weren’t modest either. Just big enough to fit heavily in the palm.
The hem of the shirt, unfortunately or fortunately, ended cruelly above her navel, exposing a flat, toned stomach carved by relentless sword drills into something obscene: smooth golden skin stretched over subtle ridges of muscle, the faint lines of obliques flaring like invitations, the shadowed dip of her navel begging for a tongue to trace its secrets.
Her sleeves were shoved up to the forearms, baring slim, corded wrists and hands that looked forged for ruin—strong enough to choke the life from a man or cradle a blade with the same lazy devotion, fingers long and elegant yet corded with the quiet promise that they never let go once they decided something belonged to them.
The skirt was black, pleated, glossy as wet obsidian, slung dangerously low on those flared hips and cinched by a wide dark belt whose gold buckle winked like a dare.
It barely reached mid-thigh, short enough that every shift of her weight sent the pleats whispering apart, flashing the full, lethal length of her thighs—smooth, sun-golden, sculpted by years of sword forms into firm, unyielding muscle that flexed and relaxed beneath the skin like living marble.
They pressed together softly at the top, the shadowed crease where the pleats ended promising heat and sin before tapering down to trim knees and calves that could snap bone or wrap around a waist with equal indifference.
Every step made the fabric sway and tease, the way a predator’s tail flicks before it strikes.
Behind her right hip, held loose in one of those merciless hands, rested the full-length katana—scabbard lacquered midnight, fittings worn from use rather than display, handle wrapped in dark diamond-patterned tsukamaki that her palm knew better than any lover’s skin.
She carried it the way other girls carried lipstick or a grudge: low, casual, fingers curled just beneath the guard with the bored familiarity of someone who had slept with steel since she could walk and would feel stripped naked without its weight kissing her thigh.
Crop top, bare stomach, pleated skirt, and ancient blade existed on her body without apology or contradiction, because in Yuzuki Hayashi’s world, powers, danger, and devastating beauty were simply different shades of the same morning routine.
And the presence she radiated turned every inch of that beauty into something sharper than the sword at her hip.
The cleaners—these no-regular-people, who moved like scalpels given breath—had been orbiting her all afternoon without instruction, adjusting their paths by millimeters, the way sailors steer clear of reefs that wear pretty coral but hide hull-ripping teeth.
She had done nothing, just leaned against glass, bored, pale blue eyes devouring the penthouse like it owed her interest.
Yet the space around her stayed taut, electric, because every soul present understood in their marrow that bumping into this girl was not an accident you survived with a polite apology. You simply did not bump into Yuzuki Hayashi.
That rule wrote itself the moment you looked at her, and the tuition was never refunded.
Yuzuki Hayashi wasn’t just hot.
She was the flame that laughed while the moth begged to burn.
"What?" she drawled, catching her father’s glare and returning it with a lazy arch of one perfect brow.
"It’s not like I’m wrong."
She took another lazy step forward, loose-hipped, skirt flaring just enough to make the pleats flash thigh again, the motion obscene in its innocence.
"Few weeks back we were still scrubbing the mess the Young Master left when his powers decided to throw a tantrum when he awakened. Or did we all develop selective amnesia for that incident and what it took us to cover it?"
She reached behind herself—not for the katana, but somewhere the eye couldn’t quite follow—and brought out an iron ball into her palm, beautiful in the most grotesque way: black and white ice swirled through its surface in frozen veins, crystalline patterns locked forever in slow, murderous ballet.
It looked like art, harmless.
It was, in fact, a black SUV—entire vehicle, engine block, premium sound system, and all—crushed into this palm-sized sphere the instant Phei Ryujin Tiamat’s Void-Ice had detonated for the first time.
One subconscious sneeze of an awakening dragon and several tons of luxury German engineering had been gift-wrapped into a paperweight.
It was now palm-sized though, for her convivence, not a basket ball size anymore.
Yuzuki tossed it and caught it. Tossed it again—one-handed, effortless, the way a bored goddess might juggle the moon.
They all knew how fucking heavy it actually was.
The frozen veins of it caught the amber lights and splintered them across her bare stomach in tiny prismatic explosions, each flash dancing over the toned ridges of muscle, the shadowed dip of her navel, the smooth golden expanse that rose and fell with every breath like an invitation written in sin.
Hayashi had nothing to say.
"Or... should I remind you," she continued, still playing hot potato with vehicular homicide, "how many witnesses we had to erase? How many minds we wiped clean? How many security feeds we deep-fried? How many police reports we intercepted before they could even dream of mattering?"
"Yuzuki." Hayashi’s voice dropped to sub-zero, the damp, puddle-sitting father evaporating. In his place sat a man still tasting Nether Goddess’s energy on his tongue and in no mood for filial stand-up. "Stop. They are your—"
"Dad." The word came warm, light, disarming—like a stiletto wrapped in silk.
She knew the exact length of her leash and had spent a lifetime learning to stop one breath before it snapped. "Don’t get your robes in a twist. I’m just venting. Why so grumpy, old man?"
Hayashi raised one finger.
It trembled—not with power, but with the pure, ancient frustration of a father whose daughter had been winning arguments since she could spell "patricide."
Yuzuki giggled again, bright and merciless.
"Why, you—" he ground out, lowering the shaking finger like it had personally betrayed him, "Why can’t you be more like your brother?"
The young man beside the chair straightened instinctively, chest puffing the tiniest bit, the preening of a son who had just been handed the family trophy and intended to polish it in public.
Yuzuki turned those arctic eyes on him, she held the stare and let the silence stretch, slowly judging him, until it squeaked.
Then, soft as a blade sliding home, in perfect Japanese:
"Otou-san no ko-neko-chan." (Daddy’s little kitten.)
She spun on her heel, katana swaying and sauntered out without a backward glance, leaving the echo of her voice hanging in the air like perfume laced with napalm.
The young man’s face went the color of fresh ash.
The earlier pride deflated out of him so fast his shoulders actually caved, chin tucking, the perfect heir collapsing into a mortified boy in the space of a heartbeat.
Every single of the other people who had spent the afternoon professionally evicting divine filth—stopped pretending they hadn’t heard, but laughter rolled through the penthouse, low, genuine, the dark amusement, they’d been gifted front-row seats to a public execution of dignity.
Hayashi looked at his son. Looked at the door his daughter had just conquered, looked back at his son.
"Also," he said mildly, clapping the boy once on the shoulder with all the sympathy of a guillotine, "she’s right about you."
He stood, damp suit squelching, hands clasped behind his back, and followed after her.
Behind him the laughter crested, rich and unrelenting.
His son stood alone in the middle of it, face burning like the surface of the sun, surrounded by people who would carry this memory to their graves and recite it at every company function until the end of time.
****
A/N: I had promised one to never over-describe Female characters but sometimes I can’t help it. Also, after I refine the image, I will add it to the Discord server.
