My Online Soulmate is My Offline Arch-Nemesis?!

The day of the Seiryo High Cultural Festival dawned bright, clear, and nauseatingly cheerful. The air itself seemed to buzz with a manic energy that was fundamentally incompatible with my core philosophy. From the moment I stepped onto school grounds, I was assaulted by a kaleidoscope of colorful banners, the smell of grilling yakisoba, and the distant, terrifying sound of the brass band warming up.

It was my personal hell, and Daiki Sato was its gleeful, pitchfork-wielding demon.

"RENJI! WE'RE ALMOST OUT OF BLUE FOOD COLORING FOR THE POTIONS!" he yelled, grabbing my arm and dragging me towards our classroom. "AND MIKA-CHAN'S ELF EARS ARE ON BACKWARDS!"

Our "Web Fiction Cafe" was a monument to glorious, unadulterated chaos. Handmade cardboard swords were taped to the walls next to pixelated printouts of the Stardust Sonata cover. Students rushed about in costumes that were more passion than polish; Daiki's own "Leo" outfit consisted of a modified gym uniform and a plastic silver wig that sat slightly askew. It was tacky, amateurish, and loud. But as I watched a first-year student's eyes light up at a cup of blue-colored soda, I felt a flicker of something that was dangerously close to satisfaction. From my throne—a teacher's chair draped in a purple cloth to resemble a 'royal seat'—I oversaw my chaotic little kingdom with tired resignation.

It was, in every conceivable way, the polar opposite of the kingdom across the hall.

Akari Hoshino's "Poetry Cafe" was less of a classroom and more of a portal to another era. The desks were gone, replaced by low, elegant tables. Shoji screens partitioned the space, and the scent of green tea hung in the air. In the corner, a woman in a formal kimono played a koto, its gentle melodies weaving a spell of serene tranquility. And at the center of it all stood Akari, dressed in a breathtaking indigo kimono, her posture perfect, her expression calm and authoritative. She was not a student playing hostess; she was the priestess of a sacred temple dedicated to high culture.

The festival officially opened, and the battle began. As expected, teachers and visiting parents flocked to the Poetry Cafe, murmuring their appreciation for its refined atmosphere. But the students... the students poured into our cafe. They came for the familiar theme, the cheap, sugary drinks, and the sheer, unpretentious fun of it all. We were drowning in customers.

I saw Akari glance towards our noisy, overflowing classroom, and for a second, I saw a crack in her icy facade. It was a flicker of annoyance, of disbelief that her perfect, curated experience was losing the popularity contest to our charming mess. It was, I had to admit, deeply gratifying.

The main event for the Poetry Cafe, a reading of the Man'yōshū by Akari herself, was scheduled for the afternoon peak. This was her grand finale. And it was then that fate, with its impeccable sense of dramatic irony, decided to intervene.

A speaker crackled. Then, with a pathetic pop, the entire sound system in the Poetry Cafe died. Silence fell, broken only by the gentle notes of the koto.

I saw the panic in Akari's eyes, even if no one else did. Her hands, hidden in her kimono sleeves, were surely clenched into fists. Yuna rushed to her side, whispering frantically. The school technician, as we soon learned, was on the other side of campus dealing with a rogue smoke machine from the drama club.

This was a catastrophe of the highest order for Miss Perfection. Her magnum opus was about to be performed in utter silence.

After a few moments of frantic discussion, Yuna Fujiwara appeared at the entrance to our cafe, her expression a mixture of desperation and humiliation.

"Tanaka-kun," she said, avoiding my eyes. "We... we have a problem. Our sound system is down. We know your class has one for your readings..."

Daiki puffed out his chest. "Ah, the high-and-mighty Poetry Cafe requires the aid of us humble peasants! Fear not! I, Daiki, shall—"

"You'll what?" I cut in, standing up from my throne. "You'll trip over the wires and electrocute yourself. Stand down." I looked at Yuna. "The only person who knows how that tangled mess works is me."

A moment later, I was walking into the tranquil, tea-scented air of Akari's temple. It felt like trespassing on holy ground. I, in my untucked shirt and with my perpetually lazy slouch, was a discordant note in her perfect symphony.

Akari stood waiting, her face a mask of rigid control. "Can you fix it?" she asked, her voice clipped. There was no 'please.'

"Patience, your highness," I drawled, kneeling to inspect the mess of wires behind the amplifier. "This requires diagnostic finesse, not just imperial glares."

I could feel her watching my every move. I expected her to criticize, to hover, to micromanage. But she remained silent. The problem was simple, of course—a blown fuse from an overloaded power strip. Amateurs. I switched the plugs around, flipped a breaker, and with a soft hum, the speakers came back to life. It took less than five minutes.

I stood up and dusted off my hands. "There. Your poetry slam can proceed."

Akari stared at the small green light on the amplifier as if she couldn't believe it. Then she looked at me, a complex emotion swirling in her eyes. It looked terrifyingly like grudging respect. "Thank you," she said, the words stiff, as if they pained her to speak them.

I just gave a lazy shrug. "Don't mention it. A flawless victory for you would have been boring for me."

I turned to leave, the strange encounter over. But as I reached the shoji screen at the entrance, the koto player, who had been waiting patiently, began a new melody.

It was a beautiful tune. Haunting, melancholic, and deeply familiar. It plucked a string somewhere deep inside my memory. I stopped, my back still to Akari, and listened. Without thinking, the words slipped out, a quiet mutter meant only for myself.

"That's the tune... from Chapter 8. When Seraphina waits for Leo by the lake."

Behind me, the world stopped.

I felt it, rather than heard it. A sudden, absolute stillness. I turned my head slightly, curious at the sudden silence.

Akari Hoshino stood frozen, her face drained of all color. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly agape. It wasn't a look of anger or annoyance. It was a look of pure, unadulterated shock, a horror so profound it seemed to have shattered her very soul.

Because that detail—the specific melancholy of that melody, tied to that specific, unreleased scene—was not public knowledge. It was a secret, intimate detail she had written just days ago. A detail known by only two people on the entire planet.

Herself.

And her partner, Kite.

She stared at my back, at the lazy, infuriating boy she thought she knew. And in her wide, terrified eyes, the flimsy wall of denial, of coincidence, of paranoia, didn't just crack. It vaporized.

The truth, impossible and horrifying, slammed into her with the force of a physical blow.