Katsura Manami embodied every trait of a fiercely independent woman. Her figure was flawless, her face stunning, and that sleek short hair lent her an air of sharp decisiveness. She'd borne two children, yet her waist remained trim, without a hint of excess. A confident smile lit her features—anyone would mistake her and her daughter for sisters, not parent and child.
But let's be honest: what truly commanded attention weren't her delicate looks, but those monumental breasts that demanded to be noticed.
She knew exactly how to weaponize her assets, opting for a white dress with a daring front plunge.
A dress for a formal meeting? Fine in theory. But on her, it transformed into something straight out of an adult film star's wardrobe.
No helping it—the garment strained against her impossible proportions, far beyond what any ordinary tailor could contain.
Adrian estimated those assets tipped the scales at twenty pounds, easy.
'How does she even function?' he wondered, half-amused. 'Carrying that load daily? Impressive resilience.'
Saeko Busujima and Katsura Kotonoha's chests were generous by normal standards, but stacked together? They still couldn't match Manami's sheer mass.
In his mind, Adrian crunched the numbers: each of hers outsized her head, like a pair of small watermelons. 'Prime real estate,' he thought with a wicked grin.
"Please rise, Mrs. Katsura!"
Adrian motioned for the pair to stand. Sure, he'd already marked this delectable mother-daughter duo as his conquest, but appearances mattered—for now.
Masao Busujima's martial prowess dominated this world, but the government still functioned. No need to rush and draw unwanted eyes.
"Master, you've reviewed my daughter Kotonoha's details, I assume?" Manami and her daughter rose, heads bowed, voices soft and deferential.
At her company, Manami ruled as a cold, unyielding force—strict with underlings to avoid any 'busty boss' scandals. Her curves could unravel the strongest wills; better to freeze them out.
But people wear masks. In the office, she was an ice queen. Here, facing Japan's premier kendo master? A polite, simpering smile was her armor.
Manami led a listed company as a top executive. Busujima? He commanded respect from emperors and prime ministers alike. The gap in status? A chasm—three, maybe four tiers wide.
So, the normally frosty woman treaded carefully, her inquiry laced with caution.
"Yes, per Shimizu's recommendation—your daughter's iaido at third dan? Impressive for her age." Adrian steadied his racing thoughts, adopting a measured tone.
Masters exude calm; speak slow, err never.
This Shimizu fellow? A renowned kendo coach, apparently. He'd penned the letter, hailing Kotonoha as a prodigy, urging Manami to bring her for a shot.
Geniuses in kendo? Japan minted them like coins. Claims were cheap; proof was rare.
"Please, Master—instruct me!"
Kotonoha, now in training garb, gripped her long sword before a wooden dummy. She bowed to Busujima, then unleashed her draw.
One fluid slash—and the dummy's neck parted clean. On flesh? Instant decapitation.
In *School Days*' grim finale, she'd wielded this very skill to gut Sekai Saionji. 'Poetic,' Adrian mused.
'Clap! Clap!'
He applauded lightly, a token of approval.
Not for the swordplay, mind you. To outsiders, her speed dazzled. To him? Slow-motion drudgery.
Levels-wise, he was maxed at 99 in this realm; she, a mere level-20 elite at best.
The gap? Insurmountable. An ambush from her? He'd pin her in a heartbeat.
No, the applause was for the jiggle—those breasts in motion. 'Quite the spectacle,' he thought, smirking inwardly.
They say busty women and sports mix like oil and water. In that strike alone, Kotonoha's assets burned 300 calories—equal to four push-ups for a normie.
And hers were just D+ territory. Imagine Manami's monsters? They'd launch into orbit!
"Again!"
Kotonoha had planned to halt; iaijutsu drained the mind, and her frail build was already taxed. Post-strike, she panted, drenched in sweat.
But the master's command? Undeniable. She rallied, slashing anew at the dummy's midsection.
Weaker this time—the cut halved it, but it teetered, unbroken.
"Master, my daughter's constitution is delicate; she underperformed. Please, grant her another chance!" Manami's anxiety spiked. She dropped to her knees before Adrian, pleading.
In Japan, lineage was everything. Apprenticeship under Busujima? It'd vault Kotonoha's future two rungs higher.
China's cutthroat? Child's play next to Japan's hierarchies.
Gazing at Manami on her knees—breasts pillowed enticingly—and Kotonoha in the ring, sweat-slicked and fearful, an impish scheme sparked in Adrian's mind. 'Why rush the endgame when the setup's this entertaining?'
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