Chapter 3: Terms and Conditions of War

Chapter 3: Terms and Conditions of War

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not from panic—but strategy.

My desk was buried under a mess of notes, charts, future company names, projected market cycles, and post-it notes scribbled with “DON’T TRUST DAISUKE” in increasingly aggressive handwriting.

I couldn’t afford to move blindly anymore. If Daisuke was reborn, he knew just as much as I did—if not more. We were two players, starting the same game at the same time with full cheat codes unlocked.

But this time, I had one advantage: I was watching him.

Last time, I didn’t even know we were playing.

The next morning at school, I wore my calmest expression and my neatest braid. Internally, I was ready to spar. I sat at my desk and ignored the whispers that still followed Daisuke wherever he went. He had been here less than 24 hours and already had a fan club.

But when he slid into his seat—two rows behind mine—he didn’t even glance at me.

That annoyed me more than I’d like to admit.

Fine. Be cool. I can be cool.

When class ended, I stood and walked straight toward him.

“Hayama.”

He looked up slowly. His eyes were unreadable. “Ayuzawa.”

So. He remembered my name. Good.

“I heard you’ve been doing some early investing,” I said casually. I watched him closely for a reaction.

He smiled. Calm. Perfect. “That so? I guess word travels fast.”

So he’s not going to deny it. Interesting.

“Must be beginner’s luck,” I added, tilting my head. “I mean, what are the odds we pick the same stocks, same day, same quantity?”

He met my gaze. “Maybe we just think alike.”

His tone was easy, but there was a flicker behind his eyes—like he was enjoying this too much.

“Or,” I said, stepping a little closer, “maybe you’re watching me.”

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “If I am, it’s only because you’re more interesting than I remembered.”

What.

Did he just flirt with me?

Was that supposed to be a distraction? Or did he just enjoy throwing me off my rhythm?

Well, two could play that game.

I smiled sweetly. “You always were better at pretending to be charming than actually being it.”

A flash of amusement crossed his face. “And you always got sharper when you were losing.”

“I’m not losing.”

“Not yet.”

The tension between us felt like it could slice paper.

We stared at each other, an unspoken understanding crystallizing in that moment:

This was war.

No teachers. No rules. No formal declarations.

Just two reincarnated rivals trying to outplay fate—and each other. Wait is he really a reborn like me?

By lunch, I had already made a list of companies that hadn’t blown up yet. My next move had to be something Daisuke wouldn’t expect.

I couldn’t stick to the obvious viral hits. I needed a slow-burn winner. One that would go unnoticed by most investors until it was too late to catch up.

That’s when I remembered NekoPan Café—a quiet chain of cat-themed bakeries. People mocked their concept at first. Too niche. Too “kawaii.” But then the food delivery boom hit, and NekoPan’s adorable branding exploded on social media. Their iced melon bread shaped like cat paws? A cult favorite.

In two years, they went from six shops to eighty.

I grinned. “Perfect.”

After school, I raced to the nearest location—one of only three in Tokyo right now.

The place was cozy, pastel, and smelled like sugar and warm butter. A sleepy gray cat blinked at me from the windowsill while two girls sipped strawberry milk out of tiny paw-print mugs.

A sign near the counter said: “Seeking Investment Partners – Inquire Within.”

Jackpot.

I stepped inside, ready to strike early.

But when I reached the counter, the barista smiled and said, “Oh, someone just left. He already reserved a meeting with the manager.”

No. No. NO.

I stormed out and scanned the sidewalk.

And of course—there he was.

Leaning casually against a lamp post, sipping iced tea, and smirking.

Daisuke freaking Hayama.

“You really should move faster, Ayuzawa.”

I marched up to him. “You followed me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I guessed.”

“You stole my move.”

“You telegraphed it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So this is how you want to play it?”

He leaned in just slightly, enough for me to catch the faint scent of citrus from his drink.

“I’m not playing,” he said. “I’m winning.”

I took a breath. Counted to three. Don’t punch him in front of the cat café. Bad branding.

“You know what?” I said finally. “Let’s make it official.”

He blinked. “Make what official?”

I stuck out my hand. “A challenge. Thirty days. Whoever nets the most investment profit wins. No stealing each other’s moves. No buying out places just to block the other.”

He looked at my hand, amused. “And the loser?”

“You tell me.”

He thought for a moment. “Loser owes the winner a favor. No questions. No complaints.”

I hesitated. That was dangerous.

Then again… so was he.

I took his hand. “Deal.”

Our handshake was firm.

Our rivalry, reborn.

And this time, I was going to win—no matter how much he smirked.

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