How to Become the Anime King

She found the rice cooker, rinsed the grains, and set it to cook—every movement Kanade Jinguu made was fluid and practiced. It was clear she cooked often.

"Here. Take this... You're wearing your school uniform, right? It'd be a shame if you got it dirty. And your hands... they're so pretty. If they soak in water too long, they'll lose their beauty."

Akira Jinguu handed her an apron and a pair of kitchen gloves.

He glanced at Kanade's pale, delicate hands—hands he had recently felt the softness of. Watching those beautiful fingers handle menial chores filled him with a strange pang of guilt.

Without a word, Kanade snatched the apron from his hands, tied it around her waist, slipped on the gloves, and resumed washing the vegetables.

Leaning against the kitchen doorframe, Akira watched her slender back move busily about. The scene should've been heartwarming, domestic even—but there was an unmistakable air of cold distance between them. He sighed inwardly. If only he'd had the courage to talk to her back then, maybe things wouldn't have turned out like this.

She had always been the kind of girl who would have eventually become his—if only he'd treated her gently, carefully, with sincerity. But instead, jealousy had overtaken reason, and his worst impulses had created a rift that now stood like an unscalable wall between them.

It was natural for young men to be drawn to beautiful girls. Humanity had always been drawn to beauty. But Akira's soul had lived for twenty-five years. Even with his young body brimming with energy, his heart didn't quite see things like a teenager's anymore.

Girls who could run a household, who exuded a quiet maternal strength—those were the ones who captured his attention.

And besides... she was still beautiful.

"Why do you cook for yourself? Shouldn't there be servants at the palace?"

Akira basked in the calm warmth of the moment but couldn't help asking.

"The royal household follows very traditional teachings. From a young age, I was taught kyūdō, the tea ceremony, flower arrangement... and cooking was a required subject too. But compared to all those formal lessons, I just enjoy the act of making food."

Perhaps because she was doing something she liked, Kanade's voice had softened. She wasn't as cold as before. She even answered him without hesitation.

"You really are a good girl. Whoever marries you will be incredibly lucky."

Remembering how she used to care for him—doing the cooking, laundry, and cleaning all by herself—Akira couldn't help but sigh in admiration.

Kanade froze, as if suddenly remembering who she was speaking with. She fell silent again, focusing solely on the meal before her.

Realizing he'd said the wrong thing, Akira shut his mouth. Still, he didn't want the hard-won atmosphere between them to dissolve. Thinking back to something he'd seen in the past, he asked, "I heard you have a little sister?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Kanade whipped around, her expression filled with alarm. Even her voice was sharp with tension.

"...What do you want? My sister is still a child. I'm warning you—don't you dare try anything!"

"Whoa, hey—!"

Akira backed away quickly, raising his hands in a surrendering pose. "I-I was just asking! I didn't mean anything by it! Please… could you maybe put the knife down first? Let's talk this out, okay?!"

Kanade had, in her panic, raised a kitchen knife toward him—her body trembling, the blade pointed straight at his chest. Akira's heart nearly jumped out of his throat. He was terrified she might lose it and actually swing. The last thing he wanted was to follow in Makoto's footsteps and die by knife, only to get isekai'd again!

Seeing his exaggerated reaction, Kanade blinked… then burst into laughter with an uncontrollable "pfft."

She quickly clamped her mouth shut, trying to stifle her giggles, her cheeks flushing bright red. Hiding the knife behind her back, she huffed, "You're not manly at all!"

But her voice carried a tinge of playful teasing.

"I was just worried about you…"

Akira muttered the words under his breath.

Even if she had lunged at him with the knife, she was so small that, with his current physical condition, he could've easily stopped her. But if she got hurt during a scuffle, Akira would be the one drowning in guilt.

Still, that outburst seemed to melt the tension between them. Neither spoke again after that. Kanade busied herself in the kitchen, little slippers pattering across the floor, while Akira leaned quietly against the doorframe, eyes never leaving her graceful form as she moved with quiet elegance through the space.

Soon, dinner was ready. It was a simple home-cooked meal: fried chicken cutlets, miso soup, rice, and simmered fish. The rich aroma filled the air.

"Smells amazing!"

"Woof!"

At some point, JOJO had wandered over, enticed by the smell. The Labrador sat faithfully by Akira's feet, tail wagging and tongue out as it watched the kitchen eagerly. When Akira commented on the scent, the dog barked as if in agreement.

Kanade glanced at the pitiful look in the dog's eyes. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up a piece of fried chicken, tested the temperature with her fingers, and gently placed it on the floor beside JOJO.

"Don't spoil him too much."

"Hmph. He's way cuter than you."

Akira sighed, nudging the dog lightly with his foot. "You really are more popular than I am, huh?"

JOJO, thoroughly engrossed in his food, ignored him completely and happily munched on the chicken cutlet.

"I'll carry the food. There's no dining table on the first floor—let's eat in my room."

Akira stepped forward, took the plates from her, and placed everything neatly onto a tray.

Kanade hesitated, her body tensing. Her expression turned wary—as if afraid Akira might do something to her in his bedroom.

"Sorry… about before. Well, it's not like words will fix it now, but I won't try anything. I just want to share a meal. That's all."

Lifting the tray, Akira spoke sincerely.

Kanade said nothing. She simply nodded in silence and followed him up the stairs, arriving at the room at the end of the hall on the second floor.

To her surprise, Akira's room was an absolute mess—papers, sketches, and failed drafts littered the floor. She gingerly avoided stepping on the clutter and, after a moment of inner conflict, sat down at the edge of his bed.

But she didn't sit fully—just lightly perched on the edge, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of trouble. Akira didn't comment on it. Her caution was only natural.

But then she caught sight of something on the bed—and froze.

It was a copy of Weekly Shōnen Jump, the very magazine where Akira's manga was serialized.

"Sixteen-Year-Old Manga Prodigy!"

"Author: Akira Jinguu"

Just those few words, printed beside the cover art, made Kanade's pupils shrink. As if something had clicked in her memory, her face suddenly turned ghostly pale.