Chapter 91: Only Crossdressing Can Make You a Boss!
"H-he actually agreed?" Everyone was dumbfounded, eyes wide, mouths hanging open as if the world had turned upside down.
Were these youkai really that stupid? How could they fall for such a ridiculously simple provocation? Even children wouldn't bite that easily!
For a moment, all eyes turned to Kouya, their gazes filled with disbelief, curiosity, and a bit of awe.
"What are you all looking at me for?" Kouya shrugged casually, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "They blocked the road so openly without even trying to hide their presence. Doesn't that mean they're deliberately showing themselves?"
"Well... when you put it that way... it does make some sense."
A few people nodded hesitantly, still unconvinced but unable to refute him.
Of course, things weren't that simple.
The reason those youkai suddenly lost all reason and fell for such an obvious taunt was because Kouya's voice carried a hidden thread of mysterious power—a faint resonance that stirred the mind and provoked the heart.
He simply didn't have the patience for riddles or mind games. Kouya was the kind of man who preferred smashing through problems with raw power and efficiency.
As for whether anyone would notice the trick? He didn't care.
This was just a paid assignment. Once tonight was over, they would go their separate ways. Suspicion, curiosity—it didn't matter. None of it did.
A sharp, animalistic scream cut through the air. Then, with the rustle of leaves and heavy thuds, several youkai jumped out from both sides of the path. Their bodies were twisted and strange, some covered in scales, some sprouting feathers, others with mismatched limbs.
They landed on one knee in eerie unison and spoke in strange, unnatural tones that echoed under the moonlight:
"We greet our boss!"
The air froze.
Even the insects stopped chirping. The moonlight bathed the forest in pale silver, making the moment feel surreal and suffocating.
Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps. Crisp. Calm. Rhythmic. Each step landed with a soft click of high heels, echoing faintly through the still night.
Everyone turned their heads toward the sound, tension rising in their throats.
Out from the shadows of the trees stepped a long, slender leg clad in sheer black stockings and glossy red heels that gleamed like blood.
A murmur rippled through the group.
Their boss... was a woman?
No, not just a woman—a dangerously beautiful one.
She wore a blue silk gown that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Her long black hair fell loosely over her shoulders, framing a delicate face with sharp eyes and perfect lips painted a deep, alluring red. Her every movement exuded grace and confidence. Her pale skin glowed softly against the dark of the night, and her scent—floral, intoxicating—seemed to carry through the air itself.
Every step she took was measured and deliberate, her posture straight, her figure elegant. The faint clack of her heels hit like a heartbeat. The crowd could almost feel her presence pressing against them, a quiet, suffocating aura that made even breathing feel disrespectful.
Kouya frowned slightly.
Something about her didn't feel right. Her beauty was too perfect, too precise—as though it had been crafted, not born.
"I'm here."
The words fell softly—and yet they struck like thunder.
Kouya froze on the spot, every muscle tensing. His mind went blank for half a second, then came crashing down in disbelief.
The rest of the group followed right behind him, faces twisting in shock and horror.
Because that voice—that deep, husky, booming masculine voice—came from the gorgeous woman before them!
Everyone's expressions crumpled in unison.
It was like a collective spiritual breakdown.
The elegant, seductive figure... had the voice of a construction site foreman!
Kouya's face darkened instantly.
No wonder he had felt something off. The smooth neckline, the flowing hair—and then... the Adam's apple. Crystal clear.
You've got to be kidding me—he's a man!?
The group was frozen in silence, staring as though witnessing a forbidden ritual.
The "woman," however, seemed unfazed. Her sharp, feminine eyes softened, and she flashed a teasing smile. "Hey, boy. What's your name? You've got a nice voice. Why don't you sing me a song?"
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "Oh, and you can call me Kirigiri."
Her—no, his—voice carried a hypnotic resonance, each word slipping into the ear like silk, wrapping around the mind like invisible threads. An ordinary person would've already fallen into a trance.
But Kouya? He wasn't ordinary.
"You're a man... wearing women's clothes?" Kouya said flatly, his voice laced with disdain.
"That's right." Kirigiri nodded proudly, striking a pose as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Because I discovered that only by wearing women's clothes can one become a true boss."
Kirigiri's tone was proud, almost reverent.
He was a youkai who had once lived in seclusion deep in the mountains with his master. Life there had been peaceful—but lonely. One day, by pure chance, he encountered humans for the first time. Their noise, their fashion, their chaos—it fascinated him. He couldn't resist. He wanted to experience it all.
His master, a stern old monk, had refused. But Kirigiri persisted for days, begging and pleading until the old man finally relented—on one impossible condition:
"If you can make a ram produce milk, I'll let you go."
A ram. A male sheep.
Everyone knows it's impossible.
The phrase itself—"a ram producing milk"—was an ancient metaphor for the impossible.
The old man clearly meant to make Kirigiri give up.
But a week later, the impossible happened.
Kirigiri stood proudly before his master, holding a bowl of white liquid.
The master's jaw nearly dropped. The rams nearby were trembling, their eyes dull, their bodies thinner than before, as though they'd gone through unspeakable trauma.
Kirigiri smiled and said, "Master, I brought you the milk."
The old man stared in silence for a long moment, then sighed deeply. He patted Kirigiri on the shoulder. "Your... determination is commendable. Now get out."
And so, the young youkai descended the mountain.
But the world outside wasn't what he expected. The bustling cities were dazzling but cold. The people ignored him, mocked him, shunned him. Even other youkai treated him like a joke.
He wandered for weeks, hungry and bitter, until one day, he overheard a conversation that changed his fate.
"What? You think mechas are a man's romance?"
"That's so old-school! Crossdressing is the real man's romance now!"
"Only by wearing women's clothes can one become a true boss!"
That line struck him like lightning.
And from that day on, Kirigiri's path was decided.
Once he put on a dress, everything changed. His back no longer hurt. His legs stopped aching. His strength increased, his aura sharpened, and even his luck turned around. He found jobs, followers, respect—all while dressed in lace and silk.
He called it enlightenment.
He called it evolution.
"Only crossdressing can make you a boss" became his personal scripture, the creed by which he lived and ruled.
"Boy," Kirigiri said now, his tone smooth yet deep, stepping closer, the faint scent of perfume trailing through the air. "You've got potential. Interested in being my right-hand man?"
He posed elegantly, fluttering his lashes—but that deep, masculine rumble that came out almost shattered the illusion.
Everyone winced. Someone gagged.
Kouya's eyes turned to ice. "Shut up."
Silence.
Complete, deathly silence.
The small youkai looked like they'd seen a ghost. Their boss—the man-woman hybrid in a dress—was notorious for his temper. Ever since adopting this persona, he had become vain, emotional, unpredictable. He demanded respect for his "feminine side," yet his voice alone could shatter stone.
And now someone had told him to shut up. In front of everyone.
That wasn't bravery. That was suicide.
Kirigiri's smile vanished. The air dropped several degrees as a suffocating aura swept through the clearing. Even the moon seemed to dim.
"You're asking for death," Kirigiri growled, each word like a cold dagger.
Kouya's answer was simple. He raised his hand, middle finger up, the gesture sharp and clear under the moonlight. "Cut the crap. Come at me."
Wearing women's clothes was one thing.
But daring to disgust me like that?
Unforgivable.
Die, bitch!