Teito Television, the sub control room.

The dim command room, where countless monitors flickered, was wrapped in an abnormal tension.

“D-director! This is bad! The entire program flow has completely collapsed!”

A director wearing a headset let out a scream-like voice.

On the monitors was the sight of the MC and the panel comedians sitting in silence, while Akutsu Jō—supposed to be the guest—sat at the center with his legs crossed, dominating the space.

A development completely opposite to the original script.

The usual variety show where everyone picks on a pitiful boy for fun was being trampled by a single man.

“Should we stop it for now!? Cut to commercials, change the set—”

“Don’t stop it.”

A cold voice cut through the chaos.

It was Godai Satsuki.

She was staring intently at Joe’s figure on the monitor, her eyes shaking not with fear, but with manic delight.

“Don’t let a single camera miss him. Don’t fail to capture even one blink of his every move.”

“B-but… at this rate, it’s a broadcast accident!”

“No. This is a ‘legend.’”

Satsuki could feel her own body trembling.

This was a revolution.

Footage that violently shattered this world’s twisted common sense—that men are cute beings who should be protected—with overwhelming ‘male pheromones.’

What would happen if something like this were broadcast into ordinary households?

“…A ratings monster has been born. Women all over the world will kneel before him.”

* * *

Studio One.

This place was no longer ‘The Empress’s Box Garden.’

On the stage that had transformed into the ‘Demon King’s Castle,’ Unabara Shion wiped greasy sweat away while clutching the cue cards with trembling hands.

The commanding presence that once defined her sharp tongue was gone.

Beside her, Gōda Tora shrank back with cheeks flushed like a maiden, while Himemiya Alice stared at me in a daze.

Who ruled this place was obvious at a glance.

“U-um… then, may we proceed to the next segment?”

What came out of Shion’s mouth was, unbelievably, polite speech.

It was not how one addressed a guest.

But I merely nodded magnanimously, legs still crossed in the main seat.

“Yeah. Go on. Don’t bore me.”

“Y-yes!”

Flustered, Shion pointed at the monitor.

“E-er… next is the ‘Viewer Question Corner’…”

Normally, this was the time meant to humiliate the guest the most.

Questions like ‘Can you cook?’ or ‘You seem boring at night,’ designed to appraise and ridicule the man.

But could they really do that in the current atmosphere?

Shion cautiously read out the first letter.

“U-um… from the pen name ‘Aspiring Househusband.’ ‘It’s rather cheeky for a boy to work, but if your wife said she’d support you for life, would you quit your job and become a full-time househusband?’ …That’s the question.”

The air in the venue grew taut.

In this world, being supported by a wealthy woman was considered ‘winning’ for men, the ultimate status.

Most men would wag their tails and answer, “Yes! I’ll give massages every day!”

But I snorted.

“Ridiculous.”

I dismissed it outright.

“Thinking you can keep me like a pet—try again in a hundred years.”

“E-eh?”

“My master is me. I earn my own keep. A life where you can’t survive without leeching off someone else? I wouldn’t want it even if it killed me.”

The studio erupted in murmurs.

A man who rejected being supported.

A man who took pride in independence.

At that overwhelmingly powerful declaration, the women in the audience seemed to feel a pounding in their chests they had never experienced before.

Not ‘cute.’

But ‘cool’—an emotion they had nearly forgotten.

“So, what’s next?”

Prompted by me, Shion continued with the questions.

The next one would be the last.

“…Um, the next question is this. ‘Please tell us, Akutsu Jō-san, what is your ideal type of woman?’”

A commonplace question.

But under these circumstances, it carried the heaviest meaning.

Everyone held their breath.

The man who treated Alice like a child, crushed Tora with sheer strength and silenced Shion.

What kind of woman would such a ‘strongest male’ choose?

The camera zoomed in on my face.

I directed a straight gaze, as if looking beyond the lens at the tens of millions of viewers watching at home.

“…Let’s see.”

A beat of silence.

Then I declared it.

“A woman who doesn’t bore me.”

A simple answer and yet unbearably arrogant.

“I don’t need money, status, or family background. I’m not interested in that kind of decoration.”

I smiled fearlessly.

“If you want to stand beside me, come with nothing but your soul. Only someone who can face me as an equal has the right to enter my field of vision.”

Thunk.

It felt as if the hearts of the women throughout the studio had been shot clean through.

In a world full of men who fawned, saying ‘Please take care of me,’ ‘Please support me.’

A man who declared, ‘Come with nothing but your soul.’

Faced with that overwhelming courtship of a true strong one, the audience let out intoxicated sighs, some even with tears welling in their eyes.

“H-here we are! Thank you very much!”

Shion wrapped up the segment in a shrill, cracking voice.

At the same time, the studio lights dimmed, signaling the end.

“…”

I did not give the television-typical ‘polite smile after the end,’ nor did I bow.

I slowly stood up and turned my back on the stunned performers.

“…Time’s up, huh. Not a bad way to kill time.”

With that parting remark, hands still in my pockets, I briskly walked off toward the wings.

A moment of silence.

Then—

“”WAAAAAAAH!!””

A massive roar of cheers exploded, sounding like screams or even a tremor shaking the ground.

The entire audience rose to their feet—a standing ovation.

Waving their hands and shouting, they watched my departing back for as long as they could.