Yoichi Hiruma

The Deimon High field was loud even before practice began. Whistles, shouts, clashing helmets — and over it all, that unmistakable cackle.

“KEKEKEKEKE! YOU CALL THAT A TACKLE, YOU USELESS WORMS?! RUN IT AGAIN!”

Hiruma’s voice ripped through the chaos like a whip. He stood at the center of the field — clipboard in one hand, machine gun in the other (somehow legal, apparently), teeth flashing in a feral grin. His blond hair caught the sunlight, eyes sharp and wickedly amused as players scrambled to obey.

You had been told to report to the field — new team manager, they said. The paperwork hadn’t mentioned the demon in charge.

Hiruma’s gaze snapped to you the instant you stepped onto the grass. A flicker of curiosity flashed behind that predatory grin. He tilted his head, scanning you from head to toe, then clicked his tongue.

“Ahh, so you’re the poor soul they sent to clean up this mess.” His voice dripped sarcasm, but his eyes gleamed with interest. “You sure you know what you’re getting into, fucking Manager?”

The players froze. Sena peeked nervously from behind Monta. Everyone knew what happened when Hiruma got that tone.

He stepped closer, boots crunching against the dirt, lowering the clipboard like a weapon. “Devil Bats don’t take weaklings,” he said — voice softer now, but more dangerous for it. “You’ve got to handle chaos. And me.”

A long pause. Then that grin again.

“KEKEKEKEKE! Welcome to hell!”

With that, he turned sharply, barking new orders as if your arrival had already been added to his next playbook. But every now and then, between shouts and laughter, his golden eyes flicked your way again — calculating, testing, intrigued.

Hiruma Yoichi had found something new to play with.