The ramen dream had been vivid. A deep, savory broth, perfectly springy noodles, a glistening slice of chashu so tender it dissolved on the tongue. It had been a peaceful dream, a sanctuary of simplicity. Then I woke up, and the reality of "one practice session" slammed into me with the subtlety of a rogue sumo wrestler. My quiet, unassuming high school life, already teetering on the precipice after yesterday's… incident… felt like it was about to take a swan dive into a pool of unwanted attention.
The school day was a peculiar exercise in heightened awareness. I'd expected some whispers, maybe a few curious glances after the swift and public dismantling of Daiki Tanaka and his goon squad. What I got was more like a low-level psychic hum. Students would look at me, then quickly look away, their conversations dropping to a murmur as I passed. It wasn't overtly hostile, more… puzzled. Like they were trying to reconcile the utterly unremarkable Kaito Ishida they saw with the rumors that were undoubtedly beginning to circulate. "Plain Jane who apparently folds bullies like origami" wasn't exactly the low-profile image I was cultivating.
Mr. Tanaka, during homeroom, even gave me a long, searching look before sighing and launching into a diatribe about the importance of proper waste separation. Maybe he'd heard something too. Or maybe he was just perpetually one bad day away from spontaneous combustion. It was hard to tell with teachers.
During lunch, I found my usual spot under the gnarled oak tree, but even the rustling leaves seemed to whisper about yesterday. My convenience store onigiri tasted like ash. Rina Akiyama had cornered me briefly after second period, her amber eyes bright with an almost alarming enthusiasm. "Don't forget, Ishida-kun! Dojo, after school! It's going to be great!" She'd said it loud enough for half the hallway to hear, earning me another wave of speculative stares. Great. Just fantastic. My reputation as "that quiet transfer kid" was being systematically demolished by a martial arts captain with a penchant for dramatic announcements.
As the final bell chimed its daily song of liberation, a familiar sense of dread began to coil in my stomach. My feet, however, seemed to have developed a traitorous inclination to follow Rina's instructions. I told myself it was purely to honor a commitment, however reluctantly made. The path to the dojo, a separate, traditionally styled building at the far end of the sports grounds, felt like a walk towards an execution, albeit one involving gis and probably a lot of shouting. I could still bail. Feign a sudden, violent allergy to tatami mats. Develop an urgent,不可 postponable appointment with a particularly interesting cloud formation. But the image of Rina's hopeful, expectant face, superimposed over the memory of Daiki's sneer, somehow kept my reluctant feet moving forward.
The dojo itself was… impressive, in a stark, minimalist way. Sliding open the heavy wooden shoji door revealed a spacious training hall. The air inside was cool, carrying the faint, clean scent of aged wood, polish, and something else… a subtle, almost electric tang of exertion and discipline. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, luminous sprites. The floor was covered in smooth, tightly woven tatami mats, their pale green-gold surface gleaming softly. Calligraphy scrolls adorned the walls, their bold black strokes conveying principles I couldn't read but somehow felt – words like 'Endurance,' 'Spirit,' 'Respect.' It was a world away from the chaotic energy of the main school building. It felt… consecrated.
Rina was already there, her earlier school uniform replaced by a pristine white gi, her black belt tied with practiced precision. She was stretching, her movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to her earlier almost frantic energy. Seeing me hesitate at the entrance, she smiled, a genuine, welcoming expression that did little to soothe my apprehension. "Ishida-kun! You made it! Come in, come in!"
Stepping inside felt like crossing a threshold into another realm. I shucked off my sneakers at the genkan, placing them neatly beside a row of other, more worn footwear. My plain black hoodie and jeans felt conspicuously out of place amidst the white gis.
There were three other people in the dojo.
One was a tall, powerfully built senior, his gi slightly rumpled, his expression stern and focused as he practiced solitary strikes against a padded post – makiwara, I think they called them. Each strike landed with a sharp, percussive thwack that echoed through the hall. He had an air of quiet intensity, like a coiled spring.
Another was a girl, probably a first-year, much smaller and slighter than Rina, with short, boyish dark hair and large, intelligent eyes behind round glasses. She was meticulously cleaning a set of practice weapons – wooden swords, bokken, and staffs, bo – her movements precise and careful. She glanced up as I entered, offered a brief, shy nod, then returned to her task.
The third was a guy around my age, lean and wiry, with spiky, dyed-blond hair that defied gravity and a cocky smirk permanently etched on his face. He was lounging against a wall, arms crossed, observing the makiwara-striking senior with an expression that was equal parts boredom and faint disdain. He looked like the type who thought rules were suggestions and "effort" was a four-letter word.
Rina clapped her hands, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright team, gather 'round for a sec!"
The senior stopped his strikes, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. The small girl put down her cleaning cloth. Even Blondie pushed himself off the wall, albeit with a theatrical sigh.
"Everyone," Rina announced, gesturing towards me, "this is Kaito Ishida, the new transfer student I was telling you about. Ishida-kun, this is the Seiyo High Martial Arts Club. Or, well, most of it."
She indicated the stern senior. "This is Kenji Tanaka. Third year, our vice-captain. Don't let his grumpy face fool you, he's mostly harmless."
Kenji grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from "hello" to "why are you wasting my training time?" He gave me a cursory, appraising look, his eyes lingering for a moment before dismissing me. I clearly didn't register as anything significant. Good.
"This quiet one is Hana Sato," Rina continued, pointing to the small girl. "First year, but she's got more dedication in her little finger than most people have in their whole body. Our resident weapons expert in training."
Hana offered another shy smile and a small bow. "Nice to meet you, Ishida-senpai." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"And this," Rina said, her voice tinged with affectionate exasperation as she indicated Blondie, "is Takeshi 'Flash' Yamamoto. Second year. Calls himself 'Flash' because he thinks he's fast. The jury's still out on that one, but he provides… comic relief, mostly."
Takeshi scoffed, running a hand through his spiky hair. "Hey! I am fast! And my contributions are vital to team morale, Captain!" He sauntered over, looking me up and down with an overtly skeptical gaze. "So, this is the guy? The one who supposedly tangoed with Daiki 'The Dumbbell' Tanaka and came out smelling like roses?" His tone was laced with disbelief. "You don't look like much, no offense."
"None taken," I said, my voice neutral. Unremarkable. Smooth nail. My mantra.
Rina shot Takeshi a warning glare. "Takeshi, manners. Ishida-kun is our guest. He's just here to observe today." She turned back to me, her expression softening. "Feel free to sit over there by the wall, Ishida-kun. Get a feel for what we do."
"Thanks," I mumbled, grateful for the escape route. I found a spot near the entrance, sinking down onto the cool tatami, my back against the smooth wooden wall. From this vantage point, I could see the entire dojo. It was a far cry from the rowdy, chaotic energy of the basketball court or the soccer field. There was a focused intensity here, a quiet hum of effort.
Practice began. Rina led them through a series of warm-up exercises – stretches, calisthenics, breathing techniques. Her movements were precise, her instructions clear and concise. She was a different person in the dojo – still passionate, but with an added layer of authority and focus that was surprisingly compelling.
Kenji, the vice-captain, moved with a grounded power, each stretch deliberate, each stance rooted. Hana, despite her small stature, showed surprising flexibility and discipline, her movements neat and controlled. Takeshi… well, Takeshi was Takeshi. He went through the motions with a kind of flamboyant laziness, occasionally winking at an imaginary audience or trying to distract Hana, who steadfastly ignored him.
After warm-ups, they moved onto drills. Rina and Kenji demonstrated a series of throws and joint locks – nage-waza and kansetsu-waza, I vaguely recalled from some documentary I'd half-watched once. Their movements were a blur of controlled force and intricate technique. One moment they were upright, the next Kenji, despite his size advantage, was sailing through the air to land with a soft thud on the mat, Rina standing over him, perfectly balanced.
"Observe the entry, the kuzushi – breaking the balance," Rina explained, her voice carrying clearly. "It's not about strength, but about timing, leverage, and understanding your opponent's center of gravity."
I watched, and a strange thing happened. As Rina explained, as they moved, it wasn't just a visual spectacle. It was… almost like I could feel it. The subtle shifts in weight, the angles of force, the precise point where balance was compromised. It wasn't conscious analysis; I didn't know the names of the techniques or the underlying principles. But on some deeper, instinctual level, it made sense. I could see, in my mind's eye, how a slight adjustment here, a different angle there, could make a throw even more effortless, a lock more inescapable. It was like listening to a piece of music and intuitively understanding its structure, even if you couldn't read the notes.
They moved on to sparring. Kenji and Rina were a whirlwind of motion, strikes and blocks exchanged with blinding speed. It was impressive, no doubt. Kenji's style was powerful, direct, relying on solid stances and strong blows. Rina's was more fluid, evasive, utilizing circular movements and quick counters. Hana, when she sparred with Takeshi, was surprisingly tenacious, her smaller size forcing her to rely on speed and clever footwork to avoid his longer reach and more erratic attacks. Takeshi, for all his bluster, was actually quite agile, though his technique seemed sloppy, relying more on flashy moves than solid fundamentals.
I continued to "just watch," as promised. My initial apprehension had faded somewhat, replaced by a detached, analytical curiosity. It was like watching a complex machine, trying to understand how all the gears and levers fit together. Occasionally, Rina would glance over at me, a hopeful, questioning look in her eyes. I'd just offer a noncommittal nod. I wasn't about to get drawn into this. This was their world, not mine.
Then, Rina called for a short water break. As the others headed for their water bottles, she walked over to me, wiping her brow with a towel.
"So?" she asked, a hint of challenge in her voice. "What do you think, Ishida-kun? Still think it's all just 'clumsy' opponents and 'flukes'?"
I considered her question. "You're all… dedicated," I offered, which was true. "And strong." Also true.
Rina sighed, a small smile playing on her lips. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I'll take it. Look, Ishida-kun, I know you're reluctant. But what I saw yesterday… it wasn't normal. You moved like someone who's been training for years, even if you don't realize it."
Before I could formulate another polite deflection, Takeshi swaggered over, a towel slung around his neck. "Captain, still trying to recruit this guy? Come on, he looks like he'd get winded tying his shoelaces." He grinned at me, a teasing, goading expression. "No offense, new kid, but this is a serious martial arts club. We don't have room for dead weight."
Kenji, who had been silently observing, spoke up, his voice a low rumble. "Takeshi, show some respect. Captain Akiyama has her reasons." His gaze, however, as it rested on me, was still skeptical. He probably thought Rina was just being overly optimistic after one lucky encounter.
"Reasons? The only reason I see is that he managed to trip up Daiki," Takeshi scoffed. "Anyone could get lucky against that oaf. Tell you what, new guy," he said, turning to me, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "How about a little demonstration? Nothing serious. Just… stand there. Let me try a simple entry for a throw. If you can stay on your feet, I'll… I'll clean the dojo for a week."
Rina looked alarmed. "Takeshi, no! Ishida-kun is just observing!"
"What's the harm, Captain?" Takeshi said, puffing out his chest. "It's just a light drill. Unless… he's scared?" He waggled his eyebrows at me.
My internal "nope" alarm was blaring at full volume. This was exactly the kind of situation I'd been trying to avoid. "I appreciate the offer," I said, keeping my voice as flat as possible. "But I'm really not—"
"Scared you'll actually have to do some work for a change, Takeshi?" Hana interjected, stepping forward, her small frame surprisingly resolute. "Maybe Ishida-senpai doesn't want to embarrass you." Her defense was unexpected, and her words, though quiet, carried a surprising sting.
Takeshi bristled. "Embarrass me? Please! I'm just trying to gauge his potential! For the good of the club!"
Rina looked torn. Part of her clearly wanted to protect me from Takeshi's antics, but another, larger part – the ambitious club captain part – was probably dying to see if my earlier display was repeatable.
"It's fine, Akiyama-san," I heard myself say. The words just… came out. Maybe it was Takeshi's smugness. Maybe it was Hana's unexpected defense. Or maybe it was that damn, traitorous curiosity again, wondering what would happen. "Just… standing here?" I asked Takeshi, my expression, I hoped, conveying utter disinterest.
Takeshi's grin widened. "Yeah! Simple. I'll come in, try to get a hold, see if I can off-balance you. Don't even try to fight it. Just… be a training dummy." He winked at Rina. "See? Perfectly safe."
Rina still looked hesitant, but she nodded slowly. "Alright. But Takeshi, lightly. Understand?"
"Crystal, Captain!" He turned back to me, rubbing his hands together. "Ready, 'training dummy'?"
I just shrugged, remaining seated for a moment, then slowly got to my feet. I didn't adopt any particular stance. I just stood there, hands loosely at my sides, probably looking like a confused tourist who'd wandered into the wrong building. The tatami felt cool and slightly yielding beneath my socked feet.
Takeshi approached, his earlier laziness replaced by a focused intensity. He circled me once, like a shark sizing up its prey, then feinted to his left. I didn't react. He feinted right. Still nothing. My body felt… still. Not tense, just… still. Like a calm lake.
He darted in, his hands shooting out to grab my lapels, his right foot aiming to hook behind my ankle for a sweep – o soto gari, I think Rina had called it. It was fast, much faster than Daiki's clumsy attacks. I saw his intention, the line of his attack, the shift in his balance as he committed to the move.
And then, my body moved.
It wasn't a conscious decision. One moment I was standing still, the next my left foot had pivoted slightly, almost imperceptibly, shifting my center of gravity. As his hands reached for my lapels, my own hands came up, not to block, but to intercept. My right hand met his right wrist, my left hand his right elbow. Just like with Daiki. The contact was light, almost delicate.
But the effect was anything but.
The instant I made contact, I applied that same subtle, almost rotational pressure. It wasn't strength. It felt more like… redirecting energy. Takeshi, expecting to secure a firm grip and execute his throw, suddenly found his own momentum turned against him. His forward drive, intended to unbalance me, instead sent him stumbling past me, his arm now twisted at an awkward angle, his balance completely shattered.
He yelped, a sound of pure, unadulterated surprise, and went down. Hard. Not sprawling like Daiki, but more like a sack of potatoes dropped from a height. He landed on his side with a loud thwump on the tatami, the air rushing out of his lungs.
Silence.
A profound, stunned silence filled the dojo. The only sound was Takeshi's wheezing gasp as he tried to catch his breath.
Rina's jaw was slack, her amber eyes wide as saucers.
Kenji, who had been watching with a stoic, unimpressed expression, now looked as if he'd seen a ghost. His usually stern face was a mask of disbelief.
Hana's glasses had slipped down her nose, her mouth forming a small 'o' of astonishment.
Takeshi lay there for a moment, groaning, then pushed himself up onto his elbows, staring at me with wide, shell-shocked eyes. "What… what in the… how did you… I didn't even feel you move!"
I looked down at my hands, then back at him. "You… you tripped," I said, the excuse sounding lame even to my own ears. It was the only thing I could think of. Because the alternative, that I had somehow, effortlessly, without even trying, countered a supposedly fast and skilled martial artist… that was just too bizarre.
"Tripped?" Takeshi sputtered, getting to his knees. "I don't trip! You… you did something! It was like… like hitting a stone wall that wasn't there a second ago, and then the wall just… flowed around me and put me on my ass!" He looked at his arm, then back at me, a new emotion dawning in his eyes: respect. And a healthy dose of fear.
Rina finally found her voice, a breathless whisper. "Ishida-kun… that was… that was ippon seoi nage counter… but… not like any I've ever seen. It was instantaneous. Almost… invisible."
Kenji slowly walked over, his gaze fixed on me, no longer dismissive, but intensely analytical. "Your footing," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It shifted less than an inch. Your hands… it was like they knew exactly where to be, before Takeshi even committed." He looked at Rina. "Captain… this isn't just 'talent.' This is… something else."
Hana, forgetting her shyness, rushed to Takeshi's side. "Are you okay, Yamamoto-senpai?"
"Yeah, yeah, my pride's more bruised than anything," Takeshi mumbled, still staring at me. He got to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. "Okay, new guy. I take it back. You're not dead weight. You're… you're a damn ghost." He actually looked… impressed. Thoroughly, utterly impressed.
I felt a flush creep up my neck. This was a hundred times worse than the Daiki incident. That had been against bullies. This was in front of actual martial artists, people who understood what had just happened, even if I didn't. My "smooth nail" strategy was officially a catastrophic failure. I was sticking out like a neon-pink thumb.
"I… I think I should go," I said, starting to back towards the exit. "My mom… she needs me to pick up some tofu. Urgent tofu emergency." Lame. So incredibly lame.
"Wait!" Rina exclaimed, stepping forward, her eyes blazing with an even more intense fire than before. "Ishida-kun, you can't just leave! What you just did… do you understand how incredible that was?"
"It was an accident," I insisted, my voice probably cracking. "He was off-balance, I just… reacted."
"Reacted with the precision of a grandmaster!" Kenji stated, his arms crossed. He still looked mildly stunned. "I've been training for ten years. I've never seen a counter that clean, that effortless, from someone who claims to have no training."
Rina took another step closer. "Ishida-kun," she said, her voice softer now, but with an undeniable undercurrent of determination. "Forget 'just watching.' You have to join the club. We need you. With you… with what you can do… we could actually win. We could actually make Seiyo known for something other than its kendo B-team captain being a jerk."
The three of them – Rina, Kenji, even a humbled Takeshi – were looking at me with a mixture of awe, expectation, and something that felt suspiciously like hope. Hana was peeking from behind Takeshi, her large eyes curious. It was… overwhelming. I felt like a particularly boring rock that had suddenly been mistaken for a priceless diamond.
My desire for a quiet life, for anonymity, was screaming in protest. But there was also that other thing… that faint, persistent tingle in my hands, that strange, intuitive understanding of movement, of balance, of force. It was like a dormant part of me had been nudged awake, and it was… curious. And, if I was truly honest with myself, a tiny, infinitesimal part of me had felt a flicker of something that wasn't entirely unpleasant when Takeshi had gone down. Not satisfaction at his fall, but… a sense of rightness. Of things aligning.
"I… I still don't know any martial arts," I said, one last desperate attempt at reason.
Rina's smile was dazzling. "Then we'll teach you the names for what your body already knows, Kaito Ishida." She used my first name, and it sounded… different. More personal. "We'll help you understand this gift you have." She gestured around the dojo. "This can be your place too."
The setting sun cast long shadows across the tatami mats, painting the dojo in hues of gold and orange. The air was still, expectant. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on me. The whispers of the tatami seemed to be holding their breath.
My tofu emergency suddenly felt a lot less urgent.
My quiet life was well and truly over, wasn't it? I had a sinking feeling that the Uncrowned King, whoever the hell he was, had just accidentally stumbled onto a throne he never asked for, in a kingdom he didn't understand, surrounded by subjects who expected him to perform miracles. And the craziest part? A tiny, treacherous piece of me was starting to wonder what those miracles might look like.
"Okay," I heard myself say, the word barely a breath. "Okay. Maybe… maybe I'll try."
Rina's answering grin was brighter than the setting sun. Takeshi let out a whoop. Kenji actually cracked a small, almost imperceptible smile. Hana beamed.
The tatami mats seemed to sigh in relief, or perhaps, in anticipation. The real training, it seemed, was about to begin. And I had a terrible, thrilling, goosebump-inducing feeling that things were about to get a whole lot more complicated.