Before stepping into the classroom, Kiryu Kazuma was still worried the homeroom teacher might scold him—yes, Japan had homeroom teachers too, and in fact, their attachment to students was even stricter than it had been back in China.
To his surprise, the homeroom teacher merely smiled when he saw Kazuma and Fujii at the door. "Done with your laps?"
Kazuma straightened. "Reporting in, sensei, we've finished."
"No need to be so loud. I'm not a P.E. teacher." The teacher waved the kokugo textbook in his hand. "Go back to your seats."
Kazuma and Fujii quickly made their way across the classroom and sat down.
Japanese schools were highly hierarchical. Each class had a sort of social pyramid. Fujii, with her good looks, lively personality, and participation in athletic clubs, sat near the top of that pyramid.
As a member of a sports club himself, Kiryu Kazuma also ranked near the top—he just wasn't the center of his group.
Kazuma didn't mind. He wasn't being ostracized, nor was he attracting undue attention. That was fine. Comfortable, even.
But... if he and Fujii started dating, he'd probably end up becoming the center of attention in their circle.
Tch. Why am I even thinking about this? Now's not the time to be enjoying school life.
His mind drifted back to the teru teru bōzu he'd seen hanging by the door this morning.
Today it was just a chicken. Tomorrow, those yakuza thugs might decide to turn Kiryu Chiyoko into one.
No, I really have to convince Chiyoko to sell the dojo.
Kazuma sighed inwardly and opened his textbook, putting on an attentive front.
**
In the blink of an eye, afternoon had arrived.
Japanese schools started late and let out early—a tradition that had existed even before "relaxed education" reforms came along.
This left students plenty of time for club activities.
That afternoon, the kendo club was selecting its official team members for the regional preliminaries.
Kitakatsushi Ward was a district under the Tokyo Metropolis, so there was no "prefectural tournament"—after all, there was no prefecture. Schools here competed in Tokyo's district-based preliminaries.
Kazuma was careful. He avoided using Gatotsu again—he didn't want to draw more attention.
But even relying solely on his solid Shintō-ryū foundation, he easily secured a spot on the main team. No pressure at all.
After training wrapped up, Kazuma was maintaining his bamboo sword when Fujii bounced over.
"Why didn't you use that thrust just now?"
"I had a sudden case of amnesia. Forgot the move."
Kazuma grumbled to himself. I already drew too much attention trying to flirt with you this morning. I'm not looking to cause another stir this afternoon.
Noticing Fujii seemed ready to press the issue, he quickly changed the subject. "Aren't you going to maintain your bamboo sword?"
Bamboo swords weren't just split bamboo sticks. Without regular maintenance, problems could arise. That was why many kendo dojos in modern China switched to foam swords—no maintenance needed, safer, and no special gear required for practice.
"I already did it at lunch," Fujii replied, patting her sword, now packed away in its bag. "I'm going to change—don't leave without me, okay?"
She bounced off cheerfully.
Kazuma blinked. Huh, she's not insisting I teach her Gatotsu anymore?
He finished cleaning and polishing the bamboo strips, then reassembled the tsuba, nakayui, and sakigawa in order. Finally, he strung the tension cord to straighten the blade.
After sliding the completed bamboo sword into its bag, Kazuma stood and bowed to Daimon Gorō. "Thank you for today, sensei. See you next time."
"Mm. Don't wander around. Go straight home," Daimon Gorō reminded him.
"Understood."
Kazuma slung the bamboo sword over his shoulder, changed in the club room, and was just approaching the school gate when Fujii came running up.
"Come on, let's go to the dagashi shop!"
Stretching as she spoke, Fujii Mikako's winter sailor uniform rose high over a certain area of her chest.
Stopping by the nearby dagashi shop for snacks and chat seemed to be a daily ritual for Fujii Mikako and Kiryu Kazuma.
What puzzled Kazuma was that Fujii seemed pretty close to the original "him"—yet she still hadn't noticed that the soul inside this body had changed.
Could it be that the original's personality was really this similar to his?
Honestly, if it weren't for his dwindling savings and the yakuza breathing down their necks, he wouldn't mind savoring this school-life rom-com a bit longer.
At home, he had a younger sister, Kiryu Chiyoko. Parents gone. A rather large house—though most of it was a dojo.
At school, he had Fujii Mikako—a perfect choice for either a close friend or a girlfriend.
And of course, there were a few male buddies… but Kazuma deliberately left them out of this ideal picture.
Wasn't this the perfect setup for a romantic comedy?
There was still hope, actually. If he could convince Chiyoko to sell the dojo and then use his knowledge of future industries to invest wisely, he could live this school-life rom-com carefree.
Kazuma was pondering how to persuade Chiyoko when Fujii suddenly smacked him on the shoulder. "Hey, say something already!"
"Huh? What?"
Kazuma startled. He hadn't heard a word of what Fujii had been chattering about.
"I'm talking about your thrust technique! I thought it over—shouldn't the rear foot go like this, and then…?"
Still wearing her sailor uniform, Fujii Mikako struck a kendo stance right there on the roadside, demonstrating the motion she'd come up with.
"Pretty much," Kazuma replied. "The rest is just practice—get as comfortable with it as you can."
"You say that like you've practiced a ton!" Fujii pouted. "You barely do anything in club!"
"Yeah, but my family runs a dojo. I can practice at home."
Fujii was about to retort when a blood-curdling cry rang out ahead. "No! Please stop!"
Both of them turned in unison. The shouts were coming from the very dagashi shop they'd been heading toward.
The shop's owner, an older woman, was on her knees, clutching the leg of a young man dressed like a yakuza, wailing loudly.
"Get off!" The thug tried to kick her off, but couldn't shake her loose. Frustrated, he raised the baseball bat in his hand.
With a cry, the woman released him, clutching her bruised forehead.
At the same time, two other thugs with baseball bats were smashing the glass jars outside the shop, the sound of shattering glass mingling with the woman's sobs.
"You old hag! Just take the money and leave, and there won't be any trouble!" the leader sneered. "You're the one making us work! We should be at pachinko right now!"
Kazuma understood—it was a forced eviction.
The '80s were Tokyo's era of massive redevelopment. But as Japan's biggest and oldest city, Tokyo had countless old districts, where resistance to demolition was fierce.
This gave yakuza groups plenty of opportunities to grow.
Kitakatsushi Ward was one of the oldest wards in Tokyo's 23 wards, full of old wooden houses one or two stories tall.
Naturally, it was prime ground for redevelopment.
The dagashi shop must have been inside a redevelopment zone. Kazuma wondered if it was Sumitomo Construction trying to buy it.
The old woman sobbed, "This was my mother's shop… so many memories…"
"Who the hell cares!" The young thug stomped on her face, knocking her to the ground.
Kazuma noticed the emblem on the thug's suit lapel—it was different from the one of the group that had hung a dead chicken at his door this morning.
While he was taking this in, Fujii Mikako suddenly leapt out, bamboo sword in hand.
"Hey! How can you treat an old lady like that?!"
Kazuma: Oh crap!
The thugs turned toward her, their expressions shifting.
The leader, still standing on the old woman, whistled. "Well, well, who's this? I thought it was some neighborhood association granny!"
Neighborhood associations in Japan were local self-governance groups. By this era, most had either been crushed by yakuza or transformed into yakuza themselves.
Another thug leered at Fujii. "Missy, have you been watching too much Lupin the Third? Trying to play Fujiko the heroine?"
The leader bashed him over the head with his baseball bat. "Baka! Watching anime? You're embarrassing us!"
Then he turned back to Fujii with a mock-reasonable expression. "Miss, you're in the wrong here. We're conducting legitimate business. This greedy shopkeeper turned down Sumitomo's generous offer and even tried to jack up the price—"
"I didn't! I just don't want to sell!" the old woman cried.
"Shut it!"
The leader swung his baseball bat down toward her head.
"Men!" Fujii shouted, striking swiftly. Her bamboo sword hit his hand dead-on, sending the baseball bat flying.
The leader howled in pain, glaring daggers at her. "This chick's crazy! Grab her! Let's ship her off to Kabukichō—she'll learn real fast how cruel the world is!"
The other thugs, fired up, charged forward.
Kazuma sighed.
He'd planned to sell the dojo, so he wasn't eager to pick a fight with the yakuza.
But this group wasn't the same one from this morning. A different gang. Beating them up shouldn't cause problems.
Probably.
Kazuma drew his bamboo sword, took a stance, and targeted the charging thug.
In the next instant, the sakigawa of his bamboo sword struck the thug square in the eye socket.
The sakigawa was designed to reduce injury during thrusts, as bamboo swords were practice tools. But Kazuma's strike had used his whole body's strength.
Despite the protective leather, the blow landed like a hammer, sending the thug sprawling with a deep bruise around his eye.
That one was out of commission.
Meanwhile, Fujii landed an upper strike (Men) to another thug's head. Glancing over, she called, "Nice!"
"Fujii, behind you!" Kazuma shouted.
Too late. A thug swung his baseball bat into the back of Fujii's head, knocking her out cold.
Kazuma responded with another Gatotsu, giving the thug a matching black eye, and caught Fujii as she slumped.
Her eyes were vacant—completely unconscious.
"Tsk, tsk," the leader clicked his tongue, picking up the baseball bat Fujii had knocked away. He eyed Kazuma menacingly. "What's with today? Kids with bamboo swords jumping out like it's a taiga drama."
The two remaining thugs closed in from either side. The one on the left still bore a welt from Fujii's earlier strike.
There had been five thugs total. Two downed by Kazuma. Fujii's strike should have floored another, but she'd likely pulled her blow.
Now it was Kazuma, facing three opponents, holding the unconscious Fujii in his arms.
Tch. This is trouble.
Cold sweat slid down his cheek.
(End of Chapter)