The delinquent gang exchanged wide-eyed glances.
First, they stared at Aihara Yamato—the burly guy now clutching his chest, whimpering pathetically, his butt glued to the pavement in agony.
Then, their eyes shifted to Satoru.
Satoru held the bokken upside down, turning to trace an invisible line on the ground behind him with the tip.
"Here," he said to Ryoka. "Stay behind this line. They won't cross it—not even a step."
Ryoka's hand pressed nervously to her chest. The delinquents outnumbered them double from last time. She opened her mouth to insist on fighting together, but Satoru spun away unreasonably, the bokken slicing through empty air with a crisp whoosh.
"Come on! I'll cut you all down to size!"
"G-Gulp."
The blond leader swallowed hard.
He was in the karate club himself, but Yamato outclassed him by miles.
This kid had taken Yamato out with one strike, leaving him half-paralyzed. If he charged in? It'd be a massacre…
And this guy… too freaky. Looked like a weakling—how'd he explode with that kind of power in an instant?!
The blond's hairs stood on end, his legs shaking. But he gritted his teeth, waving his arm. "Brothers! Numbers win fights! Surround him! He can't take us all!!"
"Raaar!"
His lackeys roared, pumping themselves up.
Crowds breed stupidity—lose your judgment in the heat.
Three make a tiger.
With a dozen? Unstoppable!
As they swarmed Satoru in a black wave, the sheer pressure was intimidating.
At least to Ryoka.
She saw Satoru's slender back first, then the onslaught beyond him.
Size-wise, he looked like he'd snap like a twig under their assault.
But then—
The blade rose.
One strike.
The capped delinquent closest to him took the bokken to the cheek. Pfft pfft!—blood sprayed from his ruined mouth, mixed with white chunks… teeth!!
The fat one tried sneaking up while the cap guy distracted, swinging a baseball bat.
"Shatter!"
Satoru's blade whipped back, tip jabbing the fatso's chin. He launched like discarded junk meat, soaring two meters skyward before cratering into the asphalt with a boom.
Like thunder—before the fatty even landed, Satoru sheathed the bokken at his waist in an iai stance. Eyes sharpened. In a flash, he drew—slash slash slash! The wooden edge carved three waists in a blur. Crack crack crack!—bone-snapping sounds twisted their faces in agony.
Two fists can't beat four hands?
Only if those fists aren't fast enough, strong enough.
As kendo club captain, Miyajima Sakura saw it instantly: This kohai operated on a different plane from these thugs.
A swordsmanship prodigy, one in a decade! At… sixteen? Seventeen? He already carried the shadow of a master. His blade—how beautiful? Like a soaring dragon, a fleeting swan!!
Sakura, a kendo prodigy herself, obsessed over the art. Her eyes were sharper, her passion deeper.
Her cherry lips trembled with excitement.
Strong… too strong… incredible…
This swordplay, this power…
Her gaze burned into Satoru.
This man—she had to have him!!
In mere exchanges, the gang crumpled under Satoru's bokken.
And he never retreated a single step!
No one… breached his sword's domain!!
Satoru surveyed the fallen delinquents with disdain… all but one: the blond leader.
He wasn't writhing on the ground—he'd slipped away at the first sign of trouble.
Now twenty, thirty body-lengths away.
Pathetic run, but a live dog beats a dead lion. He'd get revenge on this punk someday!
The blond gnashed his teeth, already plotting his comeback.
But before he could scheme—
"Waaah—" A scream yanked his attention back.
Yamato.
He couldn't help glancing. Satoru had strolled over, bokken cracking down on Yamato's shoulder. That strike probably shattered the scapula—and Yamato's venomous glare confirmed it.
"One," Satoru said, then tapped the other shoulder with a cheeky grin. "Everyone knows humans have two shoulders… Stand up, or I shatter the second!"
He barked suddenly. Yamato, pain-racked on the ground, scrambled up desperately. But the instant he straightened—
Another slash.
Yamato howled, collapsing again.
"I said I'd hit if you didn't stand—didn't say I wouldn't if you did." Satoru's voice was ice. He brought the bokken down vertically, stopping two inches between Yamato's legs. "This time, shoulder. Next time you harass Ryoka? Somewhere else gets it!"
"…" Yamato went silent, body quaking.
"Stand." Satoru ordered again.
Yamato whimpered, confused and hurting.
"Your shoulders and ribs are busted, not your legs! Crawl if you have to, or I'll dump you in Tokyo Bay." Satoru snarled.
Yamato tried—arms useless, he face-planted, then crawled a few steps as ordered before staggering up and fleeing for his life.
With Yamato gone, Satoru's gaze locked on…
The blond jolted, but distance was his ally. He turned to bolt.
Then—a voice behind him.
"Hundred-Step Flying Blade!!"
The bokken hurled like a missile.
The blond didn't even lift a foot—thwack! It slammed his back, launching him several meters to the ground.
Pain exploded, life-threatening, but survival instinct kicked in. He staggered up, limping away.
"Remember this." A cold, quiet warning reached him. His legs nearly buckled, but he held, too scared to look back.
Satoru stepped over the groaning thugs, returning to Ryoka.
Ryoka's hands clutched her chest, heart pounding thump thump thump loud enough to hear.
Their eyes met; her face flushed uncontrollably.
"K-Kobayashi…" She started to speak.
Satoru spun the bokken, presenting it horizontally on his palms to Miyajima Sakura.
"Thanks for lending the sword, Miyajima-senpai."