Hoshino High Gymnasium — 3 PM
The air tasted like chalk dust and battery static.
Half the school had packed into the bleachers, and the other half was livestreaming it from their phones.
A massive banner stretched across the back wall, flapping faintly from the ceiling fans:
"KARATE CLUB vs COMBAT CLUB — FOR THE GYM AND GLORY."
Jin adjusted his phone's tripod, grinning like a man about to narrate his own downfall.
"All right, folks, welcome to history. Your host—Jin Kubo. Your fighter—The Eraser. Your background noise—me screaming."
Kei pushed his glasses up. "Statistically speaking, you'll ruin the audio."
"Statistically speaking," Rika snapped, clipboard raised like a holy relic, "if you two breathe wrong, I'll strangle you."
Aya stood behind the ropes, arms folded, quiet.
Tomo was already inside the taped-out ring, stretching his wrists.
Across from him, Daigo Minori—karate captain, two-time district finalist, local legend—tightened his belt with monk-like precision.
The noise dimmed. The air itself felt charged.
Then—
The whistle shrieked.
Round One
Daigo moved first—sharp, fast, surgical.
A front kick sliced the air where Tomo's ribs had been half a second ago. Tomo slid sideways, no flinch, no blink.
He didn't counter. He read.
Daigo pivoted, heel cutting past Tomo's chin by an inch. The crowd gasped like one living thing.
Jin whispered, "He's doing the dodge thing again."
Rika: "It's called footwork."
Kei: "No, it's art."
Daigo's knuckles grazed Tomo's shoulder—clean contact.
The gym roared.
"Point!" someone shouted.
Tomo looked at the faint red mark on his shoulder, then up at Daigo.
Their eyes met—one calm, one burning.
Daigo smirked. "You're fast. But not perfect."
Tomo exhaled. "I don't need to be."
The whistle blew again.
Round Two
Daigo came in harder this time.
Hooks, elbows, knees—the rhythm was precise, the tempo unrelenting. Each strike snapped the air like breaking film.
Tomo weaved through them—hips turning, feet gliding, breathing steady.
Every dodge looked lazy until you realized how close each strike came.
The sound of Daigo's gi cutting air filled the gym like static.
Kei muttered into his recorder, "Observation #12: His defense is pure instinct. Minimal waste. Zero panic."
Rika raised an eyebrow. "Are you actually analyzing this?"
"I contain multitudes," Kei replied.
Aya stayed quiet, eyes locked on Tomo.
Even mid-fight, his expression was distant—like part of him wasn't even there.
Daigo feinted low, spun high.
Tomo slipped—barely—then unfolded his body like a coiled spring.
His right hand snapped forward once.
Quiet. Direct. Unseen until it landed.
Pop.
Daigo staggered back two steps, steadied, and smiled through the sting.
"Finally hit back," he said.
Tomo lowered his fist. "You wouldn't stop otherwise."
Daigo wiped his mouth, the faint streak of blood painting his grin. "Good."
Break — One Minute
The gym thundered like a festival.
Jin shoved a bottle toward Tomo. "Bro! You're winning!"
Tomo took a sip. "Feels like losing."
Rika frowned, arms crossed. "You're holding back again."
"Maybe."
"Stop maybe-ing and finish it."
Aya leaned over the ropes. "If you hate fighting so much, why not forfeit?"
He looked up at her. "Because Jin bet lunch money on me. If I win, he owes me ramen."
Aya blinked. "You're unbelievable."
"Affordable motivation," Jin chimed in.
The whistle blew again.
Time to move.
Round Three
Daigo bowed once. "No regrets?"
Tomo's reply came quiet: "Only paperwork."
They clashed mid-ring.
Daigo's elbow clipped his jaw. Tomo turned with it, let the momentum roll through his shoulders—then drove a left hook across the opening.
It landed like a heartbeat.
Sharp. Precise. Final.
Daigo stumbled, eyes wide, knees buckling.
Tomo stepped in, caught him before he fell—steady, deliberate.
Then he let go.
Daigo hit the mat, smiling through the pain. "Guess that's your answer."
The referee raised his hand.
"Winner—Combat Club!"
Aftermath
The bell hadn't even stopped ringing before Jin crashed into the ropes, waving his phone.
"Bro! You did it! I told everyone you'd win!"
Tomo wiped the sweat from his neck. "So where's my ramen?"
Jin blinked. "Wait—you actually remembered that?"
"I remember free food."
"Then dinner's on me, champ!"
The bleachers erupted—laughter, disbelief, phones flashing everywhere.
#HandsThatDontMiss trended in seconds.
Kei was crying. "Our brand—gentlemen—it's immortal!"
Rika bonked him with the clipboard. "He's not a brand, he's a liability."
"Tell that to my follower count!"
Tomo reached out, helped Daigo to his feet.
The taller boy grinned through the ache. "Next time, I'll bring gloves."
Tomo nodded. "Next time, I'll bring lunch."
Hallway — After the Match
The noise faded with each step toward the locker hall.
Tomo walked alone, towel over his shoulders, still catching his breath.
Aya caught up beside him, voice soft.
"You could've hurt him."
"I didn't."
"You could've."
He stopped. Looked down at his hands—red, scraped, trembling faintly.
"I never hit harder than I have to."
Aya frowned. "Then what happens when you have to?"
He didn't answer.
Behind them, Jin's voice echoed down the hall.
"Prez! The school paper wants a quote!"
Tomo sighed. "Tell them no comment."
"Can I make one up?"
"No."
"Already did!"
Later That Week — Combat Club Room
The club had grown overnight.
Kei plastered posters of Tomo all over the walls—edits, fan tags, slogans.
Rika was barking orders at three terrified freshmen learning how to punch without breaking their wrists.
Aya was teaching first aid.
Jin was narrating chaos like a documentary host.
Tomo leaned against the wall, watching it all unfold. Pride mixed with fatigue.
Kei slid beside him, holding a mock-up logo.
"Big man, you realize you're the face of peace through violence?"
"That's a contradiction."
"Exactly. It sells."
Rika overheard. "If you two start printing merch, I'll erase you both."
Evening — Rooftop
The wind had cooled by dusk.
Tomo and Aya stood side by side, the city stretching out beneath them—neon veins pulsing through steel.
Aya broke the silence first. "You know, Daigo's brother's back in town."
Tomo's eyes didn't move. "Rento."
"Yeah. Heard he used to box professionally. Before the suspension."
"He's not coming here for fun, is he?"
"No. He's asking for you."
Tomo exhaled through his nose. "Figures."
Aya folded her arms. "Why do all your problems wear gloves?"
He almost smiled. "Easier to hit that way."
Her laugh was soft, brief. "You joke a lot for someone who hates fighting."
"Only when I'm scared."
That made her pause. "Of what?"
He stared out at the neon haze. "Finding out what happens when I stop holding back."
The wind tugged at their sleeves. The city kept breathing.
Elsewhere — A Gym in Minato Ward
Across the city, in a dim Minato gym, Rento Minori unwrapped his tape. His reflection split across the old mirror, flickering with every broken light.
Daigo sat on the bench beside him, arm still bandaged from his match with Tomo.
"He doesn't fight angry," Daigo said quietly. "He just… removes things."
Rento replayed the fight footage on his cracked tablet — the slip, the pivot, the one-inch counter.
"He doesn't fight to win," he murmured. "He fights to disappear."
He exhaled once, long and even. Then his fist struck the bag — not hard enough to break anything, but enough to leave the mark of his knuckles scorched into the synthetic leather, faintly glowing under the flicker of the light.
Rento stared at it, a quiet smile forming.
"Let's see what's left when I take the noise away."
[END OF CHAPTER 3 — "The Hands That Don't Miss"]