Chinese people—especially those from mainland China—often face discrimination in Japan. Those from Hong Kong and Taiwan tend to get off a bit easier.
Take, for example, that day after school.
Although our home was only two or three li (roughly one kilometer) from school, Tokyo's dense urban layout meant we often passed through narrow alleyways resembling old Chinese hutongs.
That afternoon, Jixiang, Asada Mai, and I were walking home together when the roar of motorcycle engines suddenly echoed behind us—not just one or two bikes, but a whole pack. We exchanged uneasy glances. What the hell is going on?
From both ends of the alley, three or four motorcycles each screeched to a halt, boxing us in.
Holy crap! I thought. This is straight out of Slam Dunk! But Sakuragi had his whole gang backing him up—I've got two girls! Sure, I trained in Sanda for two years back in China, but there are seven or eight of them… and these two probably can't throw a punch to save their lives.
Jixiang didn't seem particularly scared. Asada looked nervous. And me? Even more so…
The leader—a scrawny punk—dramatically pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. His cronies mimicked him, parking their bikes and striding toward us until we were completely surrounded.
"Okamoto Yoshi," Jixiang said coldly, looking straight at the delinquent in front of her, "what do you think you're doing?"
Okamoto Yoshi… I racked my brain. After nearly half a year in Japan, I'd gotten a decent grasp of the school's social landscape. This guy was a third-year troublemaker—knew a few yakuza types, came from a family with some money, and thought that made him untouchable.
"Miss Andō," he drawled with a smirk, "I'm not doing anything! Just tired from riding, so I stopped to rest. Is that a problem for you?" He turned his gaze to me, eyes lighting up, and sauntered over.
Oh no, no, no—don't come near me! I don't even know you! I panicked inwardly. Yeah, I'll admit it—I was scared.
"Ohhh, so this is your Chinese big brother, huh? Not bad-looking at all. Wait—don't tell me you're rejecting me because of him? Seriously? You'd choose this kind of relationship? Oh my god!" He clutched his head in mock horror.
Thanks to Asada Mai's tutoring, my Japanese had improved dramatically, and I understood most of what he said. But remembering Third Uncle's and the teacher's warnings—don't cause trouble, stay low-key—I swallowed my anger.
"Hello, Chinese boy," Okamoto said with exaggerated politeness, bowing slightly toward me.
Seeing his "courtesy," I instinctively bowed back and said, "Nice to meet you. Please treat me kindly."
Before I could finish, while still bent forward, a knee slammed into my stomach. No time to react—just searing pain and breathlessness. I doubled over, clutching my gut and glaring at him.
"Baka!"—the most common Japanese insult I'd heard since arriving.
Asada rushed to my side, frantic. "Are you okay?"
The pain didn't matter as much as the dilemma: Should I fight? If I don't, I'll look weak. If I do, I'll get hurt—and how do I explain that to my family?
Jixiang, meanwhile, remained eerily calm. She gave Okamoto a cold smile. "You really think you can mess with me like this? Okamoto Yoshi, I give you three minutes to leave. You know my father isn't someone to trifle with."
Third Uncle? I wondered. Just who is he, really?
A flicker of fear crossed Okamoto's eyes—but he didn't back down. Instead, he stepped forward, hooked a finger under Jixiang's chin, and sneered, "Oh? And what exactly are you going to do about it? Tell me."
I quickly calculated the distance to Third Uncle's house—close enough to sprint home in seconds.
The moment he said "what are you going to do," I sprang up, launched a hard kick at his chest, shoved Jixiang and Asada away, and yelled, "Run!"
They bolted.
I spun around and shoved two of the thugs backward into their bikes, toppling them like dominoes.
By the time I confirmed they were far enough ahead, Okamoto and his crew had already regrouped and were advancing on me.
Eight guys—each around 170 cm tall. But as the saying goes: Even a tiger fears a pack of wolves.
"You've got guts, kid," one sneered. "Think you can take on eight of us solo? Do you really believe in 'Chinese kung fu'?"
I smirked—a look of pure contempt—and said nothing. Then, leaning forward as if to charge… I suddenly turned and sprinted the other way!
Screw that. I'm not dying for pride.
They stood stunned for a second before chasing after me.
As I ran, two figures appeared ahead—my heart leapt. It was the same two bodyguards who'd greeted me at the airport.
Relief flooded me. Glancing back, I saw Okamoto leading the chase. I skidded to a stop, pivoted, and delivered a flying stomp—not a kick, a full-force downward stomp—right to his chest.
To my shock, the impact actually lifted him off the ground mid-air. Wait… people really can get airborne from a good kick?
His two buddies charged next. I lashed out left and right—thud, thud—and watched in disbelief as they, too, briefly hovered before crashing down. That made three aerial takedowns in one day. Or rather—three times they became airborne.
Back in China, I'd trained on 75-kilogram professional sandbags. These punks probably didn't weigh 50 kilos combined.
Five more remained. But now, flanked by two stone-faced men in black suits, I felt secure.
The remaining delinquents hesitated—but pride pushed them forward anyway.
What followed wasn't pretty. People say Japanese boys are tough, but genetics don't lie—and these kids were no match for two seasoned underworld enforcers.
I ended up with a few scrapes on my face—nothing serious.
Staring at the eight groaning bodies on the pavement, I felt a chill. I'd never fought like this before. My Sanda master always warned: "Never throw hands lightly. With proper training, you can cripple—or kill—someone by accident." I prayed none of them had broken bones… or worse.
One of the bodyguards grabbed Okamoto by the collar. "You dare harass Miss Andō? One more misstep, and we'll break your arms, you little punk."
"I—I have an older brother!" Okamoto stammered. "Aida Akihiko! He's in a bōsōzoku gang—a real yakuza affiliate!"
The bodyguard burst out laughing—then bam!—kicked him square in the gut. Okamoto curled up, writhing in pain.
"Go tell Akihiko," the guard snarled, "that Egawa Yuki just taught his idiot little brother a lesson. Now get lost!" Another kick sent him scrambling.
Okamoto and his crew limped back to their bikes and sped off like rats.
The two guards turned to me, instantly shifting to formal posture. They bowed deeply. "Muzhou-kun, are you unharmed? We apologize for failing to protect you sooner."
I blinked, then hurriedly replied, "No, no—I'm fine! Thank you so much for your help."
Jixiang and Asada ran back, eyes wide with worry. "Are you okay?"
I forced a grin. "Yeah, totally fine."
Jixiang beamed and playfully punched my shoulder. "Wow, you're actually strong! If I'd known, I wouldn't have called Egawa—they could've just watched you handle it alone!"
I laughed awkwardly. "Please, spare me, sis…"
That evening at dinner, Third Uncle gave me a quiet look and said, "After dinner, come to my study."