"Ugh...!"
Welcome to my personal Purgatory. Population: one pitiful soul and one sadistic cerberus who apparently missed his calling as a medieval torturer.
My body slams into the tatami for the fifteenth—no, sixteenth time in the past two minutes. Or was it the eighteenth? Who cares. At this point, the pain has become so rhythmic it's practically meditative.
His breath washes over me as he barks the same useless advice. "Relax your body!" Right. Because nothing says relaxation like being used as a human pancake by a 200-pound gorilla in a gi.
Surely, I must have sinned in a past life. Maybe I stole candy from a shrine. Or kicked a kitten.
Or the darkest sin of all: actually believing that judo would be "fun."
"AGAIN!"
The sensei's voice echoes like a gunshot, jolting me out of my stupor. I heave myself up, my eyes half-lidded, and my limbs lifeless and heavy.
"Christ, I'm up, I'm up..."
I step forward again and in a single blink, WHOMP he mercilessly slams me again into the mat.
"GAHH! What the hell, geezer?! Since when do we do full-power throws during uchi-komi?!" I wheeze into the mat, tasting what might be a loose tooth.
"Watch your mouth, kid! I'm only seventeen! Maybe if you have spent less time whining and more time not sucking, you wouldn't be here! Now get up!"
Ah, right, I keep forgetting this guy is only seventeen.
With no other choice, I haul myself back up again. If I just go limp enough, maybe he'll think I'm dead and let me rest—
THUD!
No such luck.
"You're not putting in your hips! No torque! No commitment! You're just going through the motions like a goddamn scarecrow!"
He stomps over. I'm still flat on the mat, with my face smushed like a dropped rice ball.
"You're not made for this. I've trained dozens of students, and you're not a fighter. You don't want it. That's the problem. You have no will to improve."
I blink slowly, my limbs twitching involuntarily.
"Tch! Dammit."
I try to push myself up again, the creaking of the floor beneath my palms as my skin hits the mat. The pain in my shoulders burns intensely, and my arms are trembling so much it's almost embarrassing.
"You're collapsing after a few reps? You're still too soft, Shiroi." he says, folding his beefy arms across his chest.
I don't look up, my forehead hitting the mat as I drop down for the umpteenth time.
"Alright, you're done with the uchi-komi," Yamamoto-sensei says abruptly. "You've got no strength left in those arms. Start doing push-ups with claps—about twenty-five in a row. It'll build the power you're lacking."
"Ah C'mon! I can't even—"
"No complaints!"
"...Fuck my life."
I groan under my breath and drag myself into position. Plyometric push-ups. Just what I needed. Another delightful addition to my personal purgatory.
"Keep going. Don't stop!"
I push through the first few reps easily. The next five are a bit tougher, but manageable. By rep ten, my muscles are burning. By fifteen, my rhythm's breaking. My hands are hardly leaving the floor.
As I struggle through the sixteenth rep, Yamamoto-sensei kneels nearby, watching me intently.
"You know, the students here don't get to talk to their families. It's tough, being away from home like this. But it's this distance that makes them want to fight harder. To prove their worth." He pauses, as if considering his words, and then adds.
"Do you miss your mother, Shiroi? Thinking of her might give you some fire to keep going."
Ehh? My mother? Where did that come from? What's she got to do with any of this?
The question stops me in my tracks, and I collapse mid-motion, gasping for air. My chest rises and falls like a fish stranded on dry land.
"...Seriously? You're stopping just because I mentioned her?" His nose wrinkles like he smells something rotten. "Are you that soft?"
Silence stretches between my gasps for air. Eventually, I turn my head just enough to glance at him.
"No, it's not that. I don't miss my mother because..."
"Because?"
"She died... When I was born." I say finally, my voice flat and emotionless.
"...What?" he asks, even though he must have heard me. I can sense him trying to process what I just said.
The dojo goes quiet, as if someone hit mute.
"...I see."
He looks away for a moment, awkward. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, unsure of how to handle the situation.
"And your father? Does he—?"
I cut him off, shaking my head emphatically. "Don't have one, either."
His features soften, showing a softer side that I've never seen before.
"I... apologize for asking," he mutters, taking a step back and giving me some space while he rests his hand on his chin, silently contemplating.
The awkward silence stretches. I shift uncomfortably, suddenly desperate for a distraction. Anything to break this... pity show.
"...So," I pipe up, clearing my throat, "about those push-ups..."
I gesture vaguely at the floor. "Twenty-five, was it?"
Yamamoto-sensei looks up, pulled out of his thoughts. He pauses and looks me directly in the eye.
"A-Ahh about that..." he says, hesitating for a moment.
"We're done for the day. Get some rest."
"But—" I start to protest, then stop myself.
Wait. Is he letting me off the hook? What's going on here? Did the universe just glitch?
"Are you sure, sensei?" I ask, my voice laced with skepticism.
"Go," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "And Shiroi..." his voice softens again.
"Take this chance to rest, okay? I won't be this easy on you tomorrow. You understand?"
"Uhm... sure?" I cock my head to the side, my confusion mounting. This isn't the Yamamoto-sensei I know.
Just what the hell is going on?
Anyway, this is the perfect moment to execute my master plan.
"Sensei," I say, my voice carefully casual, "before I go..." I hesitate, feigning a moment of shy uncertainty. My gi hangs loosely on my frame, still creased from practice.
Time to lay it on thick. Vulnerable, innocent little Shiroi seeking guidance. He'll eat it up. "There's something I've been wondering about."
"Hm?" he grunts, folding his arms across his chest. His expression is unreadable.
I lower my gaze, as if embarrassed to ask the question. "It's just... well... there are a lot of rumors about this school. About... how things really work here. And..." I trail off, my voice dropping to a near whisper.
"I was hoping maybe you could... shed some light on things?" I look up at him, my eyes wide and innocent.
"Rumors?" Yamamoto-sensei raises an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes.
"What rumors could a first-year possibly know? This school is very transparent with its policies. I'm sure your homeroom teacher has explained everything in detail." He glances at me, waiting for my response.
Looks like I made a mistake, but I can't let myself to be defeated, I need to keep being insistent.
This is a unique situation where I am completely alone with a third-year so trying to gather extra information is a very good choice to make.
The question is: Why isn't he willing to answer?
I let the silence hang for a while. Immediately afterwards, I take a step closer, with a soft but deliberate voice.
"Yamamoto-sensei... you've been here a long time, haven't you?"
He watches me with that same unreadable calm.
I continue, careful with each word. "When you first got here... did you ever feel like this school was hiding something from you? Like the things that matter most are tucked behind politeness and regulations?"
I catch a subtle reaction: a slight narrowing of his eyes.
Then, smoothly, too smoothly, he turns away and starts walking to the corner of the empty dojo, where a small bonsai tree sits on a wooden stand, bathed in the soft afternoon light.
He kneels beside it and gently brushes a stray leaf from one of its branches.
"Shiroi," he says, not even casting a backwards glance, "do you know how long it takes to grow one of these properly?"
I blink, thrown off. "Uh... a while?"
He chuckles softly. "Decades. It's a slow process with years of trimming, shaping and waiting. Patience is what gives bonsais a form. Trying to rush it only breaks what could have been."
He finally glances back over his shoulder at me.
"And just like bonsais, some things can't be rushed, and that includes the answers you're searching for. Patience is a key part of strength."
I open my mouth to speak again, but he stands and faces me fully now.
"It's pointless to keep asking those questions. Besides, It's getting late. You should go home."
I hesitate. Something feels weird about this. But I acquiesce, nodding silently.
"Understood."
I turn to leave, my back straight, and my mind spins.
Bonsai and patience. Secrets and silence. Whatever this school is hiding, Yamamoto-sensei's part of it. Perhaps there's a strict regulation prohibiting upperclassmen from revealing crucial details to first-year students. It sounds far-fetched, but knowing this school, anything is on the table.
In any case, I learned that the seniors are reluctant to share information about the school, which means there must be something they're hiding.
I'm just about to step out of the dojo, my hand resting on the door, when I remember something. I turn back to Sensei, who's rolling up the tatami mats.
"Ah, Sensei, I have one more question..."
He looks up, pausing his task. "Another question? I thought I made it clear—"
"Yeah! But this is a totally different question. It's about judo." I cut him off.
"Judo?" He hesitates for a moment, then sighs.
"Alright, go ahead. Just make it quick."
I cross my arms behind my head, tilting slightly.
"Why is judo the only combat club here? With a school like this, you'd expect more variety."
Yamamoto-sensei stays quiet for a moment, then exhales through his nose. "Now that," he says, glancing sideways, "is a question I will answer."
That catches me off guard. I straighten up. "Really?"
He gives a small nod, standing and dusting off his hands. "There were other fighting clubs here. Kendo. Karate. Even a short-lived aikido club. But this year, President Horikita had them all eliminated."
President... Horikita?
Oh, I remember him. He's that glasses prick who ignored me as if i'm a insect.
"Eliminated? Why would he do that?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
Yamamoto walks over to the window, gazing out as if remembering something unpleasant. "There are two reasons," he says with a measured tone.
"First: to free up budget space. These clubs are expensive. Gear, maintenance, instructor costs... even tournament fees. With fewer clubs, those funds can be redirected."
I nod. Makes sense, even if it's kind of cold. "And the second reason?"
He frowns. "President Horikita's newest directive. His so-called 'Zero Violence' initiative. An ironclad policy that forbids any and all physical conflict. He claims combat-based clubs promote the wrong image. And anything even remotely related to violence gets severely disciplined."
I blink, but there's a dry curl to my lips as my voice slides out. "Zero violence, huh? Real poetic. Y'know, for a place where we routinely choke each other out in bathrobes."
Yamamoto-sensei doesn't rise to the sarcasm. He merely adjusts the lapels of his gi and exhales slowly.
"Judo is the exception because it's not about violence. It's a martial art rooted in the principle of maximum efficiency with minimum effort."
He gestures to the half-rolled up mat beneath us, where countless falls and throws have left silent echoes.
"Unlike other disciplines, Judo teaches how to control the opponent—and more importantly, yourself. It's not designed to injure. In fact, its foundation lies in preserving the safety of both fighters. Self-control. Respect. Discipline. That's why it remains."
He rotates toward me, his gaze locked with mine. "Simply put, President Horikita made his position clear: no room for brutality. Karate, kendo, aikido they were all too aggressive. Judo stays because it aligns with his vision—a vision where strength is shown through restraint. Even then, we're under heavy scrutiny. One slip, and we could be next."
I narrow my eyes, mulling over that new knowledge. A school that eliminates every fighting club except the one that teaches people how not to fight. This way there will be less chance of people abusing their physical power.
It almost sounds idealistic.
But looks can be deceiving.
"So," I say casually, changing the subject, "since you talk so much about the student council president. This Horikita guy... is he strong?"
Yamamoto-sensei pauses for a moment. Then, slowly, a small smile forms on his face.
"Horikita-san?" he says with a nod. "Yes. Very strong."
I raise an eyebrow, curious. "How strong are we talking here?"
He rises, brushing his hands together as if dusting off memories. "Well, as his classmate, I can tell you this: He stood out from the start. He's a natural leader, focused, and utterly unshakable in his beliefs. He doesn't waver, not even under pressure. And despite his power, he's always acted with honor."
Yamamoto glances over at me. "But if you're asking whether he's physically strong, the answer is yes, even stronger than me. However, what truly makes him exceptional... is everything else. His intellect, discipline, and sense of justice."
His gaze drifts toward the dojo wall, a glint of admiration in his eyes. "In fact, I'd venture to say he's the most capable student council president this school has ever seen. And I doubt I'm the only one who thinks that."
I stare at him, my lips curl upward involuntarily. My eyes sparkle, glowing like a kid who just met their first hero. "Whoa! The student council president sure seems impressive!"
He sounds like a freaking anime protagonist! If he's as talented as you make him out to be, I wouldn't mind witnessing it firsthand. And by witnessing I mean testing his mettle in a good old fashioned brawl.
But for now, it's not the right moment for that.
Now that I think about it, there is another guy that I am also interested in asking about.
"And what about Nagumo Miyabi? Is he strong?"
Yamamoto-sensei cocks his head, a look of surprise briefly crossing his face. "Oh, you know Nagumo?"
I nod. "Yeah, from the soccer club."
"Soccer club?" he asks, his expression skeptical. "But you're also a judo club member... Are you overextending yourself?"
"What can I say? I thrive on staying active." I respond with a nonchalant shrug, a disarming smile on my face.
Active in... information gathering. And potentially stirring things up. Details, details.
"You? Active?" Yamamoto-sensei looks unconvinced. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly.
"About Nagumo..." he says, his tone becoming significantly more serious, getting back to the point at hand. "He's incredibly dangerous. He serves as the Vice President of the student council, even though he's just a second year. He isn't someone to underestimate."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Vice-President as a second-year? Damn..."
"Yeah," Yamamoto affirms, folding his arms, "He's proficient in every athletic field and sports, yet his strength doesn't lie in raw fighting power. If anything, he's not that impressive in combat. But his cunning, his ability to read people, gain allies, and manipulate situations... that's where he shines."
He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he scrutinizes me. "What's the sudden fascination with Nagumo? What's your interest in him?"
Caught in the sudden shift of intensity, I blink, taken aback by the counter-question.
It's about showtime! My true plan, the one that justifies all this judo crap, is about to get unleashed.
"Uh, well... it's because..." I stammer, my usual flippant manner transforming into a quiet solemnity. Then I look at him straight at his eyes.
"Sensei," I start, my voice growing quieter, "you were right about one thing. My lack of motivation, that is..." I lower my gaze to my hands, tensing and relaxing my fists.
He remains silent, watching me with a slight frown.
"I've been thinking... being surrounded by such strong seniors as you, Manabu, Nagumo—it's inspiring. You're all so disciplined and powerful. But it's more than just that." I pause, choosing my next words.
"Seeing those other guys fight... Kuroda, Satoru even Akimura... it made me realize how weak and pathetic I am." I pause, taking a deep breath. "I've never really had anything to fight for. Never had anyone to... make proud." My voice involuntarily breaks.
"But seeing them has ignited a fire within me. Not only to hone my combat skills, but to become strong enough to move forward." My gaze shifts to the dojo wall, as though I'm staring at ghosts.
Yamamoto-sensei narrows his eyes, a hint of exhaustion in his voice. "Cut the theatrics. What's your point?"
I face him, my eyes filled with a crafted blend of vulnerability and determination. "I know I'm not much now. But I want to change that. I wanna be worth something. And I know you can help me. You said it yourself—judo is about discipline and self-improvement. That's what I need. So... I'm asking you. Will you give me a chance? Will you..." I halt momentarily, my gaze becoming more intense.
"...fight me? A real randori match. Not a demonstration. A real fight."
"I appreciate the sentiment," he replies, his tone cool, his head gently shaking from side to line. "However, a randori at this moment is out of question."
I blink. "But Sensei—!" I try to complain but he cuts me off.
"Shiroi." he heaves a sigh, massaging his temples. "This isn't some clichéd adolescent fantasy. I can't simply... engage in a random spar with students beyond official practice times. It's against regulations. And even if I could..." He crosses his arms, looking at me with a mixture of exasperation and pity
"...why would I? You're a first-year who can barely execute a proper uchi-komi. I simply have no reason to waste energy on a match that leads nowhere." He continues, his tone remaining even.
My mouth opens slightly, but no words comes. That stings a bit more than I expected.
His gaze intensifies, voice hardening like steel. "You wanna get stronger, right? Then don't ask for shortcuts. Show up. Train. And keep moving forward. I see you here one day, dragging your feet, making jokes, half-assing drills, and then you're gone for three. That isn't how you build strength."
He strides closer, his tone becoming increasingly stern.
"Don't tell me about your dead parents or how motivated you suddenly feel. You wanna grow? Then come to practice on time. Every day. That's it. There's no special fight that'll awaken something inside you. Just work. As simple as that."
A very good argument. He won't give me something I don't earned just because of my past. In other words, he doesn't consider me a worthy opponent.
My smile shifts from a hopeful grin to a bitter twist of the lips.
He doesn't leave me with any other option.
I lower my gaze, my heart pounding in my chest, and I don't move. My feet remain planted on the tatami. A sly smile tugs at my lips, almost effortless and careless.
"I see..."
Unfortunately for you sensei, things will happen on MY terms. I won't be leaving until I've had my fight.
I step forward. Not rushing, just closing the distance slightly, like a curious cat drawn toward the warmth of a threat. I cock my head, my voice light, almost teasing.
"You won't fight me because you're worried about some rules? Or maybe..." I raise my hand and gently, deliberately, press two fingers against his shoulder. Not a push. Just contact. "...you think I'm not worth it."
Yamamoto-sensei sidesteps easily, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Shiroi," he says, his voice low and menacing, "what do you think you're doing?"
But instead of retreating, I step even closer, the shadows under my eyes as sharp as broken glass.
"If I were to hit you now, Sensei," I whisper, a sharp grin slicing across my face, "you'd have no choice but to defend yourself, no? Wouldn't that make it a fight?"
I raise my other hand, clenching it into a tight fist as I keep pressing my two fingers in his shoulder.
His hand slaps my fingers away, calm but firm. "That's enough," he states, his tone sharpening into warning. "One more step, and this becomes a disciplinary matter. I will report it. You'd be suspended and maybe even expelled."
I freeze, my hands raised halfway, palms open on an act of feigned innocence. "Yeah... I figured. But you see, there's another option, too. You fight me. Right here. Right now. No paperwork. No dragging this to the teachers or the student council. Whether I'm valuable for you or not... the choice is yours."
"You're treading on dangerous ground. This isn't child's play." he retorts, his gaze growing increasingly fierce.
My smile widens, a defiant glint in my eyes. "I'm not playing around, sensei. I'm willing to risk everything for this chance. To experience the strength of a 7-dan firsthand."
"...You are insane." His gaze flickers. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he studies me in silence, and for a moment I wonder if he's truly going to walk away.
But then... he slowly exhales, and I can sense a change in his energy. His eyes cloud over with recollections, and his expression subtly shifts. Behind his stoic gaze, a realization begins to take shape.
"A true teacher is always ready to correct a student when they stray from the right path. There is no choice that can sever the bond between teacher and student."
Yamamoto straightens, something is shifting in his stance.
"Fine," he says. "But this isn't a free brawl."
"Continue." I remain quiet, waiting for his next words.
"If you want to challenge me, there will be terms. If I win, you'll drop out of the soccer club permanently. From now on, your time belongs to the judo club. No more missed classes. No more excuses."
I nod, not hesitating for a second. "Done."
He raises an eyebrow. "Not yet. One more thing: starting from the next month, you give me half of your private points. Consider it tuition."
Yare yare, looks like someone's trying to get an easy payday, huh? Gotta give him props for being crafty.
"Deal," I say, again without pause.
He frowns slightly, skeptical. "You're agreeing awfully quickly. Do you even understand what you're giving up? If you fail to fulfill your obligations, I'll have no choice but to report you for assault."
Hmph... so once I accept, I'll be hooked, unable to back out if I lose. I must be absolutely insane to agree to these terms so readily, huh?
I move closer, meeting his gaze without flinching, my voice steady.
"Sensei, no need to be so cautious. If I ever made a promise before a fight and broke it... I'd rather put a knife through my own throat."
His expression hardens, his gaze fixed on me. It's not out of fear. No, he finally gets it: I'm deadly serious.
"So," I say slowly, my smile returning, "just to be clear, sensei... you're actually agreeing to fight me?"
My hand discreetly slips into my pocket, activating the voice recorder on my phone. Better safe than sorry. I need proof of this just in case our dear sensei decides to develop a sudden case of amnesia.
Yamamoto-sensei crosses his arms, his expression unflinching. "I've already given my answer, haven't I?"
"I see," I murmur innocently, smiling. "Just making sure we're both on the same page."
"...There's no need to record it, I'm a man of my word." he states, now directing his gaze towards the pocket of my uniform.
I bat my eyes, playing innocent. "What are you talking about?"
"Shiroi." His tone is firm, demanding.
Caught red-handed, I pull the phone from my sleeve and tap the screen, ending the recording.
"Heh~ You're a sharp one, sensei. This just makes you more interesting."
Yamamoto doesn't answer. He moves towards the dojo's entrance, pushing two low tables across the room to block the door. "We'll make this quick."
Together, we cover the main camera on the far wall with a training towel, then one by one turn the others to face the floor or the wall.
"How bad is this going to be for you, Sensei?" I ask, casually crossing my arms.
Yamamoto tightens his belt. "Leave that to me. I'll handle President Horikita."
Then, he glances sideways, his voice dropping. "Don't worry about me. Just focus on the fight."
"Fair enough." I help him to unroll the tatami mat, the heavy thud echoing in the otherwise silent dojo.
With everything in place, we take our positions, about five meters apart, facing each other.
Just as I take a steady breath, Yamamoto raises one hand.
"Before we start," he states firmly, "you're going to listen."
"Huh?" Caught off guard, I blink in surprise.
Yamamoto's voice rings clear and crisp, laced with a stern severity that could cut through granite. "What you're doing here is wrong. It's immature and reckless. These conditions are my way to teach you that in life, every choice comes with consequences. Don't treat this situation lightly. This will never happen again. Understood?"
There's a moment of silence that stretches just a heartbeat, then I thrust my arms open, my fingers imitating pistols, and I stride forward with theatrical bravado.
"WOHOO! DID SOMEONE CALL—THE BIG DOG?!" I shout in a deep announcer voice, dragging the final word with ridiculous emphasis.
I mimic firing a gun with my fingers, adding a theatrical recoil motion, and comically imitate the sound effects. "Pew peeeeeww—Roman Shiroi Reigns style, baby!"
Yamamoto-sensei stares at me, his eye twitching. A vein throbs in his forehead. He looks as though he's about to spontaneously combust. "Shiroi!" he roars, his voice echoing through the empty dojo. "This isn't a joke! Show some respect!"
I freeze abruptly, caught mid-pose with my fingers still in "gun-shooting" position. His words are like a harsh wind, extinguishing that frivolous energy within me.
My smirk fades. I slowly straighten my back, assuming a more serious stance.
"...You're right."
Then, in complete silence, I lift my right hand and point my index finger at Yamamoto-sensei, mimicking the cocking of a pistol.
A heavy silence descends over the dojo, broken only by the sound of our breathing.
"...?" The anger drains from his face, replaced by bewilderment.
"Bang."
In the very moment that the syllable escapes my lips, I disappear.
A sound wave ripples across the dojo, the air compressing, and Yamamoto's body jolts forward as a punch connects squarely to his abdomen. A gasp escapes his lips, his pupils dilating wide, his feet skidding a half-step backward.
He nearly doubles over, less than one second has passed. And now I'm standing directly alongside him, my fist is buried deep in his stomach.
I lean closer, whispering to him, "Is this serious enough for you now?"
His mind reels. "H-How?"
I glance over his shoulder, my tone casually nonchalant. "If I point at someone with my finger... I can teleport to them. A neat little supernatural trick, right?"
Several seconds of stunned silence follow.
"Nah, just kidding."
Just then, I burst into laughter. "Hahahaha, sensei. How could you be so stupid to fall for something like that? Although, I understand you perfectly. More than pain, you feel disbelief, don't you?"
He remains frozen for a moment, one knee planted into the tatami, the other leg trembling slightly from the impact.
"Were you hiding this power the whole time?" he finally asks.
I put my arms behind my back like a nobleman strolling through a conquered palace, and nod once. "More or less."
"Why?" Yamamoto demands, his face hardening despite the lingering pain. "Why the act? What are you really after?"
"I want a fight that excites me. That's all. Something that makes my blood sing."
Yamamoto tightens his jaw. "Then why not fight my other students?"
"Tried that. Or rather, I thought about it. But it's like comparing water pistols to a real gun." I let out a sigh. "Even if all of your students came at me at once, they'd still bore me."
Then, as if a sudden realization has struck me, I slap my forehead dramatically.
"Oh! I almost forgot! I haven't bowed, have I?"
In one swift movement, I bring my foot down firmly on Yamamoto's shoulder blade, forcing the senpai down to both knees.
I lean forward, looming over him with gleaming eyes. "There. Much better."
"Sensei," I say, my smile widening, "let's change the rules, shall we? No more of this gentle judo nonsense. Let's make this interesting. A real fight where there's no holding back and no ippon. Just pure, unadulterated violence. What do you say?"
Yamamoto-sensei laughs as he hears my words. "You're a bloodthirsty little maniac, aren't you?"
He shakes his head, straining against the weight of my foot. "If fighting is all you yearn for. I'll teach you a lesson with everything I've got."
With a sudden twist of his torso, Yamamoto shifts his weight lower, anchoring his center of gravity. His right shoulder pushes against my leg, sneaking under my own center of gravity. I feel it instantly—his positioning changes, coiling with precision.
"Tch... This looks dangerous," I mutter, recognizing the set up a second before he performs it.
He grips the edge of my judogi and begins to turn his hips sideways, preparing to sacrifice his stance in exchange for leverage. I know that motion. He's about to hurl me like a damn wheel.
In other words, if I keep trying to stomp his back, this fight is going to end quickly. The only option left is...
I make two quick back-jumps, fluid as a shadow. My foot leaves his back, breaking his leverage before he can complete the technique. His shoulder swings through empty air instead.
I land cleanly, five meters of space now separating us, just like before.
"What, are you running away now?" He taunts me, rising slowly to his full height.
"Fufufu. What can I say? I always appreciate a little flavor in my life."
Like a fine wine, a good fight needs to breathe. To develop its full flavor.
A chance to test my skills against the best, free from any annoying cameras or pesky receptionists getting in the way.
I slowly lick my lips.
This is truly going to be an amazing experience.