After a long day of training, Kaito found his thoughts drifting back to his old school days—the bruises, the fights, and the moments that shaped him.
Five Years Ago – Neo-Tokyo, District 8 Public High
Kaito came from a martial arts family.
His dad used to run a small modern martial arts dojo in the old district. But now, it was on the verge of shutting down—no one wanted to train seriously anymore. People were too afraid to get hurt. The old ways were already forgotten, and even the flashy modern styles—with no real power behind them—were starting to lose their hype. Martial arts had become nothing more than a hollow show
Ever since Kaito could walk, his dad had been pushing him to train.
"Discipline makes the man," he'd always say, wrapping his knuckles in cloth. "It's in your blood, Kaito."
But Kaito? He wanted no part of it. At least not back then.
He'd always avoided it. Skipped practice. Found excuses. Said he had homework. Said he was tired. Said he'd rather be playing games with Akira or drawing comic fights in his notebook.
To him, martial arts was just something his father did—not something he needed.
Kaito used to be the quiet type at school. Didn't talk much, didn't make waves. Most days, he just wanted to get through the day without trouble.
Until that day in the school bathroom.
The first time Kaito bled at school. It was in a cold, stinking bathroom stall, curled up on the floor while three upperclassmen took turns kicking him.
"Tough guy, huh?" Thud.
"You keep starin' like that, we'll rearrange your face." Crack.
"What, not talkin' now, huh? Street rat got no bark?"
Kaito didn't cry. He didn't scream. He clenched his jaw, stared at the cracked tiles under him, and thought one thing:
Being quiet doesn't bring justice.
I'll make every one of you remember this.
That night, he limped home. Didn't say a word to his mom. Just walked straight to the garage, where his dad was wrapping up solo training.
Kaito stood there in silence for a moment, fists clenched.
"…Teach me," he said.
His dad turned, surprised. "What?"
"Martial arts. Everything. I wanna learn. For real."
His father stared at him—then nodded once.
And just like that, Kaito's journey began.
He trained every day.
His dad started training him modern martial arts but due to having it having just flashy moves and no power behind it
Kaito felt it wasn't enough.
He needed more than just drills in a garage.
So he went out.
Into the alleys. Into the shadows. Looking for fights with real punks. Goons. Thugs twice his size.
Every day after school, he'd disappear for a few hours. Come back with bruised knuckles, torn sleeves, busted lip. Sometimes limping. Sometimes grinning.
He didn't fight to win. He fought to learn.
The streets became his second dojo.
School still sucked.
Not because of homework—but because nobody cared. Everyone watched, but nobody helped. That kind of hell.
After the beatdown and after he started training, things changed. Not on the outside—he still sat alone—but inside, something had shifted.
Same bench. Same spot. Away from vending drones and gossiping kids.
Kaito didn't mind. Solitude was better than fake company.
Then one day, a voice cut through the silence.
"Hey. You're sitting in my seat."
He looked up.
A girl stood in front of him, arms crossed, long black hair, and a stare like she could set fire with her eyes.
"…Didn't see your name on it," Kaito replied, still chewing.
She squinted. "You're the guy who dropped Jinbo-senpai last week, right?"
Kaito shrugged. "He threw the first punch."
"Yeah, but you turned him into roadkill." She smirked. "You aiming for him?"
"Nah. Aiming for the wall. He just got in the way."
That made her laugh. A sharp, real kind of laugh that made a few heads turn.
She plopped down next to him without asking.
"You eat alone 'cause you're a jerk, or 'cause people are idiots?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Bit of both."
"I'm Rika. Saotome."
"…Kaito."
She opened her bento, grabbed a rice ball, and shoved it toward him.
"Eat. You look like you fought a garbage truck."
Kaito took it, smirking a little. "More like three."
They sat in silence, sharing lunch. No questions, no judgment.
Just quiet understanding.
For the first time… the bench didn't feel cold.