The "Zero Shift" regime was my new reality. Days blurred into a relentless cycle of school, enduring Ogawa's smug provocations and the pitying/skeptical glances of other students, and then the dojo – my crucible, my sanctuary, my personal hell. The memory of my effortless "Ghost Hand" moments became a distant, almost dreamlike echo, while the present was all sweat, aching muscles, and the constant, grinding frustration of trying to force my body to learn what it once knew instinctively.
Ogawa hadn't let up. If anything, my defeat had fueled his arrogance. He'd make a point of "accidentally" bumping into me in the hallways, his shoulder connecting with mine with just enough force to be jarring. "Watch it, 'Silent Belt'," he'd sneer, his cronies snickering. "Wouldn't want you to trip and fall. Again." Each encounter was a fresh stab at my already wounded pride. I'd just grit my teeth and walk away, Rina's and Kenji's words about perseverance echoing in my mind. Fighting him outside the dojo, especially now, would solve nothing. It would just confirm his narrative that I was all hype.
My progress in the dojo was agonizingly slow. It was like trying to carve a sculpture out of granite with a toothpick. I'd spend hours on a single stance, kiba-dachi (horse stance), until my thighs screamed in protest, Kenji calmly correcting my posture, Rina urging me to "feel the connection to the earth." My punches were stiff, my blocks clumsy. The fluid grace that had once characterized my movements was gone, replaced by a forced, awkward deliberation.
"Don't think so much, Kaito!" Rina would exclaim, after I'd overanalyzed a simple block and ended up getting lightly tagged by Takeshi during a drill. "Martial arts isn't just about intellect. It's about feeling. About reacting from your hara (center)!"
Feeling. My "Ghost Hand" had been all feeling, all instinct. Now, trying to consciously access that feeling was like trying to remember the lyrics to a song I'd only heard once in a dream.
Takeshi, bless his cotton socks, remained my unwavering, if sometimes exasperating, cheerleader. "Alright, Ghost Hand! You almost had it that time! Your elbow was only, like, six inches off target! Progress!" He'd take my clumsy blocks and off-target strikes with good humor, often exaggerating his reactions to make me feel like I'd actually landed something effective. "Oof! Right in the… uh… shoulder-ish area! The power! I felt the tectonic plates shift!"
His antics, while ridiculous, were a small island of levity in a sea of frustration.
Hana, quiet and observant as ever, continued to document my "journey." Her sketches now focused on the minute details of my struggle – the tension in my shoulders when I tried to execute a block, the way I'd unconsciously hold my breath before a strike, the subtle shift in my balance when I lost focus. She'd occasionally offer surprisingly insightful observations. "Ishida-senpai," she said one day, after I'd repeatedly failed to execute a simple wrist lock Kenji was demonstrating, "you're trying to force the technique with your arm strength. Kenji-senpai is using his whole body, his hips, the turn of his waist. The lock is just the focal point."
I'd try to apply her observation, and sometimes, just sometimes, it would click, however briefly. A flicker of understanding, a moment where the technique felt… right. Those moments were rare, but they were enough to keep me going.
The upcoming Inter-High preliminaries were a constant topic of discussion in the dojo. Our school, Seiyo, had never made it past the first round. Ever. The martial arts club was always seen as a bit of a joke, an afterthought. But this year, with the (now somewhat tarnished) legend of the "Ghost Hand" and the general improvement of the other members under Rina's dedicated captaincy, there was a palpable, if cautious, optimism.
"We have a real shot this year," Rina said one evening, her eyes shining with determination as she outlined their strategy on the whiteboard. "Kenji-senpai is a rock in the heavyweight division. I'm confident in my matches. Takeshi's speed and unpredictability can score us some points. Hana-chan is even considering entering the women's kata division!" Hana blushed but nodded resolutely.
Then, all eyes turned to me.
"And Kaito…" Rina said, her voice softer. "We know you're working hard. We know it's been… difficult. But even without the 'Ghost Hand' at full power, your developing fundamentals, combined with your natural awareness… you could still be a key player for us."
The pressure was immense. They weren't expecting miracles anymore. They were expecting Kaito Ishida, the struggling martial artist, to somehow contribute. The thought was terrifying. What if I failed them? What if I got out there and froze, or worse, got beaten as easily as Ogawa had beaten me?
The memory of that defeat was a constant shadow. It fueled Ogawa's taunts, and it fueled my own self-doubt. There were nights I'd lie awake, replaying that moment, feeling the sickening lurch as I was lifted, the jarring impact with the mat. The feeling of utter helplessness.
One afternoon, things came to a boil. I was walking home, lost in my thoughts, when Ogawa and two of his judo thugs cornered me in a narrow alleyway near the school. It was clearly premeditated.
"Well, well, if it isn't the 'Silent Belt' himself," Ogawa sneered, blocking my path. He was bigger than me, and with his friends flanking him, the alley felt claustrophobic. "Still practicing those fancy dance moves, Ishida? Or have you learned how to take a real hit yet?"
"I don't want any trouble, Ogawa," I said, my voice quiet, trying to keep the tremor out of it. My heart was hammering against my ribs. The "Zero Shift" was in full effect; I felt no tingle, no hum of power. Just cold, stark fear.
"Trouble?" He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "This isn't trouble, Ishida. This is a lesson. A lesson about putting frauds in their place."
He lunged.
There was no referee this time, no dojo etiquette. This was raw, ugly aggression. He didn't go for a judo grip; he threw a wild, looping punch aimed at my head.
My body reacted. Not with the effortless grace of the "Ghost Hand." Not with the clumsy, half-learned techniques from the dojo. It reacted with something older, something more primal. Fear.
I flinched, ducking instinctively. The punch whistled over my head, close enough for me to feel the wind of its passage.
His friends moved to cut off my escape. I was trapped.
Ogawa recovered, snarling, and threw another punch, a straight right aimed at my face.
This time, something Kenji had drilled into me for weeks, a basic rising block – age-uke – came out. It was clumsy. My arm wasn't angled correctly. I met his fist with my forearm, and a jolt of pain shot up to my shoulder. But it did deflect the punch, partially. It still grazed my cheek, stinging like hell.
"Not bad, Ishida!" Ogawa taunted, pressing his attack. "Actually tried to block that time!"
He came at me with a flurry of clumsy but powerful blows. I stumbled back, trying to parry, trying to block, relying on the raw, unfinished techniques I'd been grinding away at. My blocks were late, my evasions awkward. I took a shot to the ribs that made me gasp, another to my shoulder.
It was a messy, desperate scramble. I was outmatched, outmuscled. The fear was a cold knot in my stomach.
But then, amidst the fear, amidst the pain, something else flickered. Anger. A hot, unfamiliar anger at Ogawa, at his bullying, at my own helplessness.
And with the anger came a strange sort of clarity.
I wasn't the "Ghost Hand" right now. I wasn't some mystical martial arts prodigy. I was Kaito Ishida, a scared kid getting beaten up in an alley. And if I didn't do something, I was going to get seriously hurt.
Ogawa lunged again, trying to grab me in a crude headlock.
As his arms came around, I didn't try some fancy aikido redirection. I did what Rina had been drilling into me for "close-quarters escape": I dropped my weight, drove my elbow sharply upwards into his ribs – a sloppy, desperate empi-uchi – and twisted.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't powerful. But it was unexpected. And it hurt.
Ogawa grunted in surprise and pain, his grip loosening for a split second.
It was all the opening I needed.
I didn't try to throw him. I didn't try some elegant counter. I shoved him. Hard. With both hands, pushing against his chest, using every ounce of my desperate strength.
He stumbled back, surprised by my sudden resistance.
His two friends started to move in.
I didn't wait. I turned and ran.
I ran faster than I thought I could, adrenaline coursing through my veins, my heart pounding, the taste of blood in my mouth from where I'd bitten my lip. I didn't look back until I was blocks away, gasping for breath, my body aching, my cheek stinging.
I'd run. I'd taken a few hits. I'd landed one sloppy, desperate elbow strike. It was hardly a victory. It was a messy, undignified escape.
But as I stood there, catching my breath, a strange realization dawned on me.
I had fought back.
Not with mystical powers. Not with effortless grace. But with the clumsy, hard-won, imperfect techniques I'd been drilling day after day in the dojo. With grit. With desperation. With a flicker of anger and a refusal to just… take it.
My "Ghost Hand" hadn't shown up. My "Silent Belt" persona had been useless.
But Kaito Ishida… Kaito Ishida had survived.
When I got to the dojo later that afternoon, bruised and shaken but oddly resolute, Rina, Kenji, Takeshi, and Hana took one look at my split lip and the darkening bruise on my cheek and knew something was wrong.
I told them what happened, expecting disappointment, maybe even pity.
Instead, Rina's eyes blazed with a fierce pride. "You fought back, Kaito! You used what we taught you!"
Kenji nodded slowly, a rare glimmer of approval in his eyes. "You stood your ground, Ishida. Even when you were outmatched. That takes courage."
Takeshi, for once, wasn't joking. "Dude! You elbowed Ogawa in the ribs? Awesome! Wish I'd seen his face!"
Hana just looked at me, a small, almost imperceptible smile on her lips. "Your spirit didn't abandon you this time, Ishida-senpai."
Her words struck a chord. My spirit. It hadn't been the "Ghost Hand." It had been my spirit. My will to not be a victim.
That evening, practice felt different. The frustration was still there, the clumsiness, the aching muscles. But beneath it, there was something new. A core of… something. Resilience? Determination? I didn't have a name for it.
During a sparring drill with Kenji, he threw a punch, a fast, powerful one. My "Ghost Hand" didn't activate. But my mind was clear, focused. I saw the punch coming. I met it with a rising block, my stance grounded, my form still imperfect but better than before. The impact jarred my arm, but I held my ground. I didn't counter. I didn't need to. I had just… blocked it. Consciously. Deliberately.
Kenji paused, lowering his fists. He looked at me, a long, searching look.
"Good block, Ishida," he said, his voice devoid of its usual critical edge. "Solid. Your spirit was in it."
A small flicker of warmth spread through my chest. It wasn't the exhilarating rush of the "Ghost Hand." It was something quieter, deeper. A sense of accomplishment earned through sheer, stubborn effort.
The Inter-High preliminaries were still a daunting prospect. Ogawa was still out there, probably angrier than ever. My "gift" was still an unpredictable enigma.
But something had shifted within me. The "Zero Shift" had not just been about losing an inexplicable power. It had been about forging something new in its place. Something less spectacular, perhaps, but something real. Something mine.
The Uncrowned King might have fallen. But Kaito Ishida, the martial artist with a nascent will of steel, was slowly, painfully, learning how to stand. And maybe, just maybe, that was a power all its own. My soul, battered and bruised, was beginning to feel like it was made of something stronger than I'd ever imagined.