"Hello~!"
I lean against a wall in the school campus, my arms are folded and I'm looking bored. Suddenly, I turn my head towards my magnificent audience, with a mischievous grin.
"You know what my life is like? It's like playing Twister with a drunk octopus: it's all weird twists, mind-bending maneuvers, and then you realize it's all a senseless game, just a tangle of tentacles. That's how I've been having fun, spinning in mental circles, creating and dodging my own traps, all while laughing at the absurdity of everything."
I crack my neck.
"But mental gymnastics get old. My brain feels like a pretzel, and lately I've been craving something more... physical. Something where I can stretch my legs, or better yet, my fists." I wink, raising my fist dramatically and punching my own palm.
Then, I push away from the wall and start walking, gesturing elegantly as if I were on a stage.
"But you see, there's this tiny problem: this school is a gilded cage with more regulations than a dictator's handbook. No violence, not even a little shove, or a 'oops, I accidentally tripped you.' They've got cameras everywhere, like we're in some reality show I wasn't told about. All I can say is, who hit the pause button on my fun?"
I stop and lean toward the camera, lowering my voice as if telling some gossip.
"For example, there was this guy, Sudou. The red-haired ogre with a face that looks like a hooligan. The other day, I was curious, so I decided to provoke him a bit. I called him 'gorilla' and looked at him like 'come at me, surprise me'. I thought it would be a good challenge, break the routine. But nope! Cameras were watching like hawks, the receptionist was ready to jump in, and the rules had me tied up like Houdini in a safe. So nothing, I had no choice but to back off."
I sigh exaggeratedly, then smile sideways.
"But here's the fun part—just like Houdini. There's always a way out, a little crack to slip through if you've got the brains and guts to find it."
I pause, using my fingers to shuffle the options.
"The first option is to fight away from the cameras, where nobody can see. Duh, obvious, right? But that's like trying to hide in a game of hide-and-seek with a spotlight on you, a real pain in the ass. And let's not even talk about finding someone willing to play along. A partner who says 'sure, let's go play some secret punches'? Yeah, good luck with that."
I stop suddenly, snap my fingers and my face lights up with a mix of mischief and pride.
"This leads us to option two, the real gem. Remember when I was wondering if you could join more than one club? Well, I did my homework. I went to some third year senpais and got the truth: yeah, you can! So when Hirata ditched the gym, I slyly joined the judo club. I've been there quite often, blending in with the hits and falls. And now, my friends, I present the main event!"
The imaginary camera pans across the judo gym, where the mats serve as a worn but pristine canvas that absorbs the impact of each fall with a rhythmic "thud!" The air is heavy with the scent of sweat and disinfectant, intensifying the intensity of the atmosphere. Banners adorn the walls, proclaiming "discipline" and "respect" in bold kanji characters, while the sound of short gasps and grunts of effort fill the space.
At the center stands Yamamoto Takeshi, the judo team's captain. His imposing figure, towering at 1.88 meters, exudes an aura of intimidation in his judogi. His black belt, marked by seven golden stripes, announces "7-dan" to anyone brave enough to glance his way. His short, dark hair conveys both calmness and an underlying threat, while his dark eyes sweep across the room, causing even the boldest to straighten up under his gaze.
I adjust my judogi and dive right back into practice, prepared for whatever comes my way. What's the worst that could happen? A dislocated shoulder? Trauma? Pfft—small price for getting a thrilling experience.
Yamamoto Takeshi enters the tatami mat with a firm step, coming to a stop in front of the line of judo practitioners. With a firm gesture of his hand, he instantly silences the room. He then turns to us and speaks with a calm, authoritative voice: "Good morning."
He pauses and motions for everyone to adopt the formal pose: feet together, back straight, hands by the sides. He then bows briefly.
"Osu, Sensei!"
The collective murmur turns into a resolute "OSU," and the dojo is filled with the echo of unified voices.
Yamamoto nods, his face serious but with a warm glint in his eyes. "Today we will work on the fundamentals we have learned in these first practices," he announces, crossing his arms.
"But first. Do a light jog around the tatami! Keep a steady pace, arms loose and breathing controlled―"
Ah yes. Cardio. The perfect way to turn existential dread into sweat-soaked existential dread.
The judo practitioners disperse and start jogging around in circles, their barefoot feet scraping the edge of the tatami mat, I also move with them. Yamamoto watches with an observant eye, mentally counting the rounds.
"W-Whoa!" As I'm jogging, a freshman in front of me suddenly loses his balance and stumbles. In a domino effect, I collide with him, causing me to misstep and fall as well.
"Hey! Watch where you're going, will you?" I grumble.
"Erm... S-So―"
Before the kid can stutter an apology, my anger is interrupted by a stern voice. "Enough. Get up." The judo clubs' captain, stands above us with a stern expression.
"Uh, right away, Sensei!" I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest as I start jogging again.
Ah, the joys of collective punishment. Next time, I'm throwing the kid properly so I might as well earn the lecture.
After a couple of minutes, Yamamoto raises his voice again: "On the ground, dynamic stretching! Legs, arms, waist... fluidity in every movement. Don't force, but don't slacken off either."
We gather together and start doing leg swings, arm circles, and trunk rotations, actively stretching every muscle in preparation for the upcoming technique practice.
Several minutes later, after he observes that everyone is loosened up and focused, Yamamoto changes the tempo:
"Excellent. Now, agility exercises: form pairs and practice passing under your partner's legs. On my signal, switch!"
Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait...
Did he just say pairs? My heart leaps, and a grin spreads across my face. Pairs means... I could pair with a girl!
I imagine it instantly: ducking under a girl's legs, her judogi slightly askew, her stance strong yet graceful. My pulse quickens at the thought of brushing past her, the thrill of the exercise igniting my excitement.
I always knew joining this judo club wasn't such a bad idea after all. I subtly position myself near a group of girls, my heart racing with anticipation.
"Oh-hohohohoho!"
My imagination spirals even further. The girl pivots mid-drill, her arms snapping around my neck in a flawless judo chokehold. Her grip tightens, and my breath hitches not from the choke, but from sheer exhilaration. Oh, yes, I think, a trickle of blood escaping my nose.
Meanwhile, reality moves on without me. The other club members shuffle around, pairing up with quick nods and murmured agreements.
By the time I snap out of my daydream, wiping my nose with a sheepish grin my earlier enthusiasm vanishes like smoke: all the already scarce girls in the club have already teamed up with each other, laughing and adjusting their stances as they start the drill. My grin fades, replaced by a sinking feeling.
I blink, wiping a streak of blood from my nose with the back of my hand. I look around, fortunately enough nobody's looking at my scene.
A random stocky kid with a buzz cut nearby catches me and waves to me over. "Yo, you need a partner? Looks like we're the last two left."
I let out a sigh, my shoulders slumping. Guess this is my fate.
"Yeah, sure," I mutter, trudging over.
"Let's give it our best shot." He says.
I muster a polite smile and a nod. As we begin the exercise, ducking and weaving under each other's legs, I can't help but steal a glance at the girls across the room. They're focused and giggling, completely oblivious to my earlier hopes. Next time, I tell myself, forcing my attention back to the drill.
After we finish the drill, with a satisfied sigh, the stocky kid wipes the sweat from his forehead and turns to me. "Man, my thighs are burning," he says, a friendly smile on his face.
"What's your name, by the way?" He adds.
I straighten up, my back aching from the exercise. "It's Shiroi," I say, offering a slight smile. "And yours?"
"Shiroi? That's a cool name. Like, uh, white king, right?" the stocky guy remarks, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "You a first year, right?"
"Yep," I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
"Cool, me too." He grins, his eyes roaming over my frame, sizing me up. "You don't look so strong. You actually trying for next month's tournament?"
Geh... so blunt.
"Nah, not really my thing. I just came here for hobby."
"For real?" He looks surprised, raising an eyebrow. "Most people here are pretty serious about it, you know? Especially Sensei and the seniors. They're always pushing everyone to do better."
"Oh yeah? Yamamoto-sensei, huh? What's he like?"
He shrugs. "He's intense. Real stickler for the rules." He pauses, then adds with a grin, "But he can throw you across the room like a rag doll. Seen him do it to some third-years. Pretty awesome, actually."
I tilt my head and give a naive smile. "Really? I guess I better get to know everyone better then."
The stocky guy stops suddenly, blinking a couple times and then smiles. "Yeah, you better! I'm Akimura, from class-B and my favorite food is sushi with extra wasabi. Nice to meet you!"
I furrow my brow, raising an eyebrow, and squinting my eyes. "That's not exactly what I was going for..." I sigh.
I lean forward a little, my voice low but clear: "I just want to know who the strongest here are and what dan they have in judo."
Akimura blinks in surprise and then enthusiastically points to a couple of students chatting against the wall. "Oh, you wanna know about the strong guys? Just look at their belts," he explains.
"For example, that guy over there, Kuroda Yūki: second year, 3-dan. Over there, Saitō Haru is also 3-dan but in his third year. And the one who's leaning the judo gi against the wall is Satoru Ryō, third year, 4-dan. Those three are the toughest after Yamamoto-sensei, of course."
I raise an eyebrow, like evaluating the terrain: "Is a 4-dan a high level? Because compared to the sensei, who is 7-dan, it sounds... sort of low."
Akimura stares at me as if I sprouted a second head. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don't underestimate a 4-dan! Those guys are beasts! They've been doing judo since they could walk."
"Hmm..." I vocalize, adding no further comment.
"Satoru's 4-dan is nothing to scoff at. He once threw a guy so hard the mat groaned!"
"Groaned? What, is the mat alive now? Maybe I'll test this 'beast' myself!"
"You? He'd turn you into origami!"
Yamamoto interrupts. "Enough chatter!" His voice cuts through the dojo, silencing the students instantly.
He stands at the center of the mat, his mere presence commanding attention. "The next exercise is randori. With the same partner you had earlier, you will apply the techniques we've been practicing."
A ripple of excitement and a touch of apprehension spreads through the students. I, however, remain outwardly calm, my expression carefully neutral.
Randori, huh? That sounds like it could be interesting.
"This will be an elimination-style exercise," Yamamoto continues. "The winner of each pair will move on to face another winner. This continues until only one remains."
Murmurs break out amongst the students, speculating on their chances and sizing up their potential opponents. I subtly glance at Satoru, who's stretching his arms with a look of quiet confidence.
Yamamoto raises his hand, silencing the chatter once more. "The winner," he announces, his voice carrying a weight of authority, "will receive my personal recommendation for the upcoming inter-school tournament."
The air crackles with renewed energy. The whispers intensify, now laced with ambition and a hint of desperation.
"A recommendation!?" One of them blurts out.
"Now that's a prize worth fighting for!" Another voice chimes in.
Akimura, who is next to me, bounces on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement. He turns to me, his eyes shining. "Tournament recommendation! That's huge!"
"But there's a catch," Yamamoto-sensei adds, his voice taking on a sterner edge, "the same scheme applies to the losers. They will also continue to compete amongst themselves."
Confused murmurs ripple through the dojo. Some students exchange uncertain glances.
"What do you mean, sensei? What's the point of a loser's bracket here?" Asks Satoru.
Yamamoto's gaze sweeps across the room, lingering for a moment on Satoru. "Just let me finish. The student who loses against his pair, will have to fight against someone who also lost against his pair and this goes on until only one remains." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"The last loser," he announces, his voice resonating with authority, "will receive extra training immediately following today's class."
A wave of apprehension washes over the students. The initial excitement is tempered by the very real threat of extra training under Yamamoto's watchful eye.
Akimura, beside me, gulps nervously, his earlier enthusiasm noticeably diminished. "Extra training..." he whispers, the color draining from his face. "With Yamamoto-sensei."
So, in a nutshell, we'll start fighting against our pair, if we loose, we'll have to fight against someone who also lost and we have to keep fighting until we win at least one match to be safe from extra classes. But a single loss would negate our chances at the tournament, simple enough.
Akimura beams, radiating almost childlike enthusiasm. He cracks his knuckles, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. "Alright, Shiroi! Let's do this! Just a warning, though. I've been known to accidentally leave footprints on the ceiling after a good throw. So, try not to bounce too much, okay?" He winks, completely oblivious to the unsettling implication of his words.
I meet his gaze, my expression calm and collected. "Indeed. May the best man win."
Yamamoto's voice interrupts us. "The first match will be Akimura against Shiroi."
"Hell yeah! Looks like my luck is shining! I couldn't wait anymore!" Akimura practically bounces towards the mat, brimming with energy.
I remain standing there for three deliberate seconds just long enough to make the silence awkward.
Wait. Now? But I haven't finished my reconnaissance yet! How am I supposed to devise a proper strategy without adequate intel?
I glance at Satoru, who is now watching us with a look of mild curiosity.
Guess I have no choice. Sigh
With a subtle gesture, Yamamoto beckons me to come forward. Akimura steps onto the mat with a restless energy, his stocky frame shifting as if eager to move, while I follow with a quiet, composed stride.
As we position ourselves, Yamamoto-sensei raises a hand, halting us before the fight begins.
"Remember. In this dojo, while exam results are important, there is something that we value more." he says, his eyes sweeping across the gathered students, locking onto each pair in turn.
"And that is the respect you have for each other and for the art of judo. Before attacking, bow. After falling, help your partner up. This is how the true spirit of a judoka is forged."
His words settle over the room. He pauses, his gaze stern yet expectant. "Do you understand?"
The students respond with a chorus of "Yes, sensei," though some voices are more enthusiastic than others.
How poetic. Meanwhile, the ones who need skill get punished for lacking it, while naturals coast by on talent.
Akimura and I turn to face each other, standing side by side for a fleeting moment. Our eyes met briefly, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between us. We bow deeply, the gesture a silent pledge of respect, before stepping into our stances. The tension in the air tightens, our bodies poised and ready.
A few scattered, half-hearted cheers rise from the sidelines as I step onto the mat. "Good luck, Shiroi!" someone calls out, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm.
Save your breath, chum. I'll need it for more important things.
I fix my gaze on Akimura, tuning out the irritating whispers.
Hmm... now that I think about it, Akimura's built like a mountain, almost as tall as Yamamoto-sensei himself, but considerably broader. Twelve centimeters taller than me, maybe? And the weight difference... let's just say I could probably fit inside one of his legs.
Still, big guy equals slow guy, right? A predatory grin spreads across my face. This should be a breeze.
"Hajime!" Yamamoto's voice rings out, signaling the start of the match.
The air shivers in my ears; I expected to start slow, but Akimura explodes into motion with surprising speed. Before I finish adjusting my guard, his massive hand clamps down on my shoulder and, without hesitation, pulls me backward, trying to throw off my balance.
What the—? He's fast?!
In a blur of motion, Akimura pivots, his other arm hooking behind my leg. He sweeps my supporting foot out from under me with a speed that belies his size while pushing me with a rather unrefined technique. The world tilts sickeningly.
For a fleeting moment, I'm airborne, suspended in disbelief. Then, gravity asserts itself. I slam into the mat with a resounding thud, the air whooshing from my lungs. Akimura lands on top of me, the weight of his victory pressing me into the unforgiving surface.
"Ippon!" Yamamoto's voice echoes through the now silent dojo.
"Well... shit." I gasp, still grinning.
Akimura gets up, with a grin that radiates victory and offers me a hand up. "Told you I'd introduce you to the floor!" He helps me up with surprising gentleness, his earlier aggression vanished as quickly as it appeared.
I take his hand, still slightly dazed, my mind reeling from the unexpected defeat. Okay, so maybe "big guy" doesn't always equal "slow guy." Note to self: never underestimate a human bulldozer.
I manage a weak smile. "You, uh... you got me."
OK that was damn pathetic. I'm no match for someone of his level.
"Hey," Akimura says, clapping me on the shoulder, his earlier exuberance replaced with a more subdued friendliness. "Don't look so down. You said yourself you were just here for fun, right? So, what's the big deal about not getting into the tournament?"
Oh, I feel so much better now. Your pep talk has completely cured my existential dread. Truly.
I rub my shoulder, wincing slightly at the contact then I force a smile. "Yeah, you're right. It's not a big deal."
It's only a matter of pride, dignity, and avoiding the soul-crushing tedium of Yamamoto-sensei's personalized training regimen. No biggie.
"Besides," Akimura continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil, "you just gotta win one match in the loser's bracket, and you're safe from the extra lessons. Piece of cake!" He gives me a thumbs-up, his grin returning. "I'll be cheering you on!"
I nod slowly, my smile turning brittle. Cheering me on... Right. Because nothing motivates me more than the enthusiastic support of the guy who just pancaked me into the mat.
"That was a dirty trick, Satoru!"
A sudden bark of frustration rips through the relative quiet of the dojo. Saito Haru, his face flushed with anger, stands opposite Satoru, who regards him with a cool, almost bored expression. "You know that wasn't a fair throw!" Saito accuses, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage.
"What's all the fuss about? They're too loud." I observe the spectacle next to Akimura.
Akimura shrugs, unperturbed by the commotion. "Oh, who knows? They're always like that, those two. Saito and Satoru can never see eye to eye." His gaze returns to those two.
"A win is a win, Saito. Maybe if you weren't so predictable, you could have avoided ending up on your back. But I guess some people just can't adapt, huh?" He emphasizes the last word, a clear taunt referencing his rival's defeat.
Saito's fists clench. "You cheating son of—" The room falls into a stunned silence as Saito lunges forward, his arm cocked back to deliver a punch, a clear violation of the dojo rules.
Satoru's eyes narrow, his body tensing in preparation to defend himself. A ripple of shocked gasps spreads through the onlookers.
Akimura winces, muttering, "Oh, crap, he's gonna get it..."
Just as the fight appears inevitable, Saito's fist is abruptly halted by a blur of motion. Yamamoto-sensei appears as if from nowhere, his hand outstretched. A single finger presses against Saito's chest, stopping his forward momentum as if he'd run into a brick wall.
Saito staggers back, his eyes wide with disbelief. The air hangs heavy with tension. Everyone in the dojo, including Satoru, stares at Yamamoto-sensei, a mixture of awe and fear in their eyes.
Akimura's jaw drops. "Whoa." he whispers, his voice barely audible.
Yamamoto-sensei's expression remains unchanged, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Control yourself, Saito," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
"This is a dojo, not a street brawl. If you cannot maintain your composure, you are not welcome here."
He removes his finger, the simple gesture somehow more intimidating than any physical threat. Saito, still trembling slightly, bows his head in shame. "Y-Yes, sensei," he mumbles, his earlier aggression completely extinguished. Around them, the other students are frozen in place, their reactions as telling as the fight itself.
Yamamoto scans the room, his severe gaze making every student feel the full weight of his sheer power. "The rest of you—this wasn't entertainment. Get back to what you were doing."
"Debatable." I mutter under my breath, unable to contain my comment.
"Psst, Shiroi," Akimura whispers, leaning in closer. Excitement and disbelief evident in his eyes.
"Did you see that? Just his finger! He's insane!"
I respond, my gaze still locked on Yamamoto-sensei. "Yeah, he doesn't even look like he's just a highschooler. He's in a totally different league."
The rest of the early matches slide by without much fanfare—quick grips, low throws, the occasional gasp as someone hits the mat. I watch with detached interest, analyzing the techniques, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of my potential future opponents. So many possibilities.
Before long, Yamamoto's voice cuts through the hum: "Second round begins. Winners' bracket: Akimura versus Kuroda Yūki. Losers' bracket: Shiroi versus Tanaka Mei."
"Looks like our paths split here. Good luck, Shiroi," he says, voice warm but firm.
What an elegant way of saying "try not to embarrass yourself too badly."
"You too," As I say, he strides away, preparing for his match on the opposite corner of the mat, leaving me alone on the edge of the tatami.
(This chap has little to do with COTE, but just give it time and then you'll eventually see why Shiroi is doing this. The next part is coming soon.)