The aftermath of the Kita High "incident" was… noticeable. Seiyo High, a school mostly known for its decent-but-not-stellar academics and an almost aggressively average sports program, was suddenly buzzing. The story of how our tiny, unassuming martial arts club had gone to the fortress of Kita High and how their monstrous captain, Gouken "The Grizzly" Kumagai, had been effortlessly "sky-hooked" (Takeshi's latest, increasingly poetic term for my throw) by a quiet transfer student had spread like wildfire. It had all the hallmarks of a classic underdog legend, and I was, much to my horror, cast in the leading role.
The name "Ghost Hand" was now firmly cemented in the school's lexicon. It was whispered in hallways, scribbled on bathroom stalls, even, I cringed to discover, the subject of a nascent fan thread on the school's unofficial online forum. Students I'd never spoken to would nod at me with a newfound respect, or sometimes just stare with wide, slightly fearful eyes. My attempts to maintain my "smooth nail" persona were about as effective as trying to hide an elephant in a phone booth.
Daiki Tanaka, my original tormentor, now treated me with the reverence one might reserve for a sleeping dragon. If he saw me approaching, he'd execute a swift 180-degree turn and practically sprint in the opposite direction. His former goons would just melt into the background. It was… peaceful, in a weird, "everyone is terrified of me" kind of way. I wasn't sure I liked it.
The dojo, however, had become a strange sanctuary. The awe was still there, but it was now tempered with a sense of shared purpose. Rina, Kenji, Takeshi, and Hana weren't just my clubmates anymore; they were co-conspirators in the unfolding mystery of Kaito Ishida.
"Kaito," Rina said one afternoon, her eyes shining with an almost manic gleam as she consulted a newly purchased, very thick book on "Advanced Aiki Principles," "that throw you used on Kumagai-san… it bears a resemblance to a technique called kokyunage, but the entry, the kuzushi you achieved with almost no visible effort… it's textbook, yet completely unorthodox! We need to break it down!"
"Break it down?" I asked, dubious. "I still don't know how I did it."
"That's the beauty of it!" she exclaimed. "We'll reverse-engineer your genius!"
Kenji, ever the pragmatist, focused on trying to get me to replicate my "controlled" responses. "The way you handled Kumagai was different from your… earlier episodes, Ishida. It was less raw power, more precision. More awareness. Can you access that consciously?"
I tried. We'd run drills. Kenji would attack, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and power. I'd try to focus, to "feel" that state of calm, effortless redirection I'd experienced against Kumagai. Sometimes, I'd manage it. A subtle shift, a light parry, and Kenji would be off-balance, his attack neutralized. Other times, my body would overreact, responding with a speed and efficiency that still startled him, even if it wasn't the full-blown "Shadow Play." And sometimes, I'd just stand there like a confused lamppost, my mind blank, and almost get clocked. Consistency was not my strong suit.
Takeshi had become my most enthusiastic, if not always helpful, training partner. "Alright, Ghost Hand! Prepare to face the 'Flaming Fists of Furious Fury'!" he'd declare, launching into a series of wild, telegraphed attacks that my body would deal with almost disdainfully. But his relentless energy and unwavering belief in my "awesomeness" were, surprisingly, a source of encouragement. He treated my abilities less like a terrifying anomaly and more like a cool superpower we were all just figuring out.
Hana continued her meticulous documentation, her sketchbooks now resembling arcane texts filled with intricate diagrams and cryptic notes. She'd occasionally ask me questions like, "Ishida-senpai, when you feel the opponent's intent before their physical movement, is it a visual cue, an auditory one, or more of a… a tactile sensation in the surrounding ki field?"
I usually just shrugged and said, "It just… feels wrong if I don't move there." She'd nod profoundly, as if I'd just unlocked the secrets of the universe.
The real change, however, was in the club's standing. Other sports clubs, who had previously barely acknowledged our existence, now looked at us with a newfound curiosity. Students were actually showing up at the dojo, asking about joining. Not many, and most were scared off by Rina's intense training regimen or Kenji's intimidating presence (or Takeshi's terrible jokes), but a few stuck around. Our tiny club was actually… growing.
And with that growth came… attention.
Mr. Henderson, the expat sourdough baker and, as it turned out, a freelance journalist for a local English-language community paper, had heard the "Ghost Hand of Seiyo" rumors from his daughter, who was in my English class. He'd approached Rina, asking if he could do a small piece on our "surprisingly successful" martial arts club.
Rina was ecstatic. "This is it, Kaito! Our chance to really put Seiyo Martial Arts on the map!"
I was horrified. "A newspaper article? With my name in it? And pictures?" My anonymity was already on life support; this would be pulling the plug.
"It'll be great!" Rina insisted. "Focus on the team, the discipline, the spirit! And maybe a little bit on our… secret weapon." She winked at me.
I had a very bad feeling about this.
The day Mr. Henderson came to the dojo with his camera and notepad, I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. Which, given that I was the "secret weapon," was proving increasingly difficult. He interviewed Rina, who glowed with pride as she talked about the club's dedication and recent successes (mostly meaning my success against Kumagai). He talked to Kenji, who gave gruff, monosyllabic answers but whose quiet pride in the club was evident. He even got a few quotable (and mostly nonsensical) soundbites from Takeshi about the "ethereal flow of Ghost Hand's chi."
Then, he turned to me.
"So, Kaito Ishida," he said, his eyes twinkling. "The man of the hour. Or should I say, the ghost? Tell me, what's your secret?"
I mumbled something about teamwork and trying my best. He took a few photos of us training – Rina demonstrating a throw on Takeshi, Kenji practicing on the makiwara, Hana meticulously polishing a bokken. Then, he asked for a demonstration from me.
"Just a little something to show our readers what all the fuss is about," he said, camera poised.
Rina looked at me, her eyes pleading. "Kaito, just… something simple. That redirection thing you do?"
My stomach churned. Performing on command. This was my nightmare.
Kenji volunteered. "Light attack. Just for the camera."
He came in with a slow, telegraphed punch. I tried to replicate that calm, effortless deflection. My hand moved. I redirected his punch. It looked… okay. Unremarkable, even.
Mr. Henderson frowned slightly. "Hmm. Impressive balance, young man, but is that… it? The rumors were a bit more… dramatic."
Takeshi, ever the showman, piped up, "Oh, you gotta see him against someone really trying, Mr. H! Like, when he makes 'em fly without even touching 'em!" He was, of course, exaggerating wildly. Or was he? My memory of the Kumagai throw was still a bit hazy on the "not touching" part.
Rina shot Takeshi a glare, then forced a smile for Mr. Henderson. "Kaito-kun is very modest, and his style is very subtle. It's about efficiency, not flash."
Mr. Henderson still looked unconvinced. He was after a story, a "hook." And "subtle efficiency" didn't sell papers as well as "teenage ghost defeats grizzly bear-man."
The article, when it came out a week later, was… an exercise in journalistic license. The headline screamed: "SEIYO'S SILENT BELT: MYSTERY MARTIAL ARTIST SHOCKS KITA HIGH!" There was a slightly blurry photo of me deflecting Kenji's punch, looking vaguely constipated. The text was full of Takeshi's more colorful quotes, descriptions of Kumagai as a "hulking behemoth," and heavy implications that I possessed some kind of mystical, almost supernatural ability. It didn't explicitly call me "Ghost Hand," but the implication was clear.
The reaction at school was instantaneous and overwhelming. I was no longer just a rumor; I was "SEIYO'S SILENT BELT," a confirmed local legend. Teachers gave me strange looks. The principal actually stopped me in the hallway to congratulate me on "bringing honor to the school," which made me want to sink through the floor.
And then… the challenges started.
Not from bullies anymore. But from other martial artists. Students from other schools who had read the article or heard the increasingly inflated rumors. They'd show up at Seiyo's gates after school, asking for "Ishida, the Silent Belt." They weren't always aggressive, some were just curious, wanting to test themselves against this mysterious prodigy.
Rina tried to run interference, politely declining challenges on my behalf, saying our club was focused on internal development, not street fights. But the pressure was mounting.
The worst came from within our own school. Kendo club members, judo club practitioners, even a couple of overly enthusiastic guys from the drama club who apparently practiced "stage combat" and thought they were the next Jet Li. They saw me as a target, a benchmark, a way to prove their own strength.
My quiet life was not just over; it had been obliterated, nuked from orbit, and its ashes scattered to the four winds. I was living in a constant state of low-grade anxiety, always waiting for the next challenge, the next demand for a demonstration.
One afternoon, it came to a head.
We were in the dojo, trying to have a normal practice. A group of third-year judo club members, led by their captain, a stocky, powerfully built guy named Juro Ogawa, walked in unannounced. Ogawa was known for his aggressive grappling and his short temper. He had a reputation for being a bit of a bully, even within his own club.
"Ishida," Ogawa boomed, his arms crossed, his gaze dismissive as he looked around our relatively humble dojo. "Heard a lot about you. 'Silent Belt,' huh? Sounds like a load of crap to me. Bet you can't even handle a proper judo throw."
Rina stepped forward, her expression firm. "Ogawa-senpai, this is a closed practice. We're not looking for trouble."
"Trouble?" Ogawa sneered. "I'm just here to see if this 'legend' can back up all the talk. Or is he just good at posing for newspapers?" His cronies snickered behind him.
Kenji moved to stand beside Rina, his presence a silent warning. Takeshi, for once, looked genuinely angry. "Hey, man, show some respect! You don't know what you're dealing with!"
Ogawa just laughed. "Oh, I'm shaking. Come on, Ishida. One match. Judo rules. Unless you're scared your little 'ghost' tricks won't work when you're on the mat with a real fighter."
He was deliberately provoking me, trying to get a rise. And it was working. Not on me, but on Rina and Takeshi, who looked ready to explode.
I stepped forward. "It's okay," I said, my voice quiet. I was tired. Tired of the whispers, tired of the challenges, tired of being this… thing everyone projected their hopes and fears onto. "One match."
Rina looked at me, alarmed. "Kaito, you don't have to!"
"It's fine," I repeated. Maybe if I just… got it over with. Maybe then they'd leave me alone. (A foolish hope, I knew, even as I thought it.)
Ogawa grinned triumphantly. "Good. Gi on gi. First ippon wins." He started to remove his outer school jacket, revealing his thick judo gi underneath.
I was already in my karate gi. The difference in fabric and cut was significant. Judo gis are thicker, designed for grappling and throwing. Karate gis are lighter, for striking and movement. He already had an advantage in terms of grip.
We faced each other on the tatami. The judo club members lined one side, our small group on the other. The air was thick with tension.
"Hajime!" one of Ogawa's friends called out.
Ogawa came at me fast, his hands shooting out to secure a grip on my gi. He was strong, his movements practiced. He was aiming for a standard lapel and sleeve grip, the foundation for most judo throws.
My body reacted. Not with the effortless deflection I'd used against Kumagai. Not with the "Shadow Play." It was something… different. Almost… reluctant.
As his hands reached for me, my own hands moved, not to block or parry in the karate sense, but to intercept his grip. My fingers brushed against his, and for a split second, I felt his intent, his raw power, the ingrained muscle memory of a hundred throws.
And in that split second, a wave of… weariness washed over me. Not physical tiredness, but a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. I was so tired of this.
My body, which usually reacted with such uncanny precision, felt… sluggish. My usually hyper-aware senses felt dulled.
Ogawa secured his grip. A powerful, crushing hold on my lapel and sleeve. I felt his muscles bunch as he prepared to throw. He was going for o goshi, a major hip throw.
I should have shifted my weight. I should have broken his balance. My body knew how. I could feel the pathways, the subtle movements required. But the signal… it didn't quite connect. The usual spark wasn't there.
He pulled me in, turned his hips, and launched me.
I went flying.
It wasn't a graceful arc like Kumagai's. It was a jarring, uncontrolled flight. I hit the tatami. Hard. On my back. The air rushed out of my lungs with a painful whoosh.
IPPON!
The shout from the judo club was deafening. Ogawa stood over me, panting slightly, a triumphant, arrogant sneer on his face. "See? All talk! 'Silent Belt' can't even handle a basic throw! Pathetic!"
Rina, Kenji, and Takeshi rushed to my side, their faces a mixture of shock, disbelief, and concern.
"Kaito! Are you okay?" Rina cried, helping me sit up.
I was… dazed. My back ached. My head was spinning. But more than the physical pain, there was a profound sense of… nothing. Emptiness.
I had lost. Me. The "Ghost Hand." The "Silent Belt." I had been thrown, decisively, easily, by a school bully.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. My carefully constructed (or rather, accidentally acquired) reputation as an unbeatable enigma had just shattered into a million pieces.
Ogawa and his cronies were jeering, celebrating their captain's victory. "So much for the Seiyo legend! Guess Kita High just got lucky!"
Takeshi was bristling, ready to fight them all. "You got lucky, Ogawa! He wasn't even trying!"
Kenji just looked at me, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something I couldn't decipher in his eyes. Worry? Disappointment?
I just sat there on the mat, the wind knocked out of me, both literally and figuratively. The Uncrowned King had fallen. And the worst part? A tiny, perverse part of me felt… relieved. The pressure was off. The legend was broken. Maybe now, finally, they'd all just leave me alone.
But as Rina helped me to my feet, her face etched with concern, I saw the look in Ogawa's eyes. It wasn't just triumph. It was the look of a predator who had tasted blood and wanted more.
This wasn't over. This was just the beginning of a whole new kind of nightmare. The fall of the King hadn't brought peace. It had just invited more jackals to the feast.