Kiryu Kazuma stared at that bald thug's punchable face, his anger rising again when he thought of how frightened his little sister still was.
Anyone who practiced HEMA usually had at least some interest in fighting—most of them weren't troublemakers, but they weren't afraid of trouble either.
Kazuma was no exception.
And now that he thought about it, this might actually be a good opportunity to show off the strength of his "cheat" ability. First, it could buy him time to persuade Chiyoko to agree to selling the dojo. Second, it might force Sumitomo Construction to reassess how tough he really was—and drive up their offer.
When he looked at it that way, the benefits seemed to outweigh the risks.
So, driven by both the desire to vent and some quick calculations, Kazuma set down his schoolbag, picked up his bamboo sword—already packed neatly in its cloth bag—and began untying the cord at the top.
"Oh? You wanna fight?" The bald thug's flabby face lit up with glee. "You're gonna attack a defenseless neighborhood resident? That's pretty rough of you! Looks like I'll have to teach you a little lesson for everyone's safety!"
"If you're uneducated, maybe don't try to sound clever. Just stick to your usual trash talk," Kazuma shot back smoothly. Verbal sparring was one of his specialties—he couldn't let himself lose face as a seasoned online gamer.
"What'd you say?!"
The bald man took a step forward, glaring and huffing as he reached out to grab Kazuma's collar. Kazuma started to pull out his bamboo sword—but was stopped by Chiyoko's hand on his arm.
"Bro! Don't do it! Just call the police! They'll handle this!"
"She's right!" the bald man chimed in shamelessly. "The police will definitely protect us poor, defenseless citizens from dangerous delinquents with bamboo swords."
"My brother is not a delinquent!" Chiyoko spun around and glared at him.
"Sure, sure." The bald man shrugged dismissively and waved his two underlings to follow him.
The trio strutted off down the street.
Chiyoko kept a tense expression until they were well out of sight, then let out a long sigh of relief.
Seizing the moment, Kazuma suggested, "I still think we should sell the dojo. Who knows what else they might try next time?"
Chiyoko stared at him in disbelief. "You were about to fight them just now, and now you're telling me we should just sell the place?"
"They're two separate issues. If we don't sell, who knows what they'll hang from our door next?"
Chiyoko crossed her arms defiantly. "Then let them try! Since they left us this chicken, we might as well take it—I'll cook teriyaki chicken tonight."
With that, she walked over and unhooked the dead chicken from the eaves.
"Hmph, not bad. It's pretty plump."
Kazuma blinked in surprise. Wait, is this really okay?
Chiyoko's attitude reminded him of The Godfather—except instead of a movie director screaming at finding a horse's head in his bed, it'd be like the director chuckling, "Ah, perfect, I was just craving a horse meat sandwich."
Chiyoko stuffed the bloody chicken into the fridge, then came out with a bucket of water and casually washed the blood off the doorstep. When she finished, she clapped her hands and beamed.
"Let's go, Bro! We'll be late for kendo club practice!"
Kazuma clicked his tongue.
—Sis, is it really okay for you to brush off a yakuza threat like it's nothing?
—Are you maybe trusting the Japanese police too much?
—This is 1980. Just a couple years ago, student radicals were still throwing Molotovs and fighting in the streets. The public safety situation isn't as rosy as you think. Are you sure you're not a bit too carefree?
"Hurry up, Bro!" Chiyoko grabbed his arm and dragged him out the door, locking it behind them.
To her, this morning's incident seemed to already be "handled."
Kazuma's plan to sell the family dojo was going to need a new approach after all.
—I thought today's yakuza threat would be the perfect opportunity...
Shaking his head, Kazuma set off for school.
Japanese schools used a three-term academic year, with the first term starting in April—unlike China, where the school year began in September.
Kazuma had only learned this in his previous life when he was in high school.
Before that, whenever he read manga set in Japanese schools, he'd always wondered, "Why are there cherry blossoms blooming when they start the new school year? Don't cherry blossoms bloom in autumn?"
Kazuma now attended Kitakatsushi High School—a national public school, as the name suggested.
Private schools were too expensive for him. Chiyoko had only gotten into Etsukawa Girls' Middle School because she earned a kendo scholarship.
Girls' kendo wasn't quite as competitive.
As a boy, Kazuma hadn't made it to the national tournaments in middle school, so scholarships were out of the question—he had to settle for public high school.
Japan's education system in the '80s was also very exam-focused, and most public schools had lower academic standards than private ones.
But Kitakatsushi was one of the rare public schools with strong academic performance—its deviation score was quite high.
Normally, with Kazuma's grades, he wouldn't have made it in—at least, not without a kendo advantage.
But Kazuma was a transmigrator from forty years in the future—from an era when China's rote-memorization-based education system was even more intense.
By comparison, the Japanese exams of the '80s were a breeze.
Take math, for example—trigonometry was considered advanced content in Japanese high schools. Analytic geometry was practically the peak of difficulty.
But back in the Chinese college entrance exams, trig questions were often just the first or third main question.
And the hardest analytic geometry problems in Japanese high schools barely reached the difficulty of the sixth question's first part on the Chinese math exam.
Kazuma's math teacher used to say, "The first part of question six is a freebie. The second part is where top students start to pull ahead. So make sure you get full marks on the first part and finish it in under five minutes. Now, here's a test: twenty problems, all at that level. You have two hours. Begin!"
And as for English—Japanese English education was truly lacking.
Before he transmigrated, Kazuma had worked at a foreign trade company, and English was his bread and butter. He'd often had to pitch products to foreign clients or travel abroad for work.
So it was a bit of a shock when he realized that his middling rank back home would make him a top student here.
Of course, no one at school knew this yet—April had only just begun.
Kazuma had transmigrated during spring break. Japan's winter break was short, just around Christmas to a week after New Year's. Spring break was longer—late February to April 1st.
Thankfully, the timing had given him a chance to adjust. Otherwise, starting school right after transmigrating would've been a disaster.
At first, he hadn't even absorbed the original Kazuma's memories properly—he couldn't remember any of his classmates' names.
Now, as he walked up the gentle slope to Kitakatsushi's front gate, he could see how the Katsushi Ward skyline still wasn't very tall. From the school gate, you could glimpse the distant Edogawa River.
Standing sentinel at the gate was P.E. teacher Daimon Gorō, bamboo sword in hand, checking students' uniforms like a temple guardian.
Short skirts were just starting to become trendy, and many girls secretly altered theirs.
But by next year—1981—when Yakushimaru Hiroko's Sailor Suit and Machine Gun became a hit, delinquent girls would all switch to long skirts again.
Fashion was a cycle.
Ironically, in the movie, heroine Izumi wore a long skirt to show she was a good girl. But the iconic scene of her firing a submachine gun in a long sailor skirt became legendary—delinquent girls loved it, so they started wearing long skirts too. Meanwhile, the real good girls switched to skirts about five centimeters above the knee.
Kazuma was still musing on this when Daimon Gorō suddenly roared, "Kazuma! Do you know what time it is?! Morning practice is almost over!"
"It's not even eight yet," Kazuma replied reflexively—then instantly regretted it.
"No back talk!" Gorō bellowed. "Ten laps around the field! Now!"
As both a P.E. teacher and the kendo club advisor, Gorō absolutely had the authority to punish him.
Kazuma didn't mind running, though—he was on high alert these days, worried about more yakuza trouble.
Extra training couldn't hurt.
"Understood! I'll start right away, Gorō-sensei!"
"Louder! Show some spirit! Without kendo, with your lousy deviation score, you wouldn't even belong in this school—do you understand?!"
—Actually, my deviation score is sky-high now.
Japanese schools used a normal distribution curve to statistically evaluate students' scores, with deviation values indicating academic ability.
Higher deviation, higher ability.
But since there hadn't been any tests yet, it wasn't like he could just announce it—no one would believe him.
So he wisely dropped the argument and shouted, "Yes, Gorō-sensei! I'll start running now!"
"Hurry up! Run all the way to the kendo clubroom!"
Maybe because there weren't many students around yet, Gorō kept barking orders, personally watching Kazuma jog toward the clubroom.
If he slowed even a little, a fresh roar would come from behind.
Kazuma reached the clubroom, dropped his bag, and headed into the indoor practice hall with his bamboo sword.
The kendo club was already deep into morning practice. The sounds of bamboo swords clashing echoed throughout the space.
"You're late!" A ponytailed girl in kendo uniform walked over, wiping sweat from her neck with a towel.
"Morning, Fujii. Something came up at home," Kazuma replied—and couldn't help glancing at her chest.
She'd just finished a round of swings. Sweat soaked her kendo uniform, the fabric clinging to her youthful curves...
"Poke!" Fujii shouted, jabbing her fingers at Kazuma's eyes.
He dodged with a quick tilt of his head.
"Don't dodge! I'm gouging out those sinful eyes today!"
"Come on, quit it." Kazuma scribbled his name on the club's attendance sheet and turned to leave.
"How many laps did you get today?" Fujii asked with a mischievous grin.
Kazuma flipped her the bird.
Her laughter rang out behind him as he broke into a run.
—If not for the looming yakuza threat and my dwindling savings, this could be a pretty fun school life.
He mused as he ran.
—Fujii's got a great personality and looks too. The kind of girl you could either be best friends with or date.
—If only survival wasn't my top priority right now.
After ten laps, Kazuma returned to the dojo and found Fujii still practicing her swings, completely focused.
It was already 8:30. The others had probably gone back to class to get ready.
"You're not waiting for me, are you?" Kazuma teased.
"In your dreams!" Fujii made a face at him.
Kazuma shrugged and was about to grab his stuff when he noticed something off about her movements.
He stopped and watched her for several seconds.
—No mistake. I can gauge people's kendo skill level now.
—Fujii's at Unaffiliated Style, Level 4.
And beyond that—he could also see little red text tags hovering like status effects.
Looking closer, he confirmed: "Left arm strain."
"Fujii, did you hurt your left arm?"
Kazuma asked.
(End of Chapter)