Toshio POV
The scratch of graphite on paper had become as familiar to me as breathing—more familiar, perhaps, than actually paying attention to whatever sensei was droning on about at the front of the classroom.
I added another layer to the runic formula I'd been sketching, my hand moving almost automatically while my mind worked through the theoretical applications. I was trying to come up with a defense spell, because right now my primary defense was speed, which wouldn't help if speed wasn't a viable defense strategy. It was a kind of barrier that used a vacuum of space as it's core, using wave motion to create microscopic singularities that absorbed light to create hard light over a magic barrier, strengthening it by a magnitude of…
Akeno's hand on my thigh squeezed gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns that would've been distracting if I hadn't grown so accustomed to her touch over the past few weeks. Our desks were practically touching now; they had been since she'd charmed all our teachers into thinking this level of physical closeness was perfectly normal between "study partners"."
The student body, however, remained very much aware of what was happening. I could feel their stares even without looking up from my notebook—a mixture of envy, curiosity, and scandal that Akeno seemed to feed off like it was her own personal entertainment. She could've easily charmed them too, making everyone think our relationship was mundane and unremarkable. But where would the fun be in that?
I glanced to my right, where Rias sat at her own desk, maintaining a careful distance that had become increasingly frustrating over the past month. Her crimson hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows, and I found myself studying the tension in her shoulders, the way she held her pen just a little too tightly.
Our conversation after the sparring match with Kiba had helped, but only marginally. She was trying—I could see that much—but whatever internal conflict she was wrestling with kept her from fully relaxing around me. It was like watching someone fight against quicksand; the harder she struggled to maintain that formal distance, the more obvious it became that she didn't actually want it.
Akeno's hand stopped moving, her fingers pressing more firmly against my thigh in a way that immediately pulled my attention from both the formula and my thoughts about Rias.
I looked up from my sketchbook, actually focusing on Sensei's words rather than just passively memorizing them through the help of perfect memory. Something about the way Akeno had tensed suggested this was important.
"—historical significance cannot be overstated," Sensei was saying, gesturing at a map of Kyoto projected on the screen at the front of the classroom. "The shrines and temples we'll be visiting during the school trip represent over a thousand years of Japanese cultural heritage. Kiyomizu-dera, Fushimi Inari, the Golden Pavilion—these are treasures that every student should experience firsthand."
A school trip. To Kyoto. In two months.
My stomach sank as the implications hit me like a wave function collapsing to a single, merciless eigenstate.
Kyoto wasn't just another city—it was the heart of Youkai territory in Japan. The main leyline, the most powerful concentration of spiritual energy in the entire country, ran directly through it. And if someone was systematically attacking minor leyline nodes like the one I'd discovered at Mount Kumotori...
I glanced at Akeno, who was watching me with those perceptive violet eyes that saw far too much. She knew exactly what I was thinking. Her hand squeezed my thigh again, this time in what felt like reassurance rather than warning.
Of course this would happen, I thought grimly. Of course there would be a school trip to the one place most likely to become a target.
It was like I'd been dropped into the plot of a story, complete with convenient narrative timing. Two months would give the Old Demon Faction plenty of time to make their move, to set whatever plan they were executing into motion. And we'd be walking right into it with a bunch of normal students who had no idea the supernatural world even existed.
I forced myself to pay attention as Sensei continued explaining the itinerary, listing off shrines and historical landmarks with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved their subject. Under normal circumstances, I might have been interested—I'd always appreciated Japanese history and architecture. But now all I could think about was how many of those shrines sat on top of leyline nodes, how vulnerable they might be, how many Youkai guards could end up like Kenji.
The bell rang, pulling me from my increasingly dark thoughts. Students around us began packing up, the usual end-of-day chatter filling the classroom. I noticed several groups glancing our way, probably expecting the daily show that Akeno and I had become known for.
I stood, gathering my things with mechanical efficiency. Akeno rose beside me, her movements graceful and deliberate as always. We walked toward the door together, close enough that our shoulders brushed with each step.
"So," she said once we were in the hallway, her voice pitched low enough that only I could hear beneath the general noise of students, "what are the odds this trip will be peaceful?"
"Somewhere between zero and absolutely not happening," I replied, unable to keep the dry humor from my tone.
She giggled, that musical sound that never failed to make something in my chest warm. "That's what I thought. Though I have to admit, the timing is almost suspiciously convenient."
"Right? Like someone's writing a script and decided this would be the perfect dramatic setup."
"Ara ara, maybe we should prepare for a fight scene then~" Her hand found mine, fingers intertwining naturally. "Or skip straight to the steamy scene right before the big bad makes his move~," she said suggestively, pressing her perfect chest into my arm.
"Who says we have to skip? I'm sure dishing out some pain on some evil demons would be just as fun for you." I replied, smirking at her. She just smiled innocently at me.
"You know me too well, Toshi-kun~" I snorted in amusement.
"In any case, at least we'll have two months to prepare."
We continued down the hallway toward the athletics building, our conversation shifting to more suggestive territory. Akeno had no qualms about discussing exactly what she wanted to do to me later in explicit detail, her voice carrying just enough to make nearby students' eyes widen and faces flush.
I responded in kind, describing my own plans with enough specificity to make her breath catch and her grip on my hand tighten. This had become our routine—pushing boundaries, testing limits, and enjoying the reactions we provoked. It was liberating in a way, not caring what others thought, just existing in this bubble of mutual desire and understanding.
By the time we reached the door to the kendo dojo, my heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
Akeno turned to face me, her back against the wall beside the entrance. Her violet eyes were dark with promise, lips curved in that smile that never failed to make my pulse quicken.
"I'll see you tonight?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.
"Yeah," I confirmed, already leaning in.
The kiss was deep and thorough, her mouth opening beneath mine as her hands slid up my chest to grip my shoulders. I pressed closer, one hand finding her hip while the other cupped the back of her neck, holding her exactly where I wanted her.
She made a small sound of pleasure that went straight to my groin, her body molding against mine in a way that would definitely give any passersby quite a show. Not that either of us cared. Her hands moved lower, groping with deliberate intent that made me groan into her mouth.
I responded by sliding my hand from her hip to her ass, squeezing firmly through her skirt. The barrier of clothing was frustrating—I wanted to feel her skin, wanted to pick up exactly where we'd left off this morning. But we were still in public, still technically on school grounds, and even our shamelessness had some limits.
A throat cleared behind us, sharp and deliberate enough to cut through the haze of desire that had consumed my attention. I was wondering when she was going to make her presence known.
I pulled back from Akeno, turning to find Sona Sitri standing a few feet away, arms crossed beneath her chest, one hip cocked in a posture that screamed disapproval. Her violet eyes—so similar to Akeno's yet completely different in their expression—regarded us with the kind of stern authority that only a student council president could manage.
"Really?" Sona said, her voice carrying that precise edge of irritation mixed with exasperation. "In the middle of the hallway? During club hours?"
Akeno's laugh was light and entirely unrepentant, her hand still resting possessively on my chest. "Ara ara, Sona-chan. Is there a problem? I was just saying goodbye to Toshi-kun before his club activities."
"That," Sona gestured at us with one hand, her expression growing more severe, "was far more than a goodbye. This is a school, not a love hotel. There are rules about public displays of affection on school grounds, and both of you are flagrantly violating them."
I felt Akeno's fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, her body language suggesting she found this entire situation amusing rather than concerning. "But Sona-chan, I made sure to check the student handbook. There's nothing explicitly prohibiting kissing between students."
"Because we shouldn't need an explicit rule against students groping each other in public hallways," Sona replied, her tone growing sharper. She turned her attention to me, and I felt the full weight of her analytical gaze. "Amano-san, I expected better judgment from you. You're setting a terrible example for the other students."
"My apologies, Kaichou," I said, though I couldn't really feel any remorse for my actions. "We'll be more mindful of our surroundings."
"More mindful?" Sona's eyebrow rose. "That implies you were mindful to begin with, which clearly wasn't the case." She adjusted her glasses in that way she did when particularly annoyed. "This isn't the first time I've had to address this issue with you two. In fact, it's becoming a disturbing pattern."
Akeno shifted closer to me, her hand sliding down to intertwine with mine. "You know, Sona-chan, you're awfully tense about this. Perhaps you need someone to help you relax? I'm sure we could arrange something~."
The suggestion was deliberately provocative, and I felt a smirk forming on my face. Sona's expression, however, remained coolly disapproving, though I noticed a faint pink tinge coloring her cheeks.
"That is entirely inappropriate," Sona said firmly. "And stop calling me 'Sona-chan' in public. We're at school."
"But we've known each other since…"
"I don't care. At school you will address me as Shitori-san."
"Ara ara, so commanding. Makes me wonder what you're like behind closed doors~." I struggled not to chortle at her comments and Sona's reactions. Sona adjusted her glasses, causing light to reflect from them.
"That is quite enough, Himejima-san." Sona leveled an intense glare our way, her demonic aura flaring. Say what you will, Sona was the daughter of the Sitri's a political high-class devil. Her demonic energy was much stronger than what Akeno could produce. Seemingly culled, Akeno took a side step from me.
"Of course, Shitori-san," Akeno said respectfully, with a small bow. I didn't really like that Sona was using her political weight and aura to make my woman obey her. A flash of anger spiked through me unexpected, but before I could say anything…
"Yes, Sona, that is quite enough." Sona snapped her head to the source, seeing a very displeased Rias standing with her hands on her hips. She walked up to my side, leveling her own glare and aura at Sona.
"I would appreciate it if you didn't intimidate my peerage and b-, friends, with your devil heritage." I caught the quick correction. How interesting.
"Then maybe you should keep them on a tighter leash like I do mine, that they may obey to rules we have in place at this institution." Rias pointed her finger at the wannabe ice queen.
"Back off, Sona. You may be my friend, but I won't tolerate any hostility towards those I'm close to." Rias' own demonic aura flared. I noticed it, but Sona clearly did too. Rias' was much denser and greater. She really had been training, unlike her canon counterpart.
Sona adjusted her glasses again, turning to the side. "Yes, well, please be sure to control your subordinates in the future." And with that, she walked off, her strides quicker with retreat.
Rias huffed, lowering her hand and containing her aura. "She's been a good friend in the past, but lately she's been such a handful."
"Thank you, Rias, for standing up for us," I said, stepping up to her, placing my hand on her arm. This caused her to flinch almost imperceptibly before she quickly recovered. She smiled warmly, something that I had missed seeing. Damn, she was beautiful.
"Well, of course. I'd never let my best friends be treated that way." Best friend? For some reason I don't think that was what she corrected herself with earlier. The enunciation of the beginning of the word wasn't quite right. We both then felt a tiny zap to our rear ends, causing us to jump forward slightly into each other. In an effort to stabilize each other, we ended up hugging with bodies pressed into each other.
"Ara ara, trying to steal my man right in front of me, Rias?" I had felt it enough times to know that was Akeno's lightning. Though I didn't release the hug right away. Rias then pushed herself off of me. I didn't fight the disappointment that followed. But it was nice to see Rias blush quite heavily.
"That's not funny, Akeno!" Obviously it was, if Akeno's giggle was anything to go by. "And you know I'd never steal anything from my peerage." She crossed her arms and pouted adorably.
"Then instead of stealing, how about we share~?" Akeno walked between us, a hand on each of our waists, before using her devil strength to pull us in together, all of our chests now touching. How could she keep that innocent smile on her face like that? Rias' hands shot up, trying not to touch either of us.
"Akeno!" It was my turn to join in. I wrapped my arms behind both of their waists, pulling them closer, Rias slightly more. She snapped her head to me, blush as strong as a triple covalent bond.
"You know, that does sound pretty nice. Why wake up next to one girl when I could wake up next to two?" I said with a broad smile, one neither of them was used to seeing from me, I'm sure. Akeno giggled while Rias' brain short-circuited. Using her own demonic energy this time, she flared it and pushed both of us away, face as crimson as her hair.
Unlike what I expected, she just adjusted her disheveled uniform and stood tall. Toshio, I'll see you later. Akeno, I'll see you at the ORC." And with that, she turned heel and left. Me and Akeno looked at each other, now side-hugging with her King's departure, then genuine laughs escaped from us.
"Toshi-kun, I didn't know you had that in you," she said, still giggling. I shrugged.
"Guess I have a good role model." I pecked her on the lips, then let go.
"Alright, I really do need to go.
"Enjoy practice, Captain~" she purred, straightening her uniform with casual efficiency. "Try not to think about me too much, or Rias for that matter~."
"That's going to be difficult," I admitted with a small smile, adjusting myself discreetly.
Her unique giggle followed her as she walked away, hips swaying with deliberate exaggeration. I watched until she disappeared around the corner, then took a moment to compose myself before entering the dojo. When I turned to the cracked door, it slammed shut in a hurry.
Little voyeurs.
Perspective Shift: Murayama 3rd Person POV
Murayama spun away from the door the moment it moved, her heart hammering against her ribs. The shinai in her hand suddenly felt very heavy, and she was acutely aware of the other club members scattered around the dojo, all of them pretending with varying degrees of success that they hadn't just been crowding around the entrance like a bunch of gossiping housewives.
Katase stood beside her, adjusting her practice uniform with exaggerated care, her pink hair slightly disheveled from how quickly she'd jerked back from the door. Her face was flushed—whether from embarrassment at being caught or from what they'd all just witnessed, Murayama couldn't tell.
"That was..." Katase started, then trailed off, apparently unable to find appropriate words.
"Inappropriate," Murayama supplied firmly, though her own cheeks felt warm. "Completely inappropriate for school grounds."
"I was going to say 'intense,'" Katase replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the situation.
The door slid open, and Toshio-sensei stepped inside. Murayama immediately busied herself with checking her shinai, running her fingers along the bamboo slats as if inspecting for damage that definitely wasn't there. Around the dojo, the other members suddenly found various tasks that required their complete attention—adjusting uniforms, retying hakama, and examining equipment with scholarly focus.
"Good afternoon, everyone," Toshio-sensei said, his voice carrying that same calm authority it always did. "Let me change quickly, then we'll begin."
Murayama risked a glance as he walked past toward the changing room. Her breath caught slightly.
When had he gotten so... big?
She turned to Katase, who was also watching their sensei's retreating form with undisguised interest. Once he disappeared into the changing area, Murayama leaned closer, pitching her voice low enough that only her friend could hear.
"Is it just me, or has Toshio-sensei seemed different lately?"
Katase's eyes lit up with the kind of gleam that meant she'd been thinking the exact same thing and was thrilled to have someone to discuss it with. "Right? I thought I was imagining things, but he's definitely changed since summer break."
"He looks like..." Murayama paused, trying to find the right words. "Like a college freshman who majored in muscle."
The description was apt, if somewhat crude. Over the past month, their sensei had filled out considerably. His shoulders were broader, his arms more defined, and there was a solidity to his frame that hadn't been there before. Even his posture had changed—still relaxed, but with an underlying confidence that made him seem taller.
"He's definitely buffer," Katase agreed, her voice taking on a slightly dreamy quality. "And maybe a little taller? Or maybe it's just the way he carries himself now."
Murayama nodded, unable to argue with that assessment. The change was subtle but unmistakable. Their sensei had always been attractive in that quiet, understated way—the kind of looks that snuck up on you rather than announcing themselves. But now...
She sighed, the sound heavier than she'd intended. "I'm kind of disappointed that he ended up with Akeno-sempai."
It was true, even if admitting it made her feel slightly pathetic. She'd harbored a small crush on their sensei since he'd first started teaching them, impressed by his skill and dedication. But that ship had clearly sailed, crashed into an iceberg, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The display they'd all just witnessed through the door crack made that abundantly clear.
"I mean, I get it," Murayama continued, keeping her voice low. "Akeno-sempai is gorgeous and smart and... well, everything. But still."
Katase hummed thoughtfully, her eyes distant. "Honestly? Even if he wasn't with her, I don't think I could see myself with him. Not seriously, anyway."
"Really?" Murayama turned to look at her friend more directly. "Why not?"
"He's just..." Katase gestured vaguely, as if trying to capture something intangible. "Too much, you know? Too smart, too skilled, too intense. Dating someone like that would be exhausting. I'd constantly feel like I was falling behind, that I'd never measure up."
Murayama considered that, recognizing the truth in it. Their sensei existed on a different level than most people their age. He was the smartest student in the entire school, a kendo instructor who'd brought their club to national recognition, and apparently involved in some kind of serious relationship with one of the most popular girls in Kuoh Academy. The gap between them felt insurmountable.
"Though," Katase added, a mischievous smile playing at her lips, "I wouldn't mind borrowing him for a weekend."
"Katase!" Murayama's voice came out as a strangled whisper, her face immediately heating. She glanced around quickly to make sure no one had overheard, then turned back to her friend with wide eyes. "You can't just say things like that!"
Katase shrugged, completely unrepentant, and giggled. "What? I'm just being honest. You can appreciate someone's attractiveness without wanting to date them seriously. Besides, did you see those arms? I bet he could—"
"Stop," Murayama interrupted, covering her face with one hand. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. "I don't need the mental images."
Her friend's laughter was quiet but genuine, and despite her embarrassment, Murayama found herself smiling too. This was why they were friends—Katase could always make her laugh, even when discussing completely inappropriate topics.
The changing room door opened, and Toshio-sensei emerged wearing his black shihakusho. The training outfit somehow emphasized the changes to his physique even more than the school uniform had. The fabric stretched across his shoulders and chest in a way that made Murayama very deliberately look elsewhere.
"Alright everyone," he called out, his voice cutting through the ambient chatter. "Line up. We'll start with stretches."
The club members moved into formation with practiced efficiency, arranging themselves in neat rows. Murayama took her usual position at the front, Katase beside her. As vice captain, she was expected to lead by example, to set the standard for the others to follow.
They moved through the stretching routine in comfortable silence, each movement precise and controlled. Murayama focused on her breathing, on the pull of muscles gradually warming up, on anything except the way their sensei moved through the rows offering corrections and adjustments.
"Good form, Nakamura," he said to one of the newer members. "But remember to keep your back straight. Like this."
His teaching style was patient but exacting, never settling for less than their best effort. It was one of the things Murayama respected most about him—he pushed them without breaking them, found the line between challenge and impossibility, and walked it with confidence.
After stretches came drills. Basic strikes, defensive postures, and footwork patterns they'd practiced hundreds of times. The repetition was meditative, the familiar movements allowing Murayama's mind to wander while her body worked on autopilot.
She thought about how much the club had changed since Toshio-sensei had taken over. Apparently, before him, the Kuoh Kendo club had been respectable but unremarkable—a decent school club that occasionally placed well in local tournaments. Now they were semi-famous in the kendo world, one of the best teams in the nation.
The proof was in the numbers. At regionals last month, twenty spots had been available for advancement to nationals. Seventeen of those spots had gone to students from Kuoh Academy's kendo club. Seventeen out of twenty. The other schools had been stunned.
And Murayama herself had placed first overall.
First.
The memory still made something warm bloom in her chest. Years of practice, of dedication, of pushing herself to her absolute limits—all of it had paid off in that moment when they'd announced her name. She'd looked over at Toshio-sensei immediately, needing to see his reaction, and the pride on his face had been worth every drop of sweat, every aching muscle, and every moment of doubt.
"Pair up for sparring," Toshio-sensei announced, pulling her from the memory. "I want to see clean technique. Speed is good, but not at the expense of form."
Murayama automatically turned toward Katase, but their sensei's voice stopped her.
"Actually, Murayama, hold back for a moment. I want to speak with you."
Her heart jumped, though she wasn't sure why. She nodded, stepping aside while the others paired off and began their matches. The sound of shinai striking shinai filled the dojo, a rhythmic percussion that was as familiar as her own heartbeat.
Toshio-sensei approached, and up close the changes to his physique were even more pronounced. Murayama found herself having to tilt her head back slightly more than usual to maintain eye contact. Katase had been right—he definitely seemed taller.
"I wanted to congratulate you personally on your performance at regionals," he said, and the genuine warmth in his voice made her chest tighten. "First place is an incredible achievement. You should be very proud."
"Thank you, sensei," she managed, hoping her face wasn't as red as it felt. "I had an excellent teacher."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "You had the discipline and dedication. I just provided guidance. But now we need to focus on nationals." His expression grew more serious, more focused. "Coming in first at regionals means you'll have a target on your back. Everyone will be studying your technique, looking for weaknesses to exploit."
Murayama nodded, the weight of that reality settling over her shoulders. She'd thought about it, of course—how her victory would change the dynamics at the national level. But hearing it stated so plainly made it feel more real.
"I want to spar with you," Toshio-sensei continued. "See how far you've come since regionals, and identify what you need to work on to become number one at nationals. Not just in our region—number one overall."
Number one overall.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. He wasn't asking her to do well, or to try her best, or any of the other platitudes people usually offered. He was setting the bar at the absolute top and expecting her to reach it.
"I won't let you down, sensei," she said, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
His smile returned, genuine and encouraging. "I know you won't. Get your gear. We'll make this the final match of the day so everyone can observe and learn."
Murayama moved to collect her protective equipment, her hands steady despite the nervous energy thrumming through her veins. Around the dojo, she could feel the other members' attention shifting toward them, conversations dying down as they realized what was about to happen.
It wasn't often that Toshio-sensei sparred with them directly. He usually focused on teaching, on observation, and on correction. When he did participate, it was always a learning experience—not just for his opponent, but for everyone watching.
She finished securing her men, the familiar weight of the head protection grounding her. Through the metal grating, she watched as their sensei completed his own preparations with efficient movements that spoke of countless repetitions.
They moved to the center of the dojo, facing each other across the appropriate distance. Murayama settled into her stance, feeling the way her body automatically adjusted—knees bent just so, weight distributed evenly, shinai held at the precise angle that allowed for both offense and defense.
Across from her, Toshio-sensei's stance was... different. Looser than hers, almost casual, yet something about it made her instincts scream danger. His grip on the shinai looked relaxed, but she'd sparred with him enough times before to know that was deceptive. He could move from that position faster than her eyes could track.
The dojo had gone completely silent. Even the ongoing matches had stopped, everyone turning to watch. Murayama felt the weight of their attention but pushed it aside. This wasn't about impressing the others. This was about proving to herself—and to her sensei—that she deserved that first place finish.
"Begin," someone called out. Probably Katase.
Murayama didn't rush in. That was a mistake she'd made in their previous sparring sessions, and one she'd learned to avoid. Instead, she circled slowly, watching, analyzing. Looking for an opening that her rational mind knew wouldn't appear unless he wanted it to.
Toshio-sensei moved with her, maintaining the distance between them. His eyes never left hers, and she found herself unable to look away. There was something different in his gaze now—not the patient instructor she was used to, but something sharper. More intense.
She feinted left, testing his reaction.
He didn't take the bait, barely shifting his stance. Of course he wouldn't fall for something so obvious. She was going to have to actually try.
Murayama adjusted her grip fractionally, then launched a proper attack—a men strike aimed at his head. Fast and clean, the kind of strike that had won her matches at regionals.
Her shinai met empty air.
He'd moved—not blocking or parrying, just not being where her strike expected to find him. She recovered quickly, spinning to face him, but he was already back in that deceptively casual stance.
"Good speed," he said, his voice carrying across the silent dojo. "But telegraphed. I knew you were going for men before you moved."
Murayama gritted her teeth behind her men. He was right, of course. She'd been thinking about the strike before executing it, and somehow he'd read that intention. But how was she supposed to not think about her attacks?
She tried again, this time mixing up her approach—a low strike toward his kote, then immediately pivoting to target his do. Surely he couldn't predict two moves in sequence.
He sidestepped the first strike, and his shinai was there to deflect the second with minimal effort. The impact sent vibrations up her arms, and she had to adjust her grip to maintain control.
"Better," he acknowledged. "But you're still thinking too much. Stop calculating and just feel."
Just feel? What did that even mean? Kendo was about precision, about technique, about knowing exactly what your opponent would do before they did it. That's what made her good at it.
She pressed forward with a series of strikes, each one technically perfect, each one met with minimal deflection or simple evasion. Her frustration mounted with every failed attempt. This wasn't like their previous sparring sessions—something had fundamentally changed in how he moved, how he responded.
The shinai felt heavier in her hands with each passing exchange. Sweat trickled down her back beneath her keikogi, and her breathing was starting to come harder. Meanwhile, Toshio-sensei looked completely relaxed, like this was a casual stroll rather than a match.
She committed to a full offensive, pouring everything she had into a rapid sequence of strikes. Men, do, kote—mixing high and low, left and right, trying to overwhelm him with sheer volume. Her arms burned with the effort, muscles screaming, but she pushed through it.
Nothing landed.
It was like fighting smoke. Every strike found emptiness, every combination fell apart as he flowed around her attacks with movements that seemed impossible. He wasn't faster than her—she could track his motion—but somehow he was never where she needed him to be.
Her final strike left her overextended and off-balance. She knew it the instant her weight shifted too far forward, knew she'd made a critical error.
His shinai tapped her men with barely any force—a touch that wouldn't have hurt if she'd been wearing no protection at all. But it was unmistakably a clean hit.
"Point," someone called out.
Murayama stumbled back, chest heaving, her arms trembling from exertion. The dojo was completely silent except for her ragged breathing. Through the grating of her men, she saw Toshio-sensei lower his shinai, his breathing barely elevated.
How? She'd given everything she had, every technique she'd perfected, and every ounce of speed and precision she'd developed. And he'd handled it like she was a complete beginner.
The gap between them felt insurmountable. Crushing.
"Again," she said, forcing the word out despite her burning lungs. "Please, sensei. Again."
He regarded her for a long moment, and she couldn't read his expression. Then he nodded, settling back into that impossible stance.
She attacked immediately this time, not bothering with analysis or strategy. Just pure aggression, trying to find any opening, any weakness. Her shinai became a blur of motion, strikes flowing one into another without pause.
Nothing.
He moved like water, like air, like something that existed between the spaces of her attacks. And when her energy finally flagged, when her arms couldn't maintain that furious pace anymore, his shinai tapped her do with that same gentle precision.
"Point."
She wanted to scream. Instead, she forced herself to straighten, to maintain her composure even as humiliation burned in her chest. This was supposed to be a demonstration of how far she'd come, a chance to prove she deserved her first-place finish. Instead, it had become a brutal reminder of how much further she still had to go.
"Murayama," Toshio-sensei's voice cut through her spiral of self-recrimination. "Do you know why you lost?"
She wanted to say something sharp, something defensive. Because you're better than me. Because I'm not good enough. Because I'll never reach your level. But she swallowed those bitter thoughts and shook her head.
"You're fighting with your head instead of your instincts." He moved closer, his posture relaxing now that the match was over. "Every strike you made was technically perfect. Your form was flawless. But you were calculating each move before executing it, and that split-second delay is what I was exploiting."
"But how else am I supposed to fight?" The words came out more frustrated than she'd intended. "Kendo is about precision and technique. That's what you taught us."
"Precision and technique are the foundation," he agreed. "But once those are mastered, you must rely on instinct to guide them. Let your instinct, based on that foundation, use your body as a conduit, your sword and body becoming one." His wisdom with Kendo never ceased to amaze her.
"Yes, sensei," she said, bowing. "Thank you for the match!"
"That's all for today, everyone. See everyone back in a couple days. Make sure to practice your forms not until you get it right, but…"
"-practice until we can't get it wrong!" all the kendo members, Murayama included, said in unison.
As he left to go change, Murayama couldn't help but hold awe in her gaze that pierced his retreating form. Katase nudged her with her elbow, breaking her out of her stupor.
"Great job out there. Even though he makes it look easy, you're definitely better than all of us, me included." Murayama smiled at her friend.
"Thanks, Katase." Determination filled Murayama's eyes. "I'll win nationals. Just you watch, sensei!" Katase smiled at her best friend.
"Oh hey, since my parents work with the local shrine keepers, my dad asked me to stop by a shrine that's on my way home. You want to go with me?" That wasn't surprising to Murayama. Katase's parents were extremely busy with the company they ran, and often asked Katase to do small tasks since she was basically free labor. Thankfully, none of those tasks were very involved.
"Come on, girl, you know we do everything together."
"Hey, I was just asking!" They both laughed as they headed to the locker room to change.