The crowded hallway of Lincoln High, usually a cacophony of adolescent chatter, had gone silent as Date's final roundhouse kick dropped Rewan unconscious. The impact echoed, an unnatural punctuation mark in the school day.
A freshman named Toshiro, whom Rewan had been terrorizing, stood frozen by the dented locker, his small shoulders still trembling. Date, breathing heavily, flexed his bruised knuckles once and then turned to him.
"You okay?" Date's voice was low, almost a whisper, the adrenaline fading into a quiet intensity.
Toshiro just stared at Rewan's slumped body, then looked at the shorter boy who had saved him. His eyes, wide with shock, slowly filled with something like awe. "Y-yeah. He... he had me pinned."
"Forget him," Date said, his tone flat. He didn't want gratitude, just for the kid to stand on his own two feet. "Next time, walk away sooner. Don't freeze up."
A girl's gasp from the rapidly forming crowd broke the spell. "Oh my God, someone call the nurse! The teachers!"
Date didn't wait. He gave Toshiro one last firm look—a silent instruction to keep his mouth shut—and flash-stepped away, melting into the crowd just as the first bewildered teacher's voice boomed down the hall. His exit was as clean and decisive as his ghost jab.
The Principal's Verdict
The viral video of the fight—dubbed "The Ghost Jab Kid vs. The Beefcake Bully"—had amassed thousands of views by the time Date was hauled into Principal Nakamura's office the next morning.
Nakamura, a stern woman whose glare could curdle milk, didn't bother with pleasantries. She pointed to her laptop screen, where a slow-motion clip of Rewan's head snapping back from the initial blow played on a loop.
"Explain yourself, Daisuke." Her voice was razor-sharp, devoid of warmth.
Date sat stone-faced, his posture rigid from years of karate discipline. "Rewan was assaulting a student, Toshiro. I intervened."
"Intervened?" She slammed the laptop shut. The sound cracked the silence like a whip. "You delivered a liver blow, a cross that 'bends metal'—I read the comments, Daisuke—and a knockout roundhouse. This is a school, not a fight club! You train in Muay Thai and karate. That wasn't defense, that was domination."
"He threw the first punch, a haymaker," Date countered, not raising his voice but letting the clipped tone show his resolve. "I used the necessary force to end the threat quickly. He was five inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. I didn't want the fight to drag out."
Nakamura sighed, a sound of weary finality. "Your parents have been notified. Two weeks' suspension, immediate. You will also attend mandatory counseling. We cannot have a student this volatile on campus."
Date nodded once. The suspension was expected, but the counseling was a pointless irritation. He knew his reason. It wasn't about rage; it was about the memory of being the helpless kid Date had been at twelve, an image he was determined to obliterate by protecting others.
Home and the Silent Torture
Date's father, a tired man whose shoulders bore the weight of factory work, was waiting when he got home. The disappointment in his eyes was heavier than any punch.
"You embarrassed us, Daisuke," his father said, not shouting, which somehow made it worse. "Your mother is heartbroken. We work too hard for you to throw your future away on hallway brawls."
"He was hurting a freshman, Dad. Someone had to stop him."
"Stop him? Or show off what you can do?" His father walked over to Date's corner, picked up the 10 kg sandbag Date used for curls, and set it next to the door. "You want to fight? Do it in a ring, earn a license. Until then, you are grounded for a month. No park workouts, no dojo, no running to that neighbor for Muay Thai tips. You're in your room. No exceptions."
For Date, whose routine of 100 push-ups, bicycle crunches, inverted rows, squats, and 30 minutes of jump rope was the core of his identity, being caged indoors was a silent form of torture. He trained in secret: silent shadowboxing in the dark, crunches and push-ups until his muscles screamed, all to keep the 0.20-sec snap of his ghost jab muscle memory.
Ripples and a Dark Offer
When Date returned from suspension, the school was a changed place. Underdogs like Toshiro gave him reverent, shy nods, and a few girls whispered about his "ironclad defense" and "flash step speed." But the admiration was offset by a looming hostility.
Rewan's crew had painted "Watch your back" on his locker, and the air around Date felt thick with unstated threats. Rewan himself, jaw still visibly bruised, avoided Date, his usual loud swagger replaced by a wounded, venomous silence.
The most concerning ripple, however, came from outside the school gates.
One evening, a tattooed teen in a leather jacket and a faded red bandana cornered him by the park.
"You the kid who put Rewan to sleep?" The teen's eyes scanned Date, sizing up the smaller fighter.
"Who's asking?" Date remained cool, his weight subtly shifted for a quick roll or a fast dodge.
"Name's Jin. We run some fights warehouse-side. Saw the video. You got hands, kid. And kicks. That roundhouse was clean." Jin leaned in conspiratorially. "Wanna make real money fighting? Rewan's crew is looking for payback, and we can offer you protection—for a price, of course."
Date's gut tightened. This was the dark side of his talent. His training was for justice and survival, not a tool for profit and gang violence.
"I'll think about it," Date finally muttered, knowing refusal would only invite trouble. He executed a sharp, controlled pivot, walking away swiftly, but not running. He heard Jin's low chuckle behind him.
Date knew the web was tightening. Rewan's wounded pride, the gang's offer, the school's scrutiny—it all demanded a heightened level of awareness. He had won the battle, but the war to maintain his discipline and his code was just beginning. Tomorrow, at dawn, the push-ups would start again.