"Phew..."
A man who looked every bit the part of a grizzled Yakuza boss—Masamichi Yaga—slowly exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "Do you think Hasegumo can win, Gen?"
Masamichi Yaga, a Grade 1 sorcerer and a teacher at Tokyo Jujutsu High, had made a special point to contact Gen Ijichi once he learned that Hasegumo—a student slated to join his class—was competing in a martial arts tournament. He had traveled all this way just to observe.
"Before today, I would have told you 'yes' without a second thought," Gen Ijichi said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "But seeing that man's performance... now, I'm not so sure."
"Failure is the constant thread that runs through a man's life. This kid's journey has been a bit too smooth so far; that isn't always a good thing." Yuta Kamo slowly stroked his long white beard, his voice heavy with meaning. "Look at him over there, grinning like he hasn't a care in the world. Who knows how he'll react when he finally hits a wall?"
Yuta Kamo was a retired Grade 1 sorcerer and a former high-ranking official of the Jujutsu Association. Upon retiring at forty, he stepped away from the Kamo clan's internal politics to pursue his childhood dream of martial arts. He had joined the Shingen-ryu Dojo and was one of the "old-timers with one foot in the grave" Gen often mentioned. Though he hadn't taught Hasegumo much in the way of technique, he was nominally the boy's master.
"I think he's fine just the way he is. He's polite, optimistic—a good kid," Yaga countered. "If I had that kind of strength at his age, my ego would have been through the roof. If the boy loses and spends the rest of his days moping, the jujutsu world loses a hell of a prospect."
At this point in time, Masamichi Yaga hadn't yet been tormented by a certain pair of "problem children" (Gojo and Geto). As a relatively new educator, he was still filled with pedagogical passion. He wasn't just here to scout Hasegumo's combat stats; he wanted to gauge the boy's character to determine the best way to teach him.
So far, Yaga was pleased. He'd heard plenty of stories from Gen, and after observing the boy in person, he found Hasegumo's sunny disposition a breath of fresh air compared to the usual lot of sorcerers, who tended to be some combination of extremist, gloomy, or flat-out insane.
Meanwhile, a certain "swordsman" and part-time sorcerer sitting nearby thought to himself: You guys can talk all you want, but why are you staring at me? And you, Mr. Grumpy-Face, don't you know it's rude to blow smoke rings in people's faces? Kumaya Kenshin—the disgraced swordsman currently under Association custody—simply adjusted his seat, straightened his back, and sat with his hands on his knees, trying to look as "reformed" as possible.
Despite the heavy philosophical debate occurring in the stands, Hasegumo's mind was iron-clad, tempered by the experience of two lifetimes. Compared to the despair of watching a clock count down his final seconds in a hospital bed, his current life was a dream. He had a healthy body, mentors who cared for him, and reliable colleagues. He was even about to head back to school. To him, any obstacle or challenge was just part of the scenery in the long life ahead of him.
Back in the ring, the organizers clearly knew where the money was. They had carefully seeded the bracket to ensure Kyogoku Makoto and Hasegumo wouldn't meet until the very end.
In the semi-finals, Kyogoku Makoto faced off against the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu master, Alban. Utilizing a level of technical mastery that bordered on the divine, Makoto dismantled his opponent. While the process looked a bit more "scrappy" than his previous rounds, any expert could see that the gap in skill was astronomical.
Hasegumo's opponent was the titanically strong Yuuichirou Hanma. Most fans expected an epic, stalled-out clash of power, but the result left the crowd speechless. It was as if Yuuichirou had eaten something bad before the match; every one of his devastating strikes was effortlessly parried or redirected by Hasegumo.
The fight was a total mismatch—like a tiger meeting a dragon, or a professional gamer playing against a toddler. Hasegumo's easy victory finally hammered home the truth to the audience: this nineteen-year-old was a genuine Martial Arts Grandmaster.
"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! The 26th National Martial Arts Championship—THE FINALS!"
"Will Kyogoku Makoto set an unprecedented record and claim back-to-back championships?"
"Or will Hasegumo follow in the footsteps of the previous champion and seize the throne in his youth?"
"But first... a word from our sponsors!"
"..."
While the announcer rattled off sponsor names at the speed of a machine gun, the crowd fell into a rare, stifling silence.
The two fighters on the stage had already begun a silent battle of wills. Soon, the rhythmic sound of heavy breathing filled the stands. If it weren't for the physiological pang of oxygen deprivation, many would have forgotten to breathe entirely.
The pressure was tangible. Even the average spectator felt as if a massive boulder was pressing down on their chest.
"Is this it? The peak of martial arts?" An old man who had attended the last three tournaments pulled a bottle of "Fast-Acting Heart Relief Pills" from his pocket. The rattle of the pills against the plastic echoed clearly in the hushed arena.
No one looked at him. Every eye was glued to the ring, terrified of missing the opening move.
Hasegumo had felt a flicker of nerves when he first stepped up—thousands of people watching his every move through screens and binoculars is a lot to handle. But the moment Kyogoku Makoto took his stance at the other end of the ring, the noise died. Every stray thought vanished.
Before him stood a man who represented the absolute pinnacle of human potential.
Kyogoku Makoto was a martial arts prodigy in the truest sense. From the moment he first touched a karate gi at age six, he had dedicated his soul to reaching the summit.
By ten, he was the national junior champion. By twelve, he had defeated his own instructor. Driven by a thirst for more, he challenged every karate dojo within a twenty-mile radius, finding no one who could stand against him. He was dubbed the "God-Gifted Child of Karate."
Despite his local fame, he spent his youth bound by traditional family values—school during the day, solitary training at night. But a human life is short; one cannot reach the highest peak without total obsession. Recognizing this, the teenage Makoto confessed his true ambition to his parents.
Fortunately, though they weren't wealthy, his parents were open-minded. They emptied the savings intended for his future wedding and sent him to the most prestigious karate dojo in Tokyo.
At eighteen, he defeated Kurobane Sawada, the man formerly known as Japan's strongest karateka. At twenty-four, he won his first National Championship and went on to secure an incredible four-hundred-win streak.
Now, at thirty-four, Makoto was no longer tethered to a single style. He had synthesized the essence of a dozen different arts into a cohesive whole, becoming the strongest martial artist of his generation.
Yet, his path had reached a plateau. No matter how hard he trained or who he fought, he could no longer find the spark to grow. He had entered this tournament with one hope: to find an equal.
The announcer, a professional to the core, managed to finish his ad read despite the suffocating atmosphere.
"Shingen-ryu, Hasegumo... versus... Karate, Kyogoku Makoto... BEGIN!"
Unnoticed by the crowd, dark clouds had gathered overhead. A slight breeze picked up, catching a bead of sweat on the announcer's forehead—proving he wasn't nearly as calm as he sounded.
Drip.
The instant that drop of sweat hit the floor, both men moved as one.
In the blink of an eye, the gap closed to two meters. Then, like a synchronized mirror image, both stopped dead.
Both had studied the other's fights. At their level, they didn't need to trade blows to know the "Optimal Engagement Distance." They had already formulated their strategies before the bell rang.
Hasegumo made the first move. He knew he was the smaller man; his disadvantage in height and reach meant he couldn't play a long-range game. He had to be the aggressor, closing the distance to negate Makoto's reach.
He lunged. A straight punch aimed for the ribs.
But Makoto was no easy target. He parried the strike with his right forearm and, instead of backing away to keep his range, he stepped in. He brought his left arm around in a vicious elbow strike aimed directly at Hasegumo's face.
He's giving up his reach advantage to brawl? Hasegumo thought. Suit yourself! Hasegumo gave a slight hop and drove his left knee upward. Knee against elbow—a collision of bone.
Hasegumo's knee strike carried upward momentum, while Makoto's elbow came in horizontally from the chest. The forces clashed and deflected, the sheer impact sending both men skidding backward.
It was a perfect draw.
This kid's raw power is higher than mine, Makoto realized. He didn't pause. He spun into a heavy roundhouse kick, which Hasegumo caught on his forearm. Hasegumo clamped his hand down on Makoto's leg, intending to slam him into the concrete, but Makoto anticipated it. He drove his free foot down in a forceful stomp, forcing Hasegumo to let go and backflip away.
Makoto used the split second to regain his balance and land smoothly.
"Incredible! Hasegumo's offensive was perfectly neutralized! We're back at a stalemate!" the announcer yelled, desperate to justify his existence.
Makoto adjusted his stance. He twisted his hips, lowered his center of gravity, and threw a textbook straight punch. He was choosing to challenge Hasegumo in a direct clash of power.
Hasegumo wasn't about to back down. He channeled his "Iron Fist" technique, meeting Makoto's punch head-on.
The old saying goes: Beware the young man's punch and the old man's staff. Hasegumo possessed an innate physical genius, and while Makoto was a prodigy in his own right, his human body was slightly inferior to Hasegumo's reinforced physique.
Their fists collided. A shockwave of air erupted from the point of impact, kicking up dust that settled as quickly as it had risen.
"It looks like Kyogoku Makoto takes the advantage!"
As the announcer spoke, Hasegumo—despite having the higher raw strength—was sent stumbling back.
He stood up and shook out his wrist. Ring finger and pinky are snapped. I can still fight, he thought. But what was that force?
"His absolute strength is clearly lower than mine... so why did I lose that clash?" Hasegumo wondered aloud.
"You're wondering why you lost when you're stronger, aren't you, Hasegumo?" Makoto didn't press the advantage. He stood his ground, his voice calm.
"..." Hasegumo didn't answer, just watched him warily.
Makoto tapped his own chest. "It's the Heart. I realized it the moment we touched. You don't have it."
"To you, martial arts is just a tool. A means to an end. Something you use when it suits you and throw away the moment you find a bigger hammer."
"Give up. A man like you can never defeat me!"