"Is it finally starting? Man, I can feel the adrenaline already."
Hasegumo sat in the designated competitors' section, surveying the stands. The stadium was massive; word was it had previously been used for other sports, but for this National Martial Arts Tournament, the old facilities had been ripped out and replaced with a sprawling series of specialized rings.
Hovering above the center of the arena were eight gargantuan screens, each facing a different section of the crowd so that not a single spectator would miss a moment of the action.
Gen Ijichi hadn't shown up today. In his words: if Hasegumo had the strength to take down a Special Grade but couldn't even clear the preliminaries, Shingen-ryu might as well disband immediately to avoid dragging Master Rikka's name through the mud. After all, a thousand years ago, Rikka was hailed as the strongest martial artist in history.
"Participant Hasegumo, please report to Ring 12." "Participant Hasegumo, please report to Ring 12."
The PA system crackled to life near the athletes' bench.
"Finally, my turn." Hasegumo stood up and made his way toward Ring 12, rolling his shoulders as he walked.
Once he stepped onto the platform, he found himself face-to-face with a mountain of a man. The opponent was a sumo wrestler clad only in a traditional mawashi, his body covered in layers of thick, sturdy folds. His hair was greased and tied into a traditional gingko-leaf knot.
To the untrained eye, it looked like sheer fat. To a martial artist, those layers represented an incredible capacity to absorb impact.
"Once the match begins: no weapons, no attacking an unconscious opponent, no intentional crippling, and absolutely no killing. Understood?" the referee stated.
Both men signaled their agreement. "Then... three, two, one—BEGIN!"
"Eh?" Hasegumo blinked, turning a confused gaze toward the referee. "Wait, isn't there supposed to be an intro? You know, 'In the red corner, weighing in at...'"
"Kid, who do you think you are? Some world-famous grandmaster?" the ref grunted. "This is the preliminaries. We don't do introductions for nobodies."
"Sucker punch!"
The sumo wrestler, showing a complete lack of sportsmanship, roared and charged while Hasegumo's head was still turned toward the ref. He intended to use a shoulder tackle—putting all that massive weight into a single burst to send Hasegumo flying straight out of the ring.
Hasegumo seemed completely oblivious to the incoming mountain of flesh, his face still twisted in a pout directed at the official.
Got him! Yamamoto Kenmoku thought, his eyes gleaming with victory.
However, the instant his shoulder made contact with Hasegumo's chest, the youth didn't fly back. Instead, Hasegumo curled into a tight ball, rolling backward twice with the grace of a gymnast.
He sprang back to his feet and looked over his shoulder. Yamamoto had nearly charged right off the edge of the platform; only a desperate, thunderous stomp managed to brake his momentum just in time to avoid a ring-out loss.
"Sneaky brat... pretending not to notice me," Yamamoto huffed, cold sweat beading on his brow. "Luckily, my body control is second to none. I can stop on a dime even at full throttle."
"..." Hasegumo stared at him, deadpan. "Old man, you're the one who tried to jump me. I'm actually embarrassed for you, and yet here you are, acting like the victim."
He sighed, his expression going flat. "Whatever. Let's wrap this up. It doesn't look like the preliminaries have anyone worth my time."
In the next heartbeat, Yamamoto Kenmoku's vision blurred. Before he could even register a movement, a force like a falling sledgehammer slammed into him. He was sent flying several meters in the opposite direction, crashing heavily onto the mats.
"Hasegumo wins!" The referee hadn't quite seen the strike either, but since Hasegumo was the only one left standing inside the boundary, the result was clear.
"Please remain in the ring," the ref added. "Winners of the opening rounds proceed immediately to their next match to save time."
"Phew." Hasegumo knocked out a few one-handed pushups in the center of the ring before jumping back up. "Man, this is taking forever."
During the lull between matches, he scanned the other rings and the competitors' benches. That guy isn't here. What gives?
He turned back to the referee. "Hey, ref. I saw a guy at registration—super tall, built like a double-door refrigerator. Have you seen him?"
The referee pointed a gloved hand toward the benches without looking. "Kid, look over there. In a tournament like this, you could throw a brick into the crowd and hit ten guys with that description."
"Valid point..."
"If a participant doesn't show up, it's considered an automatic forfeit," the ref explained. "Unless their recorded punch force was over 800 lbs. Those fighters skip the prelims and go straight to the main bracket."
Damn it! Hasegumo fumed internally. There was a rule like that? Why didn't anyone tell me? If I'd known, I would've put a bit more 'oomph' into that test.
"Don't get distracted, kid. If you're ready, the next one's up." The referee signaled for a new challenger to step into the blue corner.
"Three, two, one—BEGIN!"
"I am the third-generation successor of the Water Stream Carbonated Rock Fist! Prepare yourself, boy!" The new opponent was a middle-aged man clearly wearing a cheap wig. He wore a white gi and stared at Hasegumo with dull, dead-fish eyes while making his grand declaration.
"Water Stream Carbonated Rock Fist? For real?" Hasegumo was legitimately rattled. Was this a Saitama cosplayer? Wait, is this world merging with other manga? Is Saitama here? I haven't heard anything about 'Monsters' existing...
Hasegumo's internal monologue was racing, but his body didn't stop. Better test him first. If it really is Caped Baldy, I'm surrendering immediately. I'm not looking to get turned into red mist.
He blurred across the gap, delivering a cautious gut punch.
Pffft—! The man spat out a fountain of saliva as he was blasted clean out of the ring.
Hasegumo sighed. Note to self: If you're going to larp as Saitama, at least have the stats to back it up. That was just disappointing.
The third match was an equally unremarkable victory for Hasegumo.
Stretching his arms, he grabbed his jacket and began to head toward the exit. "Are the prelims always this easy? Why are there so many people watching this? It's just a bunch of rookies peck-fighting."
As he exited the tunnel, he noticed a massive crowd swarming around a row of betting windows. Curiosity piqued, Hasegumo wandered over.
"That guy Hanma Yuuichirou looks terrifying. I'm putting it all on him."
"Didn't you hear? Someone totaled the testing machine yesterday. Toji Zen'in, that's the name. I'm going 'all-in' on him reaching the finals."
Hearing the chatter, Hasegumo finally understood the high attendance.
"So, it's just a den of gamblers," he muttered. "Gambling is a terrible habit. I suppose I'll have to give them a lesson in reality."
Buying a ticket for yourself isn't gambling—it's an investment. Hasegumo sprinted to a nearby ATM, withdrew every yen he had saved over the last two years, and walked up to the window.
"Number 777, Hasegumo. Betting on him for a clean-sweep victory."
The clerk looked up. "Participant 777? Current odds for a tournament win are 1 to 46. Are you sure you want to put 1.1 million yen on Hasegumo to win it all?"
"Positive."
"Here is your slip, sir." Hasegumo tucked the paper away and hummed a tune as he walked off.
Meanwhile, at other windows... "Participant 421, Toji Zen'in. 700,000 yen for the win." "Toji Zen'in for the Final Four, 3.2 million yen."
Toji's feat of destroying the machine had spread through the "gambling dogs" like wildfire. Plenty of people thought they had an inside track on a dark horse.
However, as the old saying goes: The house always wins, and the gambler always loses. This time was no exception.
The main tournament began the following day.
It wasn't Hasegumo's turn yet, so he leaned against a pillar to watch the adjacent ring. Toji Zen'in had already stepped up. His opponent was a burly man with white bandages wrapped around his hands and feet, standing in a classic Aikido stance—left hand low, right hand held vertically.
"The 'Martial Arts Hunter' Toji Zen'in versus Saemon Saburo of Aikido. BEGIN!"
The referee's arm hadn't even finished dropping.
"A-A stunning blow! Winner: Toji Zen'in!"
No one saw how Toji reached his opponent. There was simply a thunderous crack, and the so-called Aikido master was sent flying like a snapped toothpick, crashing into the concrete outside the ring.
The stands erupted. "I knew it! That guy is a beast!" yelled those shocked by the violence. "Wooo! To the moon! Payday!" cheered the gamblers who had bet big. "Bro, lend me some cash, I need to double down!"
Hasegumo, however, just frowned as he watched the unconscious man being carried away. Is that guy... even still alive?
Gen Ijichi sat in the Section 6 stands with two old friends. "Yuta, old friend, today you'll see the true power of a Shingen-ryu disciple."
The man next to Gen was a white-bearded elder with earlobes so long they resembled a Buddha statue. He scoffed, "That kid? His limbs look soft, his stance is sloppy, and his reactions are sluggish. Not a single movement looks right. Don't go bragging until you've checked if your tongue is still in your mouth."
The middle-aged man to the right, wearing dark sunglasses, interjected. "Give it a rest, old man. The kid's got talent, but he's still green. Whether he can actually take the trophy remains to be seen."
The old man tried to retort, but a single glare from the man in sunglasses made him shut up like a mouse meeting a cat. He reached for a pipe, but the younger man snatched it away. "Public space, old man. Watch yourself."
Gen just sat between them, eyes closed, radiating a sense of absolute certainty.
Down in the ring, the announcer's voice boomed.
"Successor to two thousand years of Karate, the man with the most elegant technique—Takeda Sawazuichi! Facing the practitioner of the ancient art of Shingen-ryu—Hasegumo!"
"Takeda Sawazuichi is a multi-time champion of the World Karate League, known for his 'One-Hit KO' power!"
"His current record is 12 wins, with three flawless no-damage knockouts!"
"His opponent, nineteen-year-old Hasegumo, is a prodigy who reached the rank of Master in his youth. Since the preliminaries began, no opponent has lasted more than twenty exchanges against him!"
"Let's see what this young man can do! The 26th National Martial Arts Championship—Round of 16—BEGIN!"
Over the last three days, thousands of participants had been whittled down to the final sixteen. Hasegumo had cruised through every match in under twenty moves. He had transitioned from an unknown underdog to the tournament's biggest "black horse."
Meanwhile, Toji Zen'in—the crowd favorite—had been disqualified. He had hit his first-round opponent so hard that the man died of his injuries shortly after leaving the ring. Although the "Death Waiver" signed by all participants protected Toji from legal prosecution, the organizers, buckling under public pressure, forced him to withdraw.
Toji had only killed one man, but the ripple effect was catastrophic. Scores of "gambling dogs" who had bet their life savings on him were reportedly seen heading for the nearest tall buildings. A top-tier assassin truly kills without a blade.
"Martial arts was originally the union of technique and power; a state of balance between the physical and the spiritual."
"Yet, in modern martial arts, the spiritual has been discarded. Toji Zen'in showed everyone with his terrifying physical strength that technique can be rendered irrelevant by pure, raw power."
"I remember the day Toji Zen'in fought the Karate Grandmaster, Kurobane Sawada. Toji simply ignored every high-level technique Kurobane threw at him and crushed him with sheer stats."
"Failure is the constant theme of life."
"When I saw Grandmaster Kurobane weeping outside the ring, I made a vow. If I ever stood on that stage, I would win everything."
"I believe traditional martial arts still have a place. The trophy sits at the center of these sixteen rings. As a thirty-five-year-old, I have to realize this might be my only chance."
"To restore the glory of martial arts—that is my duty!"
Takeda Sawazuichi's internal monologue was profound, enough to bring a tear to one's eye.
Unfortunately, the gap in strength cannot be bridged by "resolve" alone.
Following his usual routine, Hasegumo kept his speed and power just a fraction above his opponent's. Within fifteen seconds, they had exchanged dozens of blows. To the audience, it was a blur of high-level combat that could only be deciphered via the slow-motion replays on the big screens.
To the fans, it was a clash of titans.
However...
"Old man, I've already seen your limit," Hasegumo said. "Next, I need you to give it everything you've got. And then, accept your defeat."
Despite the high-speed exchange, Hasegumo had enough breath to hold a casual conversation.
Takeda's heart sank. He realized the gap instantly. Hasegumo was maintaining an offensive rhythm while delivering a victory speech.
Hasegumo threw a straight punch aimed directly at Takeda's face.
"An opening!" Takeda didn't have time to think. He slipped his head to the side, and as Hasegumo's momentum carried the punch forward, Takeda stepped left and lunged in for a kidney blow. He wanted to turn this into a close-quarters brawl.
Even if my technical mastery is inferior, a brawl comes down to physical conditioning. My thirty years of Karate won't lose to a nineteen-year-old kid in a phone booth fight!
In the span of two seconds, Takeda had gone from despair to the verge of certain victory.
But life is rarely that kind. Just as Hasegumo's straight punch missed and his center of gravity shifted forward, he caught Takeda's movement in his peripheral vision and stepped right—in perfect synchronization.
That single step opened a gap between their bodies that might as well have been a canyon. It effectively murdered Takeda's chance of winning.
"Nani?!"
Whenever a character says that, it's usually over. This was no exception.
With Takeda's lunging punch hitting nothing but air, Hasegumo spun and delivered a back-elbow. The burly man was sent flying through the air like he'd been hit by a runaway truck, landing outside the ring.
Takeda patted himself down. Wait... I'm not hurt? He stood up and brushed off the dust. To have been hit with that much force and remain uninjured meant Hasegumo's power control was on a level far beyond his own.
"I lost," Takeda shouted toward the ring, his voice full of genuine respect. "I am completely outmatched."
Hasegumo gave a thumbs-up. "Naturally! I'm representing the ancient Shingen-ryu, after all. Better luck next time, old man!"
"Next time?" Takeda thought as he walked back to the benches. At my age, I'm only going downhill. If monsters like this kid are the new standard, next time will be even worse.
Shingen-ryu... to be that strong at nineteen. There is always a higher heaven. Takeda let out a long breath, feeling as though a great burden had been lifted. I think I'll go home and take on some disciples. The future belongs to the young.