Can’t we just strike down all the handsome ones?

At the end of the school day, the Kendo Club was cloaked in an uncanny stillness.

Yokoyama Kenichiro tried his best to maintain the air of a cool and aloof senior, but the moment he saw Shimizu Matsudaira’s face, his pupils contracted sharply, and all his features froze in stunned rigidity.

Especially when he saw Sakura standing demurely beside Shimizu Matsudaira, looking every bit the sweet girlfriend, his heart twisted further.

This guy—wasn’t he exactly the type Sakura liked? The cold, handsome sort?

Realizing this made Yokoyama Kenichiro feel as if he’d been struck by lightning in broad daylight. That boy’s gaze was just as indifferent as his own; his demeanor equally detached, his expression just as blank.

The difference was, the other boy’s blankness was cool and striking.

While he was left with nothing but blankness.

The thought brought a wave of bitterness over Yokoyama Kenichiro, his eyes growing duller still.

The big fellow before them seemed to drift off into some strange trance. Shimizu Matsudaira glanced at him a few times, noticed his lack of response, and turned his attention elsewhere.

The Kendo Club had about thirty members, with a two-to-one ratio of boys to girls. All of them, dressed in their kendo uniforms, knelt in neat rows behind Yokoyama Kenichiro, not daring to make a sound.

“The class hierarchy in Japan really runs deep…” mused Shimizu Matsudaira.

Even leaving aside the stricter hierarchies of the workplace, in school, the boundary between senior and junior was a red line everyone had to respect.

In a school like the private Maizuru Academy, which practiced student self-governance, underclassmen couldn’t avoid dealing with upperclassmen in many matters, so they always had to maintain a respectful, humble demeanor in front of their seniors.

Anyone who crossed that line risked incurring the collective hostility of all upperclassmen. At that point, whatever you did, you’d find blame heaped upon you, with nowhere to air your grievances.

As a junior himself, Shimizu Matsudaira had suffered his share of this.

But he wasn’t in the mood to critique it now. His attention was on the students in their kendo gear.

He took in their polished armor, the shinai laid out before them, the glint in their eyes behind the faintly gleaming metal masks…

Shimizu Matsudaira knew nothing about kendo.

Yet at that moment, watching these peers, a novel by Yukio Mishima came to mind—“Runaway Horses.”

The protagonist, a youth named Isao, honed his swordsmanship since childhood, embraced bushido as his guiding principle, gathered like-minded comrades, and secretly founded the “Showa League of Divine Wind,” plotting the assassination of a business tycoon.

When the plot was uncovered and he was arrested, Isao’s deeds won him sympathy from all walks of society. Eventually, through legal and romantic entanglements, he was released.

But his ambitions did not die. Acting on his own, he finally assassinated the tycoon Kurahara, fulfilling his lifelong wish, and at last, in the morning sun, committed ritual suicide by seppuku.

Shimizu Matsudaira had little interest in the ideology the novel espoused, but was fascinated by its extreme beauty, the explosive aesthetics, Isao’s poetic madness and lonely defiance, and above all, his powerful physique.

The beauty of masculinity, the beauty of destruction;

the beauty of blood, the explosive and romantic allure—

Youth and kendo were the perfect vessels for Mishima’s aesthetic.

Yet, admiration aside, Shimizu Matsudaira did not possess such a healthy body.

He had set for himself the goal of focusing on studies throughout junior high, so his entire school career had been devoted to books.

As a result, his grades were outstanding, with a deviation value of 75%—good enough for a top-three university in Japan—but his physique was utterly ordinary.

He wasn’t sickly or frail, just about as fit as any academically inclined boy; a single lap around the track and he’d be gasping for breath.

If only I were healthier…

Shimizu Matsudaira was a perfectly normal boy, with no psychological issues, and naturally longed for a more robust, masculine image.

As he gazed at his peers in their kendo attire, he began to wonder if it wasn’t time to start some physical training.

As the only man in the Matsudaira family, tasked with protecting his mother and sister, he could not remain weak forever.

At the center of this scene, the two main actors stood in an awkward silence.

A gentle summer breeze stirred the cotton curtains; sunlight filtered through thin clouds, shining on the wooden floor and casting a soft sheen like an ocean of light underfoot.

The scene was beautiful, yet somehow wrong.

Sakura Suzune looked left and right, unable for a moment to grasp what was happening.

Yokoyama Kenichiro was lost in thought, while Shimizu Matsudaira watched the kendo members, absorbed in his own musings. The two exchanged not a single word.

Weren’t these two supposed to be rivals for her affection?

Why, now that they’d met, did neither say a word?

If you don’t fight over me, how will my vanity ever be satisfied…

“Shimizu…” Sakura Suzune stepped forward and slipped her arm around Shimizu Matsudaira’s, introducing him, “Yokoyama-senpai, this is my friend, Shimizu Matsudaira from Class F, Year One. Please don’t make things difficult for him.”

Shimizu Matsudaira snapped back to reality, looked at the big, awkward fellow before him, and nodded. “Hello.”

“Hmph!”

Yokoyama Kenichiro’s expression was one of profound grievance, as if he’d suffered some great injustice.

The greatest cruelty in the world must be this face before him!

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, and the angrier he got, the more he dwelled on it.

“So what if you’re good-looking? How can a frail man protect a woman!” Yokoyama Kenichiro muttered, growing more agitated, and then raised his bamboo sword. “Come on, kid! Let me teach you something today—a man’s worth is measured by strength!”

The vice-captain’s rough voice echoed through the kendo hall.

All eyes turned toward Sakura Suzune and Shimizu Matsudaira, curiosity piqued, speculating about the relationship among the three.

Being the center of attention was nothing new for Sakura Suzune.

In such a situation, she knew she had to make a show of protest, at least superficially.

“No, Yokoyama-senpai, this has nothing to do with him!” Sakura Suzune spread her arms protectively before Shimizu Matsudaira. “Let him go; I’ll explain everything to you later…”

With that, she quickly turned and gently pushed Shimizu Matsudaira aside.

“Shimizu, go, quickly…”

Her voice was genuine, her eyes full of tender emotion.

Her acting was quite impressive.

Faced with these two men, Sakura Suzune’s preference was plain to see.

Anyone with eyes could tell she sided more with Shimizu Matsudaira. Yokoyama Kenichiro felt it too—a pang went through his heart.

With a heavy thud, his bamboo sword clattered to the ground.

In that instant, Yokoyama Kenichiro realized his spirit had been shattered.

The girl he adored had chosen another.

What was the point of fighting now?

Shimizu Matsudaira met his gaze with an impassive face.

Expressionless.

Under that indifferent stare, Yokoyama Kenichiro felt another blow land deep within.

He stood in the middle of the hall, suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of desolation, like a swordsman who draws his blade, looks in all directions, and finds only emptiness—unsure where to go from here—

Would there ever be a place for Yokoyama Kenichiro in this vast Kendo Club again?

“Yokoyama-senpai, you…” Sakura Suzune began, confused.

What was going on? She wasn’t done acting yet—why wasn’t this big oaf playing along?

“Senpai, this is the Kendo Club,” she reminded him.

Her words snapped Yokoyama Kenichiro back to his senses.

That’s right—this was the Kendo Club!

His domain!

So what if the other guy was handsome—could he fight with his looks?

With renewed vigor, Yokoyama Kenichiro sneered, “Look me in the eye—if you dare!”

Without even looking at him, Shimizu Matsudaira replied calmly, “I’d rather not.”

“Why not?”

“For the ugly, even a closer look is a kind of cruelty.”

Yokoyama Kenichiro stared, then erupted, “Did you just call me ugly?”