This strike is called a normal attack!

"I’m telling you, Shimizu, with your physique, there’s no way you can beat Yokoyama. Why are you being so impulsive about this?"
In the men’s kendo club locker room, Ayano Murakami leaned against the door of the changing area, calling inside.

Inside, Shimizu Matsudaira was changing into a new kendo uniform. Hearing her question, he replied casually, "As a man, there are some things you can’t run from. Even if I’m not strong enough, I have to show my attitude. I can’t let people look down on me as a person."

"But you’ve never even learned kendo," Ayano said, her face full of worry.

"I’ve actually read some books about it, taught myself a bit," Shimizu answered vaguely.

"You can’t do that!" Ayano said, her brows immediately furrowing. "If you don’t have a teacher and just try to learn kendo by yourself, you’ll easily go astray! If you pick up bad habits or wrong movements on your own, it could take several times more effort to correct them later. You could be hurting yourself."

She wasn’t exaggerating.

Kendo is a discipline that pays great attention to posture. The science of applying force, the footwork and body movement, the precise way you grip the sword to control the edge—all of these are nearly impossible to master alone. Ninety-nine percent of those who try on their own end up wandering in circles; the remaining one percent are rare geniuses.

"And even if you are a genius, you still need endless practice. You have to repeat a movement tens of thousands of times until it becomes a reflex before you can use it flexibly in real matches. Even if you’ve learned the techniques, if you don’t practice regularly and your strength falls behind, you won’t be able to use them. There’s no way you could beat Yokoyama like this…"

Outside the changing area, Ayano’s tone was grave. She wasn’t trying to discourage him out of spite. She simply knew he couldn’t win, so she wanted to warn him to recognize his limits. Even if he didn’t quit, he should at least know he wasn’t Yokoyama’s match and focus on protecting himself during the match, not just charging in recklessly and exposing more openings, making his defeat even worse.

"At least let me do my best, alright?" Shimizu smiled, opening the door and stepping out.

"Huh?"

Ayano froze, blinking and rubbing her eyes before staring intently.

"What is it? Do I look strange in this?" Shimizu looked down at himself instinctively.

The new kendo uniform fit unexpectedly well, and he thought it looked great, though he couldn’t understand why Ayano was giving him such a strange look.

"No, it’s nothing…" Ayano turned away, feeling her heart pounding and muttering to herself in confusion, "How come after putting on the kendo uniform, your aura completely changed? So handsome…"

"Senpai, what did you say?"

"Eh? Oh, nothing—let’s go outside…"

"Alright."

"By the way, just call me Ayano."

"…?"

"What? I’ve known you since your first year of junior high, right? We’re not strangers. Besides, with your friendship with Nagasawa, you should at least call me ‘big sister’."

"Ay—Ayano-senpai…"

"Mmm…" Ayano nodded softly, feeling a pleasant shiver as he called her "big sister Ayano."

From the locker room to the training hall was just a ten-meter walk. As he stepped onto the floor, Shimizu activated the [Kendo Expert] tag.

It was as if a revelation had struck him: a torrent of complex kendo knowledge and techniques flooded into his mind. He instinctively raised his bamboo sword and slashed at the air, testing different angles and force in his strikes.

There were nine types of strikes in his mind:

Vertical cut, diagonal cut, reverse diagonal cut;
Left and right pheasant cuts;
Left and right upward cuts;
Reverse wind, and thrust.

These nine strikes, combined with blocks, body movement, and physical technique, essentially contained the entire essence of Japanese swordsmanship. In kendo, however, the strict rules made it difficult to use all these moves, so the sport tested not only skill but also agility and enduring stamina throughout the match.

His mind swirling with tactics, Shimizu returned to the training hall.

"You’re finally back," said Kenichiro Yokoyama, flexing his hands and clearly eager to begin.

Suzune Sakura, on the other hand, looked surprised—he seemed even more handsome in the uniform.

Official kendo matches required three judges, each observing from a different angle. But for this match, Ayano alone was more than enough.

"Yokoyama is red, Matsudaira is white. Stop at the point—no serious fouls allowed!" she intoned sternly, tying red and white sashes to the competitors and helping them with their protective gear before positioning them at the starting line.

"Kid, you actually dared to fight me—I admire your courage!" Yokoyama smirked, his eyes disdainful but his tone not unfriendly. "Since you’re a man, I’ll make it quick and defeat you swiftly!"

Shimizu didn’t reply, simply using the last moments to steady his breathing.

"Aki…"

"Shimizu…"

"Shimizu-kun…"

From the doorway came three different greetings, each revealing a different level of familiarity.

He looked over to see several familiar faces: Hachiro, Senpai Tsukimi, Ms. Shimamoto, and Mr. Mikami. The other two he didn’t know well, but they were both very attractive.

"We’re all here to cheer you on!"

"Take down that big brute!"

"Youth, if you win, big sister will go on a date with you tonight~~♡"

"Yui, you can’t say things like that to students!"

Whether they were lively girls or sophisticated young women, a group of charming girls all cheered for Shimizu with the ease of old friends.

To the members of the kendo club watching, it was baffling: what had this guy done in a past life to deserve such close relationships with so many of the school’s most beautiful girls?

"Hmph!" Yokoyama, watching the scene, felt even more frustrated. Clutching his bamboo sword, he swore silently that he would show these shallow girls just how foolish it was to judge based on looks.

Shimizu exhaled slowly, his gaze sharpening as he looked ahead.

"Rei!" Ayano commanded, and both competitors bowed.

"Ready!"

At the referee’s call, both took their stances.

At that moment, Akizuki Yana’s heart began to race. She was so nervous she couldn’t even open her eyes.

…She knew her ex-boyfriend was about to lose terribly.

"Begin!" Ayano’s flag dropped.

The instant her voice fell, Shimizu gripped his bamboo sword and attacked.

His body snapped forward like a drawn bow, his fierce gaze meeting Yokoyama’s face, which hadn’t even registered what was happening.

A heartbeat later—

The bamboo sword came down toward Yokoyama’s head—a textbook vertical strike.

It was fast, and he didn’t shout—unsportsmanlike, really.

But the attack was still just within Yokoyama’s reaction speed. He raised his sword to block.

Thud!

The bamboo swords collided with a dull sound.

After blocking, feeling the vibration in the hilt, Yokoyama sneered inwardly: such weak force, nothing to fear.

The next round was his to counterattack. He swung for Shimizu’s face, shouting "men!"

But just as his attack came, Shimizu made no move to defend. Instead, he gripped his sword and, in a thrusting stance, aimed the tip straight at Yokoyama.

After the block, stillness turned to motion. Taking advantage of the opening as his opponent attacked, he thrust with all his might.

The movement was clean and sharp, fluid and decisive. Even though his body was completely exposed to Yokoyama’s attack range, there wasn’t a hint of fear.

Come on, let’s see who flinches first.

The essence of Japanese swordsmanship—the spirit of a single decisive strike—was fully displayed in that instant.

In the flash of an eye, despite being the stronger competitor, a flicker of hesitation passed through Yokoyama’s mind.

He had the advantage in strength, skill, and experience. He could have worn his opponent down slowly. Why risk everything on a first exchange? That moment of doubt made his action half a beat slower.

The blade aimed at Shimizu’s face hesitated for just a moment.

In less than a second, the match was decided. By the time he realized it, pain lanced through Yokoyama’s throat.

His opponent’s thrust had struck him in the neck.

"Ugh—ah…" Yokoyama staggered, clutching his throat and dropping to one knee in pain.

The hall fell utterly silent—no one could believe what they had just seen.

In Shimizu’s cheering section, at least two women clasped their hands to their chests, their eyes shining with admiration.

…Hachiro still couldn’t open his eyes.

As referee, Ayano was still replaying the strike in her mind.

From the opening vertical cut to the thrust, the entire sequence had been swift, smooth, and relentless, carrying a spirit even she didn’t possess herself.

"Shimizu…" Ayano couldn’t help but ask, "that strike just now—what’s it called?"

What is it called?

Shimizu fell into thought.

After a moment, he answered, "That was just a normal attack."