Even when at a disadvantage in strength, victory is still within reach!

[You acted so cool, Windchime Tsukimiyazato’s favorability towards you has increased.]

[…Momoko Shimamoto’s favorability towards you has increased.]

[…Favorability towards you has increased.]

A flurry of system notifications popped up, more than a dozen in total. In short, nearly everyone present now looked at Kiyomizu Matsudaira with new eyes after that last exchange.

“Huh? What just happened…” Akizuki Yana opened her eyes, staring at the scene in disbelief.

“Kiyomizu’s kendo skills are that amazing? Why didn’t you ever tell us?” Windchime Tsukimiyazato asked excitedly.

“…Huh?” The eighth sister’s mouth formed an “O,” her face blank with shock. She knew Aki best among everyone here, which made the situation even harder for her to believe—as if she were dreaming it all.

…Or perhaps her ex-boyfriend had been possessed by some sword saint!

Aside from these few acquaintances, the rest of the kendo club—strangers to him—were equally dumbstruck, their minds reeling from confusion.

No one could have predicted such an outcome.

Especially those trained in kendo—even if their skills were mediocre, they still had the ability to appreciate and analyze a match. Kiyomizu Matsudaira’s last strike… if it had been them instead—

With that thought, most people instinctively shook their heads.

Even Fumino Murakami had to admit to herself: she couldn’t have dodged that move.

However…

“F-foul, isn’t it…” Kenichiro Yokoyama stood up from the floor, clutching his throat, and looked to the referee, shouting hoarsely and with palpable grievance, “Club president! There was no kiai with that strike, it shouldn’t count as a point!!!”

He was telling the truth, not just being unreasonable.

Kendo matches are judged with strict standards, and the referee’s subjectivity plays a significant role. Simply landing a hit doesn’t guarantee a point. Only strikes that meet the requirements for a valid hit are awarded points.

For a valid hit, it’s not enough to simply land a strong blow in the right spot; it must also be accompanied by proper kiai and posture, and the competitor must maintain zanshin.

Kiyomizu Matsudaira’s last strike had the accuracy and force, but not the rest—so it didn’t count.

“White side, invalid strike!”

With all eyes on her, Fumino Murakami couldn’t very well lie; she raised her flag to indicate the match should restart.

As they returned to the center line, Kenichiro Yokoyama’s throat was still aching faintly. Facing Kiyomizu Matsudaira—who was half a head shorter than him—he felt both angry and humiliated. That last blow had cost him all dignity in front of the kendo club…

“Damn it…” Kenichiro Yokoyama ground his teeth in secret, vowing to teach his opponent a lesson.

Across from him, through the gap in the metal mask, Kiyomizu Matsudaira quietly observed his adversary’s state. It was obvious: Kenichiro Yokoyama’s breathing was ragged, his emotions in disarray from anger and shame.

A sign of poor composure.

In fact, from the moment he’d entered the kendo club, Kiyomizu Matsudaira had noticed that this burly guy was easily distracted and cared a great deal about appearances.

Easily distracted meant lack of focus. Concern for appearances would make him irritable and impulsive after losing face.

Both fatal flaws in a kendo match, where mental focus and emotional control are vital.

It was precisely because of this observation that Kiyomizu Matsudaira felt confident enough to challenge him.

His kendo skills had been copied directly from Kenichiro Yokoyama, so their techniques were identical. In terms of strength, however, he was no match.

But a match is about more than just strength.

Staying calm is just as important!

Now, Kenichiro Yokoyama’s agitation was obvious; his breathing was unsteady.

When it came to composure, Kiyomizu Matsudaira had the clear advantage.

Now, he thought, I should take this a step further and shake him up even more…

“Wait a moment…”

Just as Fumino Murakami was about to instruct them to bow and begin again, Kiyomizu Matsudaira suddenly removed his mask and looked at her. “Excuse me, what counts as a valid point?”

The moment he asked, every member of the kendo club stared at him as if he were an alien.

Kenichiro Yokoyama was even more stunned.

What’s going on? How could this guy not even know that? Has he never competed before…?

At that thought, Kenichiro Yokoyama’s heart skipped a beat, a sudden wave of unease washing over him.

If he’s never even competed in kendo…

Then, having just been taken down in one move by a complete novice—doesn’t that make me utter trash…?

“Kiyomizu, are you serious?” Fumino Murakami stared at Kiyomizu Matsudaira in shock, her expression suggesting, “Are you joking?”

“I’m serious.” Kiyomizu Matsudaira nodded. “I’ve never competed before, nor learned the rules.”

This revelation left the entire kendo club looking as if they’d seen a ghost.

A total outsider, with no prior experience, had just defeated their strongest member with a single move.

He was putting on quite the act.

On the edge of the room, the eighth sister crossed her arms and muttered, “Impressive! When did he start secretly taking lessons behind my back…”

“You’re much too reckless like this!”

Fumino Murakami sighed in exasperation, walking over to Kiyomizu Matsudaira and quickly explaining the rules to him.

Though kendo inherits many traditions from swordsmanship, it differs in that it’s a sport, not a martial art meant for killing. It’s governed by strict rules for movement, scoring, and timing.

A kendo match is played to three points; the first to score three valid points wins.

Strikes must be delivered with unity of spirit, body, and sword.

Spirit refers to kiai—a spirited shout declaring the target area.

Body means striking the correct, protected area (head, throat, torso, wrists) with the proper posture.

Sword refers to using the tip of the bamboo sword to strike.

Additionally, the competitor must maintain zanshin—remaining vigilant after the attack, retreating out of the opponent’s reach or demonstrating readiness for a follow-up strike, to prevent a last-ditch counterattack.

Only when all four criteria are met does a strike count as a valid point.

After covering this, Fumino Murakami also briefly explained the fouls.

Kiyomizu Matsudaira listened with an air of attentiveness, though in truth, he wasn’t paying attention at all—the basics were already in his skill tags. He was only doing this to diffuse Kenichiro Yokoyama’s anger and further destabilize his mentality.

Kenichiro Yokoyama, having just been floored in one move, was already furious. If they’d started the next round right away, Kiyomizu Matsudaira would have faced a storm of ferocious attacks—an extremely dangerous situation, given his disadvantage in strength.

But now, Kenichiro Yokoyama’s accumulated rage was rapidly dissipating.

He stood there, dazed, staring at the two across from him, his shame and anger slowly ebbing away, leaving behind only confusion. He kept asking himself, over and over—

How did things end up like this?

As the saying goes, the first charge is full of vigor, the second already wanes, and by the third, it’s exhausted—a proverb that perfectly described his state.

After about five or six minutes, Fumino Murakami finally finished her explanation.

“Alright, I understand. Thank you, senpai,” Kiyomizu Matsudaira nodded politely.

“Good, then take your positions,” Fumino Murakami said, holding the command flag as she took her place at the center.

Kenichiro Yokoyama stood blankly on the other side of the white line, still in something of a daze.

Kiyomizu Matsudaira gripped his shinai in one hand, his mask in the other.

His eyes were bright and sharp, fixed directly ahead as he slowly walked to the center of the court.

A soft gasp came from among the spectators, a girl unable to suppress her voice.

The boy’s features were handsome, his gaze piercing, lips pressed into a thin, determined line—like a blade held between them.

“That’s the face of someone still so naïve about life…” On the sidelines, Yui Mikami stood with her hands in the pockets of her white coat, thinking to herself, “That’s the kind of face that can’t quite believe the pure white snow on the ground will soon be sullied—so clean, so unspoiled, such a pure-hearted youth…”