A resounding and exhilarating victory!

"Competitors, prepare!"

"Bow!"

The two opponents faced each other and bowed in unison.

As the bow ended, Kiyomizu Matsudaira slowly raised his shinai, his posture as unyielding as steel, undisturbed by anything around him.

His opponent, Kenichiro Yokoyama, seemed restless, unable even to meet the gaze that flickered through the slits of Matsudaira's mask.

Fumino Murakami, holding the referee's flag, raised it slowly.

In that moment, the atmosphere froze.

All the members of the Kendo club knelt outside the boundary line. Their kote and men were neatly placed on the floor, the row of men glinting coldly under the lights, their metallic sheen a perfect match for the tense, solemn air before the clash.

"Ready!" Murakami Fumino called, slashing her hand downward. "Begin!"

"Yaaah—!"

Kenichiro Yokoyama shouted, as if to rally his own spirits, but his body stayed rooted, courage faltering at the threshold of attack.

In response—

"Kill—!"

Matsudaira bellowed in turn.

He was introverted by nature and had never shouted so loudly before. But now, gripping the bamboo sword and facing the suffocating tension of the match, he seemed to have forgotten all about his usual shyness.

His heart raced—though his mind remained cool, a fresh sense of exhilaration surged through him, lending his reply unexpected strength.

Kenichiro Yokoyama's heart skipped a beat; he reflexively took a step back. At the same time, Matsudaira's body tensed like a drawn spring, then burst forward.

In terms of physique and strength, he was no match for Yokoyama. Yet at this moment, the momentum surging from Matsudaira was so fierce that it cowed his opponent, making Yokoyama hesitate for half a second before setting his right foot forward.

That half second was all it took.

With a powerful stomp, Matsudaira lunged, thrusting his sword straight ahead.

"Thrust!"

This time, he shouted it aloud.

The word had barely left his lips when a thunderous thud resounded—Yokoyama took a direct hit to the throat and crumpled to the floor.

A collective gasp swept through the audience.

Then, silence—so complete even Murakami was momentarily stunned.

The tsuki, or throat thrust, is a risky move. Though the throat is protected by thick resin guards, a heavy strike can still cause pain.

Moreover, executing a tsuki demands great speed, sharp eyes, and exceptional timing—a move that consumes all of a competitor's focus, intended to end the match in a single stroke.

Its power is formidable, but so are its openings.

Between evenly matched opponents, it is rarely used.

For this reason, the tsuki usually only appears in matches with a significant skill gap, executed by the stronger against the weaker.

But the question now was—Kenichiro Yokoyama was supposed to be the strongest member of the Kendo club. How could he be struck twice in succession at the throat by an opponent? Just how strong was this Kiyomizu Matsudaira?

What was more, this second time, Yokoyama had his composure shattered by Matsudaira’s battle cry, losing his nerve completely and failing to react, let alone defend himself—defeated cleanly in a single exchange.

And this time, Matsudaira's kiai, his sword spirit, and his zanshin were flawless.

There was nothing to criticize.

"White side, point to Matsudaira!" Murakami Fumino announced loudly.

A wave of excited cheers erupted from the crowd.

Suzune Tsukimiyori threw her arms around Hachi; Yui Mikami hugged Yumeko Shimamoto, both girls hopping in excitement.

Tokugawa Rinko and Mizuki Hanashiro, who barely knew Matsudaira, simply looked on in surprise, their curiosity piqued.

Meanwhile, Sakura Suzune's eyes sparkled with admiration—her heart skipped a beat.

"Competitors, prepare!" Murakami called again, raising the flag.

Kenichiro Yokoyama stood up, gripping his sword with both hands, his heart a tangled mess of shame and powerlessness.

As a new round began, Matsudaira crouched low, drew his bamboo sword in a swift motion from his waist—a display of decisiveness that already pressed down on his opponent's spirit.

"Begin!" Murakami shouted.

This time, neither rushed in. Instead, they circled each other warily.

The tips of their shinais hovered in the air, like two fierce dogs sniffing out each other's intent from a distance.

The tension in the hall stretched taut as a wire.

Matsudaira, calm and clear-headed, held the advantage, holding his ground with unwavering composure.

Yokoyama, desperate to redeem himself, found his confidence eroded by two swift defeats; now, hesitation gnawed at him, making him increasingly agitated and his breathing erratic.

Among the spectators, Mizuki Hanashiro frowned in concentration, murmuring, "Red has lost his spirit. He keeps staring at White’s sword tip—that’s a mistake. It’ll just make him more nervous..."

"Hanashiro-sensei, you know kendo?" Tokugawa Rinko asked.

"Only a little..." Hanashiro replied coolly, then fell silent.

Rinko withdrew her gaze.

Inside the ring, the two competitors circled each other, shinais held level, making round after round.

Gradually, Yokoyama began probing attacks, hoping to pass his anxiety onto his opponent.

But Matsudaira would not be swayed, ignoring every feint.

After three or four exchanges, Yokoyama could no longer keep his composure. With a furious yell, he launched the first real attack.

He knew full well that if he hesitated any longer, he’d lose the will to strike altogether.

His sword thrust at Matsudaira’s chest protector, but Matsudaira raised his shinai to block from the right, the clash erupting with a crackle like firecrackers. Their blades locked, pushing back and forth through several exchanges.

After all, Matsudaira's kendo was copied from Yokoyama's own style—in a sense, they were the same person. Under these circumstances, he could find no way to break through.

With the contest deadlocked, the referee stepped in to separate them.

They began again.

This time, at the command to start, Yokoyama summoned his final reserves of fighting spirit and launched an all-out assault, attacking Matsudaira’s men relentlessly, wave after pounding wave, allowing him no respite.

Matsudaira retreated step by step, dodging expertly.

Though he seemed on the defensive, in truth he was in no danger.

Yokoyama’s attacks were wild and impatient, each blow aimed at ending the match in a single stroke—but this only left him more exposed.

Matsudaira parried his thrusts from both sides, and as Yokoyama attacked head-on, Matsudaira caught the opening as he overcommitted.

"Men!"

With a ringing shout, Matsudaira struck Yokoyama squarely on the head.

A dull thud resounded. Even with a mask, the force rattled Yokoyama’s skull, leaving him dazed for several seconds.

"Men, point!" Murakami declared, raising the white flag. "White scores!"

This time, the silence was broken.

Yui Mikami led the applause, soon joined by a chorus of clapping and exclamations.

In Matsudaira's vision, a wave of favorable impressions flashed by once more.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

A new round began at once.

This time, Matsudaira completely dominated.

Yokoyama’s fighting spirit, at its peak in the beginning, was shattered by Matsudaira’s unyielding blows. As the saying goes, the first charge is fired with all one’s might, the second with less, and by the third, the will is spent. With the lengthy rule explanations, Yokoyama’s momentum had already faded by the next bout, and he was defeated by a single stroke again.

Twice in succession, and his spirit was all but gone.

Now, in the fourth round, he had no fight left.

As soon as the bout began, Matsudaira pressed forward, unleashing a relentless surge of attacks.

Every movement was precise and bold, every stroke sharp and decisive. His seamless, rapid combinations left Yokoyama breathless under the assault.

The audience was wholly absorbed, swept up in the one-sided contest—one side attacking with swift, beautiful strikes, the other defending desperately.

Urgent breaths, flowing sweat, taut muscles, the gleam of breastplates, the sharp clash of bamboo swords, wills and strengths colliding for victory—

For the first time in his life, Matsudaira understood what it meant to be truly exhilarated.

Just as Murakami Fumino thought the match had reached another stalemate and prepared to call “stop,” a sudden shift took place.

Using the slight force of his opponent’s push, Matsudaira darted aside and swung his shinai in a flat arc against Yokoyama’s chestplate, roaring his kiai as the blade landed with a satisfying crack.

At that moment, the result was decided.

"White scores!" Murakami raised the white flag high and announced, "Three to zero. White side—Matsudaira is the winner!"