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592 — You Really Do Want to Kill Me, Don’t You!?
🕑 Added 2025-10-16 00:38:32 +0000 UTCChiba Kenichi tightened his grip on the bamboo sword, quietly reviewing the strategy he’d come up with during the break.
Hojou Kyousuke is just a high school student.
His speed and strength are at least equal to, if not greater than, mine.
As for his kendo skill... well, the first match ended so fast I couldn’t even assess it properly.
But at minimum, it’s on par with mine—maybe around seventh dan.
How do you defeat someone who surpasses you in every single aspect—speed, strength, and technique?
Find an opening... and land a single, decisive strike.
Chiba Kenichi had to admit, Hojou was insanely strong.
His natural talent completely defied the laws of time and experience—a kind of brilliance that could make anyone despair.
But—!
No one is perfect. Even geniuses have flaws.
And he’d found it.
As a police inspector and sixth-dan practitioner of kendo, Chiba had seen through the truth:
That overwhelming talent had also made Hojou Kyousuke arrogant.
During their earlier bout, short as it was, Chiba had noticed something strange when replaying it in his mind.
Kyousuke had multiple chances to finish this match—yet he hadn’t.
In their very first clash, Kyousuke didn’t reveal the full extent of his speed.
And in the second exchange, he could’ve gone for the head or the torso for an instant win... but instead, he chose to strike—the hand.
‘The hand!’
Just like every other high schooler he’d fought before, even if Kyousuke pretended to vary his moves, he always came back to striking at the opponent’s hands to decide the match.
Chiba didn’t believe for a second that someone capable of defeating him could only master the art of striking hands.
Combined with the intel he’d picked up during the break, he drew a bold conclusion:
Kyousuke wasn’t just talented—he was cocky beyond belief.
By choosing to attack the hand every time, he was sending a message:
“No matter how you resist, once you raise your sword against me—you’ll never hold it again.”
Just like his nickname suggested—“The Handless Devil.”
Ridiculous! Even in the dojos of the Hokushin Ittō-ryū school, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone so obsessed.
His fixation on striking hands was almost fanatical. And yet… there was something admirable about it too.
To devote yourself that purely to a single strike—it was the kind of madness that only true swordsmen could understand.
Chiba Kenichi, sixth-dan, resolved himself.
He’d abandon defense of every other body part—legs, torso, even his head—and focus everything on protecting his hands.
If he could defend them... he was sure his swordsmanship would break through to the next level.
“Please take care of me,” Chiba said solemnly, eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
The glint in them could’ve made his friend Hatake Gorou scream, “Ahhh, are you finally going to kill me!?”
“Likewise,” Kyousuke replied with a smile.
After a moment’s thought about how much power to use, he decided to treat Chiba just like any other member of the Rampage Angels.
Referee Ishibashi, another officer, gave his colleague an encouraging look and then raised the flag to signal the start of the match.
This time, Chiba didn’t just stand still waiting for Hojou to attack first.
Remembering how foolish that had looked earlier, he felt his face burn in embarrassment.
Turns out, he had been the arrogant one.
No hesitation now.
He dug his right foot into the floor, slid his left foot slightly forward until the tips of their bamboo swords met—and then immediately jumped back again.
In kendo, every move is rooted in the principles of real sword combat.
Like in an actual samurai duel, it’s all about high offense, low defense—one clean strike decides the winner.
Unlike armored martial arts, there’s no room for tanking hits.
It’s like watching an old samurai film—two masters circling, probing, eyes locked, barely moving their blades, waiting for the tiniest slip.
Even the moment one loses a sandal could mean death.
That’s why in lower-level tournaments, you often see kids leaping a foot into the air with a dramatic shout, swinging wildly—some even yelling things like “Fallen Heaven Slash!” or “Crescent Moon Strike!”
You could tell instantly: middle school or maybe early high school level.
But once you reached fifth dan, sixth dan, or higher... matches became psychological battles—slow, deliberate, intense, like a tense tango between two killers.
And when it came to the Metropolitan Police’s own kendo tournaments?
One wrong word and they’d be grappling on the floor like judo practitioners.
Right now, Chiba Kenichi was giving it everything he had—one hundred and twenty percent focus, like he was standing in the finals of the National Kendo Championship.
His eyes locked onto Hojou Kyousuke, moving back and forth, left and right, step after cautious step.
The moment Hojou’s dark eyes showed even the slightest flicker, Chiba immediately retreated into a defensive stance.
But in the end, staring at Hojou’s perfectly still sword tip, he realized—Hojou wasn’t planning to attack.
He was waiting. Only if he struck first would Hojou react.
All that cautious circling had been for nothing.
Still, even drenched in sweat, Chiba didn’t give up.
That silent one-on-one battle of nerves made him feel like his kendo spirit had deepened somehow.
After all, Hojou hadn’t moved a single step, yet the pressure he gave off was crushing—those calm eyes silently screaming:
“I’m going to kill you.”
‘Damn, he’s strong.’
‘Come on already,’ Kyousuke thought, bored out of his mind.
‘I’ve got a date to get to.’
The guy across from him kept bouncing around like a game character trying to dodge lag.
Was he trying to wear out his patience? Ha. What a joke.
When it came to staring contests, Hojou Kyousuke could outstare a stone.
Feeling his stamina and focus draining fast, Chiba knew he couldn’t wait any longer.
He drew a deep breath, shouted from his diaphragm, and lunged forward with a powerful thrust—not for a slash, but for a tsuki straight at the throat.
It was a calculated risk.
Slashing for the head or torso would expose his hands, but a throat thrust kept them closest to his body, with the bamboo sword acting as a shield.
“Ha!”
He drove forward, both feet pushing hard against the floor, the sword leveled perfectly toward Hojou’s throat.
Finally.
Kyousuke sighed softly, loosened his left hand from the hilt, and raised the sword high with his right—blade pointed straight at the ceiling.
“...Huh?”
Chiba froze mid-lunge. Every hair on his body stood on end.
Even without looking, he knew—his instincts screamed it.
That strike will kill me.
If Hojou’s sword came down now, he would die.
No “maybe.” No “almost.”
A hundred percent, dead on the spot.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Just as the tip of his sword came within twenty centimeters of Hojou’s throat, Chiba’s knees buckled.
With a loud thud, he dropped to the floor in a perfect kneeling slide—his thrust transforming into a desperate bow.
“I surrender!!” he shouted, voice cracking in panic.
But even as he yelled, the sharp roar of air being split nearly drowned out his own voice.
He knew that sound.
It was the sound of Hojou Kyousuke’s sword cutting down.
The mere wind pressure from the swing screamed like a cannon blast—loud enough to rupture eardrums.
Just how terrifying would that strike have been if it had actually hit?
‘BOOM!!!’
A thunderous crash echoed beside Chiba Kenichi, making him instinctively turn his head.
In the next second, his pupils shrank sharply—cold sweat beaded on his forehead and slid down his temples.
The tip of Hojou’s bamboo sword—its leather guard, the soft and thick ginpi, now shredded—was buried halfway into the hardwood floor.
Yes.
The floor.
The strike had been so strong it actually dented the solid wooden boards.
The deerhide wrapping was pierced clean through, exposing the bamboo inside.
“EHHHHHHH!?”
The referee, Ishibashi, didn’t even have time to process his shock from Chiba’s earlier slide.
He could only gape and let out a strangled cry at the sight of the gaping hole in the floor.
‘Hey, you maniac! Were you trying to kill me!?’
‘Seriously! You wanted to blow my head off, didn’t you!?’
‘I said use your full strength—not use it to end my life!’
‘Do you even realize how humiliating it’d be if a police officer died in a friendly kendo match!? That’s a crime, you know! Even if you’re underage, that’s still murder!’
‘I was this close—this close—to seeing my whole life flash before my eyes! I haven’t even had a son yet!”’
“….”
Chiba stared at the crater near his feet and took a deep, trembling breath.
Yes—everything he just said was exactly what he was thinking.
He wasn’t stupid enough to actually yell at someone who could kill him in one swing.
His IQ wouldn’t allow him that kind of suicidal bravery.
“Thank you for sparing my life, Hojou-san. I’ll never forget this kindness.”
Still on his knees from his earlier desperate slide, Chiba bowed even deeper into a perfect dogeza.
A flawless follow-up to his dramatic surrender.
“No worry,” Kyousuke said, taking a step back courteously—though he couldn’t help but glance at his bamboo sword with genuine pain.
That ginpi had been made from the finest deerhide.
He’d hit plenty of people with it before without issue—but this time, against a mere sixth-dan practitioner, it had finally snapped.
‘Damn it.’
‘Why didn’t you block my strike properly? Why’d you have to give up so suddenly?’
He sighed inwardly.
If Chiba hadn’t surrendered so abruptly, he wouldn’t have accidentally slammed the blade into the floor.
Once a strike was in motion, stopping it mid-swing risked injuring his own wrist.
The best outcome would’ve been for it to land—on something soft, like a human body.
The armor and padding would’ve absorbed the impact.
But now his poor bamboo sword had paid the price.
Doesn’t anyone understand the pain of a swordsman losing his perfect swing?
As he thought that, Kyousuke looked down at Chiba again, his expression subtly changing.
Seeing that look, Chiba—still kneeling, his chest pressed to his thighs—froze, then immediately bowed again.
“I’m terribly sorry! It’s my fault for being too weak to take your strike properly and for damaging your sword! I’ll compensate you for it!”
“No, no, it’s fine. I should’ve held back more,” Kyousuke replied quickly.
Although… wait.
If you think about it, he wasn’t wrong. If he hadn’t needed to cut this guy, the sword wouldn’t have broken.
So technically… compensation did make sense?
Chiba, however, misunderstood the pause—thinking Hojou was angry at him for not dying properly.
Panicked, he started to bow again—but was stopped by the sound of hurried footsteps.
“What happened!? Kenichi, are you alright!?”
It was Chief Arisugawa, rushing over from the sidelines with Miyamizu Mitsuha, Himeno
Seiko, and others close behind.
From their angle, all they’d seen was:
Chiba Kenichi taking a perfect seigan stance, one foot forward, sword poised, and then lunging with lightning speed toward Hojou Kyousuke—while Hojou just stood there, frozen.
Then, right when Chiba’s bamboo sword was about to hit, he suddenly… slid on his knees?
And not just that—he followed it up with a dogeza?
Sure, it looked smooth and graceful, but—this was a kendo match!
What the hell was he doing!?
“Wha—what the hell!? Hojou-kun, did you just… smash a hole in the floor with your bamboo sword!?” The chief’s voice cracked in disbelief as he pointed at the dented boards.
The flooring’s elasticity had already made the crater shallower, but the damage was clear.
Before Chiba could even explain, Makki Hojou burst out laughing from the sidelines.
“Hahaha! Come on, Hojou—it’s just a friendly match! Were you trying to give the poor guy a heart attack!?”
Oh great.
So everyone already knew Hojou-san could’ve killed me in one swing!?
Hearing the laughter, Chiba collapsed back to the floor, trembling.
“I’m sorry, Hojou-san… for not being strong enough to make you go all out.”
A single tear slid down his cheek.
What shame.
If only he’d just died honorably from that strike… maybe then he wouldn’t have to live with this humiliation.
Hojou leaned down, gently lifting the trembling man to his feet.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Chiba-san. Please, raise your head.” Then he added softly, “I’m used to this kind of thing.”
“…”
Chiba lowered his gaze again, too afraid to look his superior in the eyes.
After a moment of silence, he asked quietly, “Hojou-kun… what rank are you in kendo?”
“Third dan.”
It was the truth.
According to the All Japan Kendo Federation, you had to be at least thirteen to apply for shodan (first dan).
Then train a year before being eligible for nidan, two more years for sandan, and so on.
So naturally, Hojou had only reached third dan so far.
It was a fair but rigid system—one that kept students grounded but also slowed down true prodigies.
That’s why most eighth-dan masters were old men.
“Impossible. Your skill’s way beyond third dan—sixth, maybe even seventh,” Chiba said seriously.
“Haha, but I only got my third dan less than half a year ago. Even if I wanted to test again, I can’t yet,” Hojou replied casually.
“True, the federation has those limits… but they also allow special applications for exceptional talent!” Chiba insisted.
“That would just trouble everyone.”
“For someone like you, Hojou-kun, it’s the federation that’s being a burden—not you!”
Chiba declared with conviction.
If Hojou could officially rank as an eight- or ninth-dan master early, then losing to him wouldn’t be shameful—it would be an honor.
Losing to a high school kid was humiliating.
Losing to the youngest kendo prodigy in history?
That was a good story.
