Tōgō had wanted to put Hayato out of commission for a long time. This morning, that petty desire had hardened into something far more urgent: a must.
He had been summoned to the police station.
Someone had filed a complaint—accusing him of coercing a high-school girl and committing obscene acts, a list of charges that could ruin a teacher: sexual harassment, coercion, and more. Even if he somehow avoided prison, his job would be finished. Worst of all, Hayato had physical evidence.
Tōgō's face darkened as the picture in his mind sharpened. Of course it was Nanao Akane who called them in, he thought. That girl—how dare she defy him.
No, he decided. If they wanted a fight, then he would deliver one.
"Hayato, huh?" Tōgō spat the name as if it were bile. He pictured the pale, calm boy who had dared to humiliate him twice—once in the gym, once on the train. The thought of that kid standing there smug with proof burned like acid.
He curled his fingers into a fist. You think you can ruin me and walk away? Tōgō snarled silently. I'll make you regret ever crossing me. And Nanao… His lips twitched into a cruel smile. I'll take everything from you. If you think you can cling to that rootless punk forever, you've got another thing coming. Pretty body or no, you won't be faithful for long. So go ahead—stay by his side in public. I'll expose the truth, and then we'll see that pretty face when the world turns on you.
His plan formed in the dark corners of his mind like a poisonous bloom. He would go all out—no restraint, no half measures. If the law could threaten his career, then so could he threaten theirs.
Tōgō laughed quietly to himself, a sound without joy. The game had changed. Now it was personal.
Tōgō ignored the police warning and came to school like nothing had happened. If he'd already crossed the line once, what was there left to fear now? He'd long ago decided that a few more fleas on him made no difference.
He'd planned to wait for the right moment to strike at Hayato, but the moment he arrived he noticed the commotion on the sports field. He watched for a bit, lips curling into a smile.
Jackpot. A gift from the heavens.
Using his teacher's authority as a shield, he could walk up to that brat without anyone blinking an eye. Then—
"Say goodbye to your happiness for the rest of your life!!" Tōgō roared, spittle flying as he laughed like a madman.
He swung a vicious kick straight at Hayato's crotch.
Scream! Wail! Let the whole world see this helpless, pathetic creature crushed and humiliated!
Tōgō savored the idea. Even if he ended up behind bars for it, it would be worth the satisfaction.
Only… the reaction he got was not the shredding howl he'd imagined.
Hayato simply looked at him. Calm. Tilted his head a little, as if asking, What are you doing?
Tōgō blinked.
He had put everything into that kick—the kind of practiced strike a man with thirty years' experience could produce. It should have broken bones, or at least had the student doubled over in tears.
Instead—Tōgō felt agony searing up his own ankle.
What the—?
It felt like he'd kicked iron.
"Is this fun?" Hayato asked casually, still sipping his milk.
Tōgō had no words.
Hayato set the straw toward Tōgō's face and squeezed the carton.
Pfft.
White milk sprayed all over Tōgō's face.
He stood there, stunned, wiping dairy from his mouth. Then Hayato raised his right wrist.
"Bite down!" Hayato said in a voice that had gone suddenly cold. "This punch might hurt a little."
Boom.
His fist struck Tōgō full in the side of the face.
Tōgō's cheek caved in. Stars erupted across his vision. He went down like a felled tree; his head smacked the ground and two thin rivulets of blood welled from his nose.
His eyes remained open, but they were empty—unconscious or very near it.
"My dream? I'll destroy it," Hayato murmured, reciting the rival's line with a flat, almost bored tone.
He adjusted his collar with one hand, finished the milk, and calmly surveyed the stunned crowd.
Silence crashed down. Everyone's eyes were on him.
What had just happened? The only conclusion forming in people's minds was… Hayato had beaten Tōgō.
A few students pinched themselves to be sure they weren't dreaming. Nope—this was real.
Still, everyone's gaze flicked involuntarily back to Hayato's lower half. Why was he fine? How could that be?
"Hayato— you…" someone stammered.
"Hey, brat… did you—?" another demanded.
Even Miyajima Sakura and Kobayashi Ayaka glanced that way like scientists inspecting an anomaly.
"Don't worry," Hayato said with a faint smile. "I trained in Hawai'i."
He added the line with the most offhand composure imaginable.
Miyajima Sakura and Kobayashi Ayaka stared at each other, then back at him, dumbstruck.
The Baseball Club members who had swaggered out earlier were now shrinking into themselves. Their bravado, the bats they brandished—everything lost color in the wake of that one scene.
Who had told them he'd be easy? Who'd said this kid was a kept man hiding behind seniors? Their fists weren't even worthy of his scrotum; why bother?
Around them murmurs rose: They marched themselves to their graves. He's hard as nails. Is this what they mean by martial virtue?
Hayato finished his milk, looked down at Tōgō again, and muttered to himself, "That should count as self-defense, right?"
He hadn't finished thinking when two hands slid under his arms. One on the left, one on the right—guardians.
Miyajima Sakura held his left arm; Kobayashi Ayaka held his right.
"Eh?" Hayato blinked.
"Get him to the infirmary!" Ayaka snapped, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"Make way—make way!" Miyajima cried, her composure already fraying into worry.
People fell into line and opened a path before them without needing to be told twice.
"Wait—wait." Hayato, being carried like that, felt absurdly undignified. "I'm fine, really—"
"Don't be stubborn!" Ayaka barked. "I've never seen a boy kicked in that place who was okay afterwards!"
"Hayato, don't be afraid. I'll take care of you," Miyajima added, eyes watery, as if ready to gather him into her arms and refuse to ever let go.
Hayato frowned. No, no—don't do that, he thought, but—what could he say? They simply wouldn't listen.
He let them carry him anyway, and for the first time in a long while, the center of the sports field thrummed with a new kind of astonishment: Hayato had turned the tables, and he'd done it without breaking a sweat.