The cold water hit his skin, washing away the lingering digital warmth. Akira stepped out of the convenience store into the morning sun, feeling invincible.
But something was off. The street was quiet. No ambush, no thugs seeking payback. He looked around, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. Only shopkeepers sweeping their stoops.
Seriously? He thought of the leader's high-pitched shriek from yesterday. A kick like that, and they just give up?
He spun in a slow circle, scanning every alley. Then, almost wistfully, he threw two experimental jabs into the empty air. His fists were a blur, leaving faint afterimages with a sharp crack-crack of displaced air. Enough to knock a man cold.
What a waste. No sparring partners.
"Open for business!" he announced to no one in particular and retreated inside.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows. Akira was flipping through a magazine, bored, when a sudden urgency in the footsteps outside made him look up. A grin spread across his face.
They were back.
The weaselly lieutenant from yesterday stood at a safe distance, his voice still pitched unnaturally high. "K-Kid! The boss wants words. Got the guts to come out?"
Akira remained behind the counter, merely raising a fist in a mock punch. The lieutenant flinched, ducking behind his hands. One of the larger thugs behind him snarled in disgust and shoved the cowering man aside.
"You've got a mouth on you, brat."
SPLAT!
A beer bottle, thrown with blinding speed, shot from the store. The thug dodged, but it shattered against the skull of the man behind him with a wet crunch.
Akira emerged, leaning against the doorframe, a fresh bottle in his hand. He took a long, casual swig. "Quite the party. Uninvited, though. I'm a bit short on refreshments… but I'd be happy to book you all a stay at the public barracks." He meant jail.
The lead thug's eyes narrowed. "Quit the talk! Boys, swarm him! Wreck the place if you have to!"
A tide of nearly twenty bodies surged forward—a chaotic, roaring wave of malice.
Nearby, Saeko Busujima, her schoolbag over one shoulder and a shinai case on her back, was walking home. Her sharp kendoist's eyes took in the scene in an instant: a lone clerk about to be overwhelmed by a mob.
No time.
"A pack of jackals preying on one!" Her voice, clear and commanding, cut through the roar. "Is this your idea of strength? Face me, if you dare!"
In three fluid strides, she closed the distance, the shinai sliding from its case into her grip. Her form was perfect, her spirit fierce—a national champion's aura radiating from a school uniform.
She was fast. Terrifyingly so. The bamboo sword became a blur of brown, cracking against limbs and torsos with decisive thwacks.
But Akira was faster.
He moved with the brutal, perfected efficiency his app had granted him. No flourish, no wasted motion. A kick shattered a knee; a palm-heel strike dropped a man choking; a throw sent two more crashing into a pile. It was less a fight and more a systematic dismantling.
In five seconds, a groaning mound of bodies littered the pavement. The few still standing froze, their courage evaporating.
Akira shook out his hand, a roguish smirk on his face. "I hate waiting." His legs coiled, and he exploded forward like a sprung trap, dispatching the remaining trio before they could blink.
Those who turned to flee met the precise, sweeping arc of Saeko's shinai, dropping them neatly unconscious.
The street fell silent.
Saeko lowered her bamboo sword, breathing evenly. She offered Akira a formal, respectful bow. "I misjudged the situation. You are clearly a master. My interference was unnecessary."
Akira waved it off. "You jumped in to help. That means you get the 'Thank You' package. Don't move." He ducked back into the store and emerged, tossing her a cold bottle of orange soda. "On the house. For the assist."
Just then, a harried-looking man in a cheap, ill-fitting costume skidded to a halt. A Hero Association badge, tarnished and crooked, was pinned to his chest.
"Ahem! Is… is this the reported public disturbance?"
"Yep," Akira said.
"And… who neutralized the threats?"
"That would be me," Akira said, puffing his chest slightly, half-expecting a commendation or a bounty.
Instead, the hero's face crumpled. To both Akira and Saeko's shock, the man dropped to his knees on the dirty pavement, clasping his hands together.
"Please! I'm begging you! My performance metrics are in the gutter! One more failed intervention and I'm demoted to D-Class! My wife… she'll leave me for a B-Class sidekick!" Tears welled in his eyes. "Could you… could you let me take the credit? Just this once?"
Akira stared, utterly dumbfounded. The absurdity of this world—where heroes begged thieves for scraps of glory—was laid bare. He felt a pang of pity, but it was quickly smothered by cold pragmatism.
"I feel for you, man, I really do," Akira said, not unkindly. "But letting you fake a win here doesn't fix your problem. It just postpones the inevitable. Sorry. The answer's no."
As the dejected hero dragged himself away, Akira missed the way Saeko Busujima's eyes studied him. They held a new, intense light. In her world of strict bushido and clear honor, his actions painted a fascinating picture: Kindness. Principle. Overwhelming competence.
A dangerous combination.
A good man. The thought echoed in Saeko's mind as she watched him, a final, appreciative nod before she turned for home.
The police arrived with bureaucratic lethargy. By the time statements were taken and the groaning thugs hauled away, half an hour had bled into the evening.
"So, Busujima-san," Akira began, leaning casually against his storefront. "If I wanted to apprentice at your dojo… what's the tuition?"
Saeko paused, her analytical gaze assessing him anew. "Why seek the sword, Akira-san? Your unarmed mastery is evident."
"A ceiling feels like a ceiling," he shrugged, the truth wrapped in a half-lie. "I need a new element to synthesize. To evolve."
She considered this, the ethos of shugyō—relentless cultivation—resonating deeply. "In that case, no fee is necessary. Consider it a keiko—an exchange between practitioners."
"Too generous. A token of gratitude, at least." His eyes fell to the half-finished orange soda in her hand. "How about a daily offering? One can, delivered with my attendance."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Agreed." She produced her phone. "This is my email. I will send the dojo's particulars."
Information exchanged, they parted with formal bows. Under the amber wash of the setting sun, Saeko Busujima's silhouette—tall, straight, and powerful—was a moving painting of disciplined grace.
Back inside the convenience store's fluorescent glow, Akira's mind immediately began its corrupt translation.
Athlete-type… Busujima Saeko… Her grip strength must be incredible. The fantasy unfolded with app-assisted clarity: her disciplined form contrasting with Fubuki's calculated elegance. Together. The [Bystander] trophy activating, sensitivity redlining…
Ah—!
A shiver of anticipatory pleasure ran through him. Just the schematic of it was intoxicating.
But the practical kernel of the thought remained: If I learn kendo here, in reality, will it populate as a skill in my status panel?
It was a hypothesis worth testing. The cost was a daily can of soda. The methodology… he grinned. Next time, I'll shake it vigorously. An 'accidental' spray might trigger interesting data… reactions.
His thoughts pivoted to the kneeling hero. Are they all that pathetic? Performance reviews, quotas… glorified corporate slaves with capes. A smirk of superiority settled on his face. Good thing I'm not one.
A new, grand objective crystallized. Small goal: If I ever join that circus, I'm going straight for S-Class. The image was perfect: Fubuki, the calculative blizzard, no longer a distant B-Class queen, but forced to scramble for the hem of his jacket.
Satisfied with the trajectory of his day, he flipped the store sign to 'CLOSED' as dusk settled. The ritual called.
In the cramped attic, he lay on his futon with the devotion of a pilgrim awaiting a vision. The phone's screen glowed in the dark. The alarm chimed.
His thumb found the icon. Conquest.
In a silent rupture of reality, he was gone from the mundane world, dissolved into the data-stream of his private paradise.