Inside the judo club’s locker room.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, disinfectant, and pain-relief ointment.
It was a space used exclusively by the male members of the club.
“Please, have a seat.”
“I’m sorry it’s a little cramped.”
The judo club captain, Daiki Oki, pulled out a folding chair for Hanayama before pouring hot tea into a paper cup from the electric kettle in the corner.
“Here.”
“It’s just cheap tea the club buys in bulk.”
“I apologize.”
It couldn’t compare to the carefully prepared matcha Hanayama had enjoyed at the Tea Ceremony Club.
The tea was inexpensive.
Plain.
Almost bitter.
Hanayama accepted it without complaint.
He quietly took a sip.
“…Thank you.”
After setting the paper cup down, he looked directly at Oki.
“You brought me somewhere private.”
“That means what you’re about to tell me isn’t something you can openly discuss in the hallway.”
Oki nodded seriously.
“You’ve noticed the surveillance cameras all over campus, haven’t you?”
“The school doesn’t allow upperclassmen to openly explain its real system to first-year students.”
He folded his arms.
“Right now, you freshmen probably think you’ll receive one hundred thousand points every month.”
“But that’s completely wrong.”
“This school doesn’t hand out rewards for free.”
“It’s entirely merit-based.”
The atmosphere in the room grew noticeably heavier.
“The school evaluates every class using something called Class Points.”
“Attendance.”
“Academic performance.”
“Late arrivals.”
“Absences.”
“Classroom behavior.”
“Everything affects your class’s score.”
“At the end of every month…”
“The school totals your class points.”
He held up a finger.
“Then the amount deposited into each student’s account the following month is calculated by multiplying those class points by one hundred.”
Hanayama’s mind immediately began calculating.
(Each first-year student currently receives 100,000 points.)
(That means every class must have started with…)
(1,000 Class Points.)
Then another thought followed.
(If a class loses all of its Class Points…)
He quietly spoke the answer aloud.
“Zero…”
“Times one hundred…”
“…equals zero.”
Oki nodded gravely.
“Exactly.”
“No points.”
“No monthly allowance.”
“Nothing.”
“The only thing left is surviving on the school’s free meals and free supplies.”
He leaned forward.
“Our judo club competes in official tournaments.”
“Outstanding results can contribute positively to the school—and to your class.”
He looked directly at Hanayama.
“You have an incredible body.”
“If you trained seriously…”
“You could absolutely compete at the national level.”
“You’d earn recognition.”
“You’d help your class.”
“So…”
“What do you think?”
Hanayama remained silent.
His hands stayed inside his pockets as he looked thoughtfully toward the ceiling.
(So…)
(One student’s laziness can drag down an entire class.)
(Interesting.)
The system was surprisingly ruthless.
After several moments, he looked back at Oki.
“Senior.”
“I appreciate you explaining all of this.”
“You’ve shared valuable information.”
He slowly stood.
His enormous frame seemed to fill the already cramped locker room.
“But…”
“I have to decline.”
Oki blinked.
“…Why?”
“I’ve just explained what’s at stake.”
“This isn’t only about you.”
“It’s about your entire class.”
Hanayama calmly answered.
“If I joined solely to earn points…”
“I’d simply be using my natural strength to defeat ordinary students.”
“I can’t respect that.”
He shook his head once.
“Food earned by bullying the weak leaves a bitter taste.”
“I don’t want it.”
His words carried no arrogance.
Only conviction.
He had been born extraordinarily strong.
To him…
Strength existed to protect.
Not to exploit.
For a brief instant…
Silence filled the room.
Then—
Thump.
Oki stepped forward. This story is hosted at g.com.
The friendly smile he’d worn throughout the conversation vanished.
In its place remained only the quiet pride of a martial artist.
“…Bullying the weak?”
His voice had dropped noticeably.
“So…”
“That’s what you think of judo?”
Hanayama met his gaze calmly.
Oki slowly tightened his black belt.
“I’ll admit…”
“Your physique is unbelievable.”
“But…”
“You’re still an amateur.”
His eyes burned with determination.
“Don’t underestimate judo.”
Judo was never about overwhelming strength.
It was a martial art founded upon technique.
Leverage.
Balance.
Timing.
The principle that softness overcomes hardness.
No matter how powerful someone’s muscles were…
Every human being still relied upon balance.
A skilled judoka needed only to disturb that balance for a single instant.
Once an opponent’s center of gravity shifted…
Their own body weight became the weapon that brought them down.
Oki spoke with absolute confidence.
“You’ve got incredible strength.”
“But strength without technique is incomplete.”
“If you don’t understand how your own body moves…”
“Then even a giant can be thrown.”
He smiled.
“I’d like to test that.”
It wasn’t a provocation.
It was a challenge.
One martial artist staking his lifelong training against overwhelming natural talent.
Hanayama smiled faintly.
“…Very well.”
The two moved to the judo dojo.
The spacious practice hall was empty.
Only the soft tatami mats stretched beneath their feet.
Hanayama stepped into the center.
He assumed no fighting stance.
His feet rested naturally beneath his shoulders.
His arms hung loosely at his sides.
He simply…
Stood there.
Across from him, Oki adjusted his belt one final time.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
Unlike Hanayama…
He was fully prepared.
(I’m not going to compete with him physically.)
(I’ll attack his balance.)
(No matter how enormous he is…)
(If I can break his center of gravity…)
(He’ll fall.)
“Haaah!”
Oki exploded forward.
His footwork was sharp.
His approach precise.
In a single instant, he closed the distance.
His hands shot forward.
One seized Hanayama’s sleeve.
The other gripped his collar.
(Got him!)
(Now I’ll pull his upper body off balance—!)
Using every ounce of his eighty-kilogram frame, Oki twisted his hips and pulled with textbook precision, attempting to break Hanayama’s posture in one fluid motion.
Using the principles of leverage, Oki planted his feet firmly on the tatami and used his ankles as a fulcrum.
With a sharp burst of power, the muscles in his back and latissimus dorsi contracted all at once.
Normally, that movement alone would be enough to pull an opponent’s upper body forward, disrupting their balance and creating the opening for a throw.
It was one of the fundamental principles of judo.
However—
“…!?”
Oki’s expression froze.
Hanayama hadn’t moved.
Not even a single millimeter.
The force Oki poured into the throw simply vanished the instant it reached Hanayama’s body.
It was as though everything he exerted had been swallowed by a bottomless abyss.
(How…!?)
(The leverage isn’t working!)
The principle of leverage depended on the opponent’s body yielding.
Muscles stretched.
Joints shifted.
Balance changed.
But Kaoru Hanayama’s body refused to cooperate with those laws.
His muscles were packed with extraordinary density.
His skeleton felt less like bone and more like steel pillars driven deep into bedrock.
Whether pushed or pulled…
His center of gravity never left the space directly beneath his feet.
It was immovable.
“Raaah!”
Oki refused to give up.
He immediately flowed into another technique.
Then another.
Ō-soto-gari.
Uchi-mata.
Seoi-nage.
Every throw he had mastered came one after another in rapid succession.
He hooked Hanayama’s leg.
Twisted his hips.
Pulled with explosive force.
Attempted to redirect the giant’s weight using textbook precision.
Thump!
Creak…!
The fabric of Oki’s judogi groaned under the strain.
His muscles burned.
Every movement demanded everything his years of training had built.
Yet Hanayama…
Simply stood there.
His expression never changed.
His hands never left his pockets.
He looked less like a person resisting an attack…
And more like a mountain quietly enduring the wind.
To Hanayama…
Oki’s desperate efforts resembled puppies trying to push over an elephant.
Not once did he counter.
He merely endured every technique.
“Haa…”
“Haa…”
“Haa…”
Several minutes later…
Oki staggered backward.
Bent over.
Gasping desperately for air.
His forearms trembled violently.
His fingers had been rubbed raw from gripping Hanayama’s uniform over and over.
Tiny streaks of blood stained the sleeves of his judogi.
They were proof of how completely he had committed himself.
Meanwhile…
Hanayama’s uniform was only slightly wrinkled.
His breathing remained perfectly steady.
Not a single bead of sweat had appeared on his brow.
“…Is that all, Captain?”
Hanayama finally spoke.
There was no ridicule in his voice.
No arrogance.
Only a calm question.
A simple acknowledgment that the exchange had ended.
“…Monster…”
Oki stared at him in disbelief.
“What…are you?”
“Your body…”
“It doesn’t move at all…”
At that moment…
Hanayama slowly withdrew his hands from his pockets.
The atmosphere in the dojo changed instantly.
It felt as though an enormous sleeping beast had opened its eyes.
Without any flourish…
Hanayama reached forward.
His massive hands rested casually on Oki’s shoulders.
“W-What…?”
The next instant—
Oki’s feet left the ground.
There was no throw.
No complicated technique.
Hanayama didn’t lower his hips.
He didn’t bend his knees.
He didn’t rotate his waist.
He simply…
Lifted.
Using nothing but the strength of his arms and grip, he effortlessly raised the eighty-kilogram judoka until he hung horizontally in the air at chest level.
(Impossible…!)
(He’s lifting me…!)
(With nothing but arm strength!?)
(No human should be capable of this!)
Dangling helplessly in midair…
Oki felt something inside him quietly break.
Years of relentless training.
Countless hours perfecting technique.
Every lesson he’d learned about leverage and efficiency…
All of it seemed insignificant before the overwhelming reality of Hanayama’s raw physical power.
This wasn’t technique.
It was absolute strength.
The kind of strength that crushed theory itself.
Oki closed his eyes.
He braced himself.
If Hanayama slammed him onto the tatami from this height…
Broken bones would be the least of his worries.
But—
Instead…
He felt himself descending.
Slowly.
Gently.
Hanayama carefully lowered him onto the mat with the same care one might use when placing a sleeping child into bed.
“…Huh?”
Oki blinked.
By the time he opened his eyes…
Hanayama had already slipped his hands back into his pockets.
His broad back faced the dojo as he calmly walked toward the exit.
Without looking back, he spoke.
“Captain.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“You possess genuine skill.”
His words carried no pity.
Nor were they spoken to comfort the defeated.
They were sincere.
The highest respect Hanayama could offer a martial artist who had challenged him honestly without abandoning his convictions.
Oki remained seated on the tatami, silently watching the giant’s retreating figure.
Surprisingly…
He felt no humiliation.
Only relief that he was still standing.
And a profound sense of awe.
For the first time in his life…
He had witnessed strength so overwhelming that it lay beyond the reach of technique itself.