The crowd roared like a storm.
Flashes burst from cameras in every corner.
A sea of voices, banners, broadcasters shouting from sleek desks.
Not a football stadium. Not a basketball court.
Just a single table — and two players locked in war.
Ping. Pang. Ping. Pang.
Rin’s paddle moved like lightning, every motion sharp, controlled — a blur to the naked eye.
Sweat gleamed on his brow. His breath was steady. He wasn’t just playing.
He was performing.
Behind him, four teammates watched, tense. The coach said nothing — just folded arms and clenched teeth.
Then came the voices.
“But his opponent doesn’t look like one to back down,” another chimed in, calmer and more focused. “She’s reading his angles better now — starting to force him off-center.”
A third voice, deeper and more measured, added, “He’s just one clean play away from winning the tournament. One smash… and he writes his name into junior history.”
His opponent lunged, reaching wide — barely returning the ball.
It grazed the edge of her side — a weak, floating arc.
The crowd held its breath.
Rin’s eyes lit up.
“This is it,” he thought. “Just one shot and i can end this. My highlight. My Big statement.”
His fingers tightened around the paddle.
He rushed forward — shoulders twisting —
and SLAMMED the ball.
Too hard.
The ball soared past the table, didn't even graze the net.
Smack.
Not the slap of rubber on wood.
This was different — a dry, sharp smack against skin.
It struck her clean in the eye.
Her body jerked backward, the paddle slipping from her fingers as she stumbled a step back.
Her hand clutched her face.
She screamed — loud and raw, not a gasp or yelp, but a cry that sliced through the gym like a blade.
The crowd fell into stunned silence.
Then, chaos.
People surged forward — coaches, staff, sprinting from the sidelines. The coach’s clipboard clattered to the floor. A girl in the audience covered her mouth. One of the boys beside her swore under his breath.
She dropped to her knees, sobbing hard, rocking slightly, fingers still digging into her face as tears spilled freely. Her hair clung to her cheeks, damp with sweat and pain. Blood rimmed the corner of her eyelid — thin, but vivid under the bright lights.
The referee called for time, waving his hands wildly. One of the staff members reached her first, kneeling beside her and trying to pry her hand away to check the damage.
Cameras stopped flashing.
Phones lowered.
The energy that once fed the arena was gone — smothered by one hit.
Rin didn’t move.
His paddle slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the polished floor.
He was frozen. Knees trembling. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide and unfocused.
“Wait… what did I just—”
He dropped to the floor like a marionette with cut strings, sweat pouring from his brow. The noise around him blurred into static — the screaming, the footsteps, even the echo of his name being shouted by the coach.
None of it reached him.
He could only stare at his hand.
The hand that wanted to win.
The hand that couldn’t take it back.
BZZZZZZZT.
The alarm ripped through the silence.
Rin gasped awake — shirtless, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum.
His left hand flew to his eye — covering it instinctively.
“...It was just a dream.”
He sat still, staring into space.
The shadows of the room stretched across old walls.
Books scattered. A layer of dust on the shelf.
There, resting quietly beside faded trophies —
his old table tennis bat.
He stared at it.
Long and hard.
A photo on the wall showed him and a few smiling faces — old friends, teammates, maybe.
One of them had been cut out. Or maybe it had just worn away.
He pushed himself off the bed, legs heavy.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face.
Then, leaning over the sink —
his two hands braced tight against the porcelain edge —
he stared at his reflection.
Dead eyes and Dripping hair.
Steam curled through the air, rising around him like mist as Rin stared into the mirror, water running from the tap.
His hands gripped the sink’s edge — tight. Pale. Trembling.
His breathing was slow, deliberate, but his eyes told a different story.
They weren’t focused. They were… haunted.
“It was just a dream…”
“Just a dream…”
And yet —
The scream.
The girl.
The flash of blood beneath the lights.
People rushing in.
The silence that followed.
It all played again.
Louder this time.
“Let’s not dwell on it,” he muttered to himself. “It’s over.”
He reached forward and turned on the shower. Hot water hit his skin, grounding him.
He stood under it in silence, letting it wash everything off — the sweat, the memory, the guilt.
By the time he stepped out, his mind was a little clearer… not healed, but quiet.
He wiped down, threw on his white shirt, and pulled up his navy-blue Seiryuu trousers — the fabric crisp, the seams sharp. New term, new school.
As he stepped into the hallway, a warm scent drifted through the air — something savory, layered with dashi broth, a hint of sweetness and soy.
His stomach growled.
He followed the smell like a string.
In the kitchen, morning light spilled through the wooden shutters, painting golden lines across the floor.
At the sink stood his mother — her long dark hair tied in a loose braid, a light lavender kimono wrapped around her, sleeves rolled and damp at the edges. She was wiping her hands on a towel, humming softly.
Rin leaned on the doorway. “Mom.”
She turned, surprised — but smiling.
“Oh, Rin. You’re up early,” she said warmly. “I was just about to wake you.”
He didn’t answer at first — his eyes had already drifted to the table.
A bowl of miso soup, still steaming. A small tray with rice, pickled radish, and grilled fish.
Simple. But the aroma filled the house.
Rin walked over, sat down, and said, “Smells great. I was already sniffing it from the hallway.”
His mom gave a small laugh, stepping closer. “I made it for you.”
He dug in. Gulped. Barely paused.
Each bite hit different — not just taste, but comfort. The kind that wraps itself around you when your chest is too heavy.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, finally looking up.
She brushed a strand of hair behind his ear — a small, quiet gesture that felt older than words. Then, just as gently, she stood and returned to the sink, the soft rustle of her kimono filling the silence.
Rin set his bowl down.
“…Where’s Dad?” he asked.
Her hands moved as she wiped a dish, not missing a beat. “He left early. He said he had something to do at the office.”
Rin just nodded. No reaction. No emotion. It was the kind of answer he’d heard a hundred times.
A pause.
Then she turned, drying her hands on a towel, eyes resting on him.
“So,” she asked, “how do you feel about it?”
"Feel about what?" Rin said.
"Your new school"
He didn’t look up. Just stirred what was left of his soup.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not excited… not scared either. I just want to move on. That’s all.”
Her gaze softened. She crossed the room, kneeling beside him again. No lecture. No smile. Just presence.
“Seiryuu isn’t just any school,” she said quietly. “It’s a battlefield.”
Rin glanced sideways.
“Not one with swords or guns. But with minds. And pride. And heart.”
She placed a warm hand over his.
“Some will lift you. Others will try to crush you. But remember—who you are now… doesn’t have to be who you’ll become.”
She stood back up, brushing his shoulder as she passed, then added:
“You don’t need to be perfect today. Just brave enough to keep going"
The warmth of her words lingered in the air, heavier than the steam still drifting from his bowl.
Rin didn’t reply — he couldn’t.
He just sat there for a moment longer, staring at the food, the table, the light slicing through the shutters.
It felt like the kind of morning you wanted to live in a little longer.
But time wouldn’t stop.
He rose quietly, slid his chair back without a sound, and carried his bowl to the sink.
As he rinsed it, his voice came out softer than usual.
“…Thanks for the food.”
His mother, now folding the towel neatly by the window, gave a gentle nod. “Of course.”
He stepped out of the kitchen and down the hall, the wood creaking faintly beneath his feet. The shadows were still cool from the morning air, but the light was rising.
In his room, he picked up his school bag. Ran a hand over the old paddle still resting on the shelf.
Then he turned, walked back to the door, and slid into his shoes.
As he stood in the entryway, one hand resting on the knob, he called out:
“I’m heading out now.”
His mother peeked from the kitchen, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Rin,” she said, voice light but steady.
“No need to match them. Just keep up at your own pace.”
He paused, hand tightening slightly on the handle.
Then gave her a small wave — almost a salute.
And with that, he opened the door.
The morning hit him — crisp air, scattered clouds, the sound of distant cars and bird calls.
It wasn’t loud… but it wasn’t quiet either.
It was just the beginning.
-----
The city was slowly waking. Distant chatter. Barking dogs. A bike bell somewhere far off.
Rin’s mind was quieter.
His mother’s words still echoed in pieces —
You don’t need to be perfect… Just brave enough to keep going…
They didn’t fix anything.
But they helped.
He reached the bus stop and stood under the faded shelter. The metal was cold beneath his fingertips. A few other people were already there — a schoolboy tapping on his phone, an older man sipping coffee from a thermos, and an elderly woman holding a shopping bag.
The minutes passed slowly.
Then came the rumble.
The bus arrived in a soft hiss of brakes.
Rin stepped on, nodding politely at the driver, and made his way toward the back.
That’s when it happened.
“Can you not?” a girl snapped — loud enough for everyone to hear.
Rin turned his head.
The girl wore a Seiryuu blazer, nails done, phone in one hand, annoyance in the other. She glared at the elderly woman who had just tried to sit beside her.
“There’s literally space at the front,” the girl said, her tone dry and venom-laced. “Why would you sit here?”
The old woman blinked in confusion, her hand still clutching the seat’s edge.
“I just don’t want someone all wrinkled and shaky breathing on me,” the girl added, rolling her eyes.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was thick.
Uncomfortable.
Then — a quiet rustle.
A middle-aged woman nearby stood and offered her seat to the old woman without a word.
The old woman hesitated, then moved over slowly, trying to smile. She didn’t quite manage it.
Another passenger — a man in a worn suit — muttered under his breath, “This generation…”
The girl popped in one earbud and turned to the window, like the moment never happened.
Rin hadn’t even sat down yet.
He stood there, one hand still on the seat handle in front of him, caught in the heavy silence the girl left behind — like smoke after a firework.
The old woman now sat near the front, quiet, her hands resting tightly on her lap. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
The middle-aged woman who had offered the seat just stared out the window, jaw set, expression unreadable.
Rin's grip on the handle tightened for a moment.
Not in anger.
Not in fear.
Just… thought.
> “That’s who I’ll be sharing a school with.”
No one said anything more.
The bus bumped forward. The engine hummed like it wanted to drown out what just happened.
Rin finally moved.
He walked down the aisle, slow and steady, like stepping through invisible glass.
When he reached the back row, he slid into the corner seat, his bag still hanging over one shoulder.
His eyes stayed on the window — but he wasn’t looking outside.
“That old woman… she didn’t even fight back. Just gave in.” He thought.
It wasn’t just the insult that stuck with him. It was the ease of it. The way the girl threw words like they didn’t weigh anything — like people were beneath her by default.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose, then leaned his head back, letting the rhythm of the bus carry his thoughts forward.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. The bus stopped twice, students and adults getting on and off, but the tension from that one moment still lingered in the air.
-----
The bus rolled to a gradual stop with a soft hiss of its brakes. A silence fell over the passengers—not the awkward kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that happens when something big is just ahead.
Outside the window, the early sunlight bathed everything in a golden hue. And there it was.
Seiryuu Academy.
It wasn’t just a school—it was a monument.
Beyond the wide silver gates stood a sprawling campus too polished to be real. Towering glass buildings reflected the sky like mirrors. Sculpted hedges lined the stone walkways with painful precision. A fountain in the shape of a coiling dragon sprayed mist into the air, glinting like shards of light.
Rin stared.
Not because he was impressed—though he was. But because this didn’t look like a place meant for someone like him.
The door opened with a hydraulic sigh. One by one, students stepped out.
The girl from the bus rose without a word and stepped into the aisle. Rin followed a few steps behind, unsure if the weight in his chest was anxiety or just exhaustion.
As they descended the steps and their shoes touched the paved landing, a soft breeze swept through the air, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass, new money, and something sharp—like ambition.
For a moment, Rin just stood there, adjusting the strap on his bag, eyes locked on the gate ahead. The academy loomed behind it, flawless and cold.
He whispered to himself, “So this is where it begins.”
Security guards flanked the massive iron gates of Seiryuu Academy, standing stiff in sharp navy uniforms with scanners in hand. Every student that approached was met with a nod, a flash of ID, and a thorough sweep. Behind the steel gates stood a campus that looked less like a school and more like the entrance to an elite city—glass towers gleamed under the morning sun, and a manicured garden unfurled like a royal courtyard.
Rin approached quietly, shoulders slouched under the weight of his bag, trying not to draw attention. The hum of conversation surrounded him—laughter, nerves, excitement—but it all felt distant.
Just ahead of him, the girl from the bus stood tall, chin tilted as she handed over a silver-etched ID card. No hesitation, no words. The guards barely scanned it before stepping aside.
Then she paused. Her gaze flicked back.
"...You're attending Seiryuu too?"
Her voice was emotionless, but her eyes scanned him with surgical precision. Rin gave a slight nod, hesitant.
She stared for a beat longer—like she was trying to remember something about him—and then turned without another word, walking through the gates like they belonged to her.
Rin exhaled. His turn.
He stepped forward, fumbling with his ID. The guard took it, scanned it, then looked Rin over once.
"You're cleared. Welcome to Seiryuu."
As the gate creaked open for him, Rin muttered under his breath, "Yeah... this isn't going to be easy."
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