Takahiro (3)

King of the Field was a game Ray came up with when we were kids—a simple yet brutal test of skill, endurance, and pride. The rules were straightforward: one person stood in the field, claiming it as their turf. Challengers would step forward, one by one, and fight to dethrone the King. Win, and you took the throne. Lose, and you were kicked out of the field.

The cycle continued, with the King defending his title against endless waves of challengers. You could fight as many times as you wanted—until exhaustion, strategy, or pure grit decided the true ruler of the field. This wasn't just a game; it was training. It built stamina, endurance, reaction time, and combat instincts. It punished weakness and rewarded adaptability.

We stood in the yard, wooden swords in hand, our breaths steady, eyes locked on Yushiro—the current King of the Field. He held his weapon lightly in one hand, standing in his usual relaxed stance. Confidence oozed from him, his posture effortless, movements loose and unreadable.

Facing him was Kenji, gripping his sword with both hands, knuckles tight around the hilt.

Kenji charged first, his attacks powerful, each strike carrying raw force and intent. Yushiro moved like water, dodging, parrying, and sidestepping with effortless precision. He didn't just evade—he danced around the attacks, his fluid motions frustratingly casual.

Kenji's expression twisted, annoyed—not just by Yushiro's evasions, but by the smug grin plastered on his face. Frustration boiling over, Kenji raised his sword overhead and brought it down in a powerful arc.

Too wide. Too obvious.

Yushiro easily sidestepped, his sword already raised. A cold press of wood tapped against Kenji's neck.

Kenji clicked his tongue in irritation, lowering his weapon in defeat. Yushiro simply shrugged, the grin never leaving his face.

As soon as they finished, I stepped forward.

Yushiro and I locked eyes, taking our stances across from each other. The world seemed to slow for a moment—then I exploded forward, closing the distance between us in an instant.

I swung.

Yushiro dodged. He backstepped, sidestepped, parried effortlessly. Every attack I threw, he read before it even landed. But I didn't stop. I pressed forward, relentless, forcing him to stay on the defensive.

Seconds turned into minutes. Eight minutes passed, my muscles burned, and sweat dripped down my face. My breathing grew heavy, my strikes less precise—but I refused to let up.

Then, his stance shifted.

I barely had a moment to react before he attacked—a sharp vertical slash coming down at me.

I raised my sword just in time, blocking it, the impact jolting through my arms. I countered instantly, but he was faster—his sword deflected mine, twisting into a counterattack that I couldn't evade.

From a distance, Kenji watched, eyes narrowed.

I was fast. Faster than most. Some even called me a prodigy with the sword. But speed meant nothing if your opponent already knew where your attack was going to land. And Yushiro?

He could read me too well.

My swings grew more desperate, each strike aimed with precision, yet still missing by inches. Yushiro no longer even needed to block—he simply moved, just enough to let my blade pass harmlessly by.

Then, he stopped using his sword altogether.

A taunt. A challenge. Mockery.

I gritted my teeth, but my body was failing me. My lungs burned, every breath like fire. Sweat blurred my vision, dripping into my eyes, stinging like salt. My arms ached, my legs shook, but I kept my focus locked on Yushiro.

I couldn't afford to look away. Not for a second.

Not when he was still the King of the Field.