Pushing and falling Part 2

As I stare across the mat, I see a girl. If I'm not mistaken, her name is... Tanaka Mei. A second year, petite but with steel in her eyes. She bows to me, and I quickly return the gesture. 

"Hajime!" Satoru, who is acting as the judge for our match while Yamamoto-sensei is busy with Akimura's match, calls out the start signal.

I freeze for a split second as I face Tanaka Mei. Everything in me recoils—she is a girl, after all. My chest tightens, and I can almost hear a faint "don't do it" whisper in my skull.

Oh, this is going to be awkward.

Across the mat, I steal a glance at Akimura's bout with Kuroda Yūki. Kuroda is relentless, his grips precise, his hips snapping in for a throw. Akimura digs in his heels, bracing that mountain of a frame against every attempt. Back-and-forth they go, neither yielding an inch—an evenly matched tug of war between technique and raw power.

"Don't let your guard down!" The girls' voice cuts through my haze.

"Wah?" I blink, and there she is—eyes blazing, stance low. She sweeps her leg in a smooth arc: a textbook Deashi Harai aimed at my front foot.

I try to shift my weight to counter her move but it's too late. My foot is brushed aside, and I pitch forward. Time seems to slow as I twist, desperate to tuck and roll, but my back tilts toward the mat.

Thud.

The shock rattles every bone, but I manage to catch most of the fall on my hip and side. My shoulders never hit flat.

"Waza-ari!" Satoru's call is almost drowned out by the collective gasp of the club.

I lie there a moment, the air of my breath rasping in my lungs, staring at the ceiling lanterns. The girl closes in, intent on capitalizing on my momentary vulnerability. A chokehold, perhaps? Not on my watch. A slow grin spreads across my face.

"I'm not done yet," I murmur, my voice low and menacing.

Before she can react, I explode into motion. My leg snaps upwards, a swift, unexpected kick aimed directly at her chin.

"!"

Her eyes widen in surprise. She's forced to abandon her attack, leaping back just as my heel whistles past where her head had been a moment before. A ripple of whispers spreads through the onlookers.

I push myself to my feet, the grin still plastered on my face. The earlier hesitation is gone, replaced by a cold determination. 

Let's see, what do you think about this?

I feint left, then right, mimicking a complex footwork pattern I vaguely remember from a judo documentary.

Look at me! I'm a judo master! Or at least, I play one on TV.

"Osoto gari!" I shout, attempting a clumsy sweep that the girl easily sidesteps. Undeterred, I spin around, nearly losing my balance in the process. "Uchi mata!" I yell, my arm flailing wildly as I try to execute a throw I've only ever seen performed in slow motion.

"Shiroi," Satoru calls out, his voice laced with warning. "Stop shouting. It's distracting."

"But shouting helps me focus!" I protest, my voice full of mock sincerity. "It channels my inner judo spirit!" 

Satoru pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Shido! For unnecessary talking."

"EHH!?"

The penalty hits me harder than the realization that I have no idea what I'm doing. 

Distracted by the penalty, I fail to notice the girl's approach. A sudden, powerful force lifts me off my feet. The world spins, and I'm airborne for a heart-stopping moment before crashing down onto the mat with a bone-jarring thud.

"Ippon!"

I lie there, winded, staring up at the dojo ceiling. The lights seem to mock me with their indifferent glow.

"Damn it."

Note to self: finish the damn documentary.

The dojo buzzes with the aftermath of the matches, the air heavy with exertion and the soft thud of feet on the tatami. I stand off to the side, my gi slightly askew, still catching my breath from the latest defeat.

Across from me, Tanaka Mei—the girl who just bested me steps back and offers a deep, respectful bow. 

"Thank you for the match, Shiroi-san," she says, her voice polite yet edged with cheer. "I'm so glad I won't have to face those extra lessons!"

Her eyes scream "suck it" in fluent passive-aggressive.

I return the bow, though my expression teeters between a forced smile and a wince. "Yeah, congrats," I mutter, rubbing my neck where her grip had clamped down like iron.

Tch! You cheeky damn girl.

As she walks off, her step noticeably lighter, my gaze drifts inward. Two losses down. One more, and I'm in the red zone. Extra lessons with Yamamoto-sensei. The thought lands like a poorly executed throw: heavy and unwelcome. Perfect. Nothing says 'fun' like more time getting flipped by the human equivalent of a brick wall.

Before I can spiral too far, a familiar voice breaks through. "Woo! That was a though one!" Akimura ambles over, his broad frame radiating a mix of exhaustion and triumph, a grin stretching across his face. "But I won with an ippon!"

My head snaps up, surprise cutting through my gloom. "Wait, you beat Kuroda? The 3-dan?"

Akimura nods, his grin turning smug but warm. "Yup. Size and strength, baby! That's how it's done!"

I stare at him, a slow realization dawning. "So, you're saying brute force can actually win?"

Akimura shrugs. "Sometimes brains beat brawn. Sometimes brawn... well, you get the picture." He winks.

"But that's why they have weight classes, right?" Akimura continues, warming to his topic. "And not just in judo, but in every martial art and combat sport out there. It's incredibly tough to overcome that gap with skill alone, especially if the bigger fighter knows what they're doing."

He pauses, his gaze drifting towards Yamamoto-sensei, who's now overseeing the remaining matches.

"Take Yamamoto-sensei, for example. He's 188 cm tall, over 85 kg, and a 7-dan. That's not just size and power—he's got technique too, a lethal combination. For some tiny guy to beat that? They'd have to be a complete freak of nature. Like, once-in-a-generation talent. Just thinking about someone that talented gives me goosebumps, but honestly, I don't think it's possible."

"Yeah, I guess so."

I listen closely, I think I'm starting to understand this individual. He is the classic example of an individual overly reliant on inherent physical advantages. His pride in his size and strength are evident, bordering on boastful. While this confidence can be an asset in certain situations, it also reveals a potential blind spot. He appears to lack a nuanced understanding of strategic combat, assuming that physical dominance is the primary determinant of victory.

His open admiration for Yamamoto-sensei further reinforces this observation. He views Yamamoto-sensei as the pinnacle of judo prowess, likely due to the sensei's combination of physical dominance and high-level technique. This suggests his hierarchical worldview where strength and rank are paramount.

He has a point, but partly. If he really thinks that size and strength are what matters the most, then that kind of naive mentality will hinder his potential for growth. 

"Hey, Akimura."

"Yeah?" He turns, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion.

"Sorry if this is sudden, but... why'd you really come here? Like deep down." I ask.

He bursts out laughing, a booming sound that echoes through the dojo. "Seriously, Shiroi? That's your question? Isn't it obvious? One hundred percent employment rate! Guaranteed university entrance! Plus," he adds with a grin.

"I get to train with the Yamamoto-sensei. Best judo instructor in Japan!" He claps me on the shoulder again. "Dude, that's a no-brainer."

A no-brainer, huh? So, no deeper motivations. No hidden agendas. Just simple, straightforward ambition. Even more naive than I thought.

"Yeah, dumb question. My bad."

We watch as the remaining matches play out. Saito Haru slouches on the mat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw clenches, and a sharp "Tch!" escapes his lips—his frustration from losing to Satoru earlier still burning hot. That defeat didn't just sting; it cost him his shot at the tournament, and the bitterness is written all over his face.

His eyes narrow as he spots his opponent stepping onto the mat—a scrawny first-year adjusting his judogi with shaky hands. 

Oh, wait. That's the kid who tripped during warm-ups. Ugh you clumsy little—!

"Why do I have to match up against a weakling like you?" Saito snaps. His voice drips with disdain as he glares at the first-year, who flinches under the weight of his stare. Saito's head swivels toward Satoru, now standing in the judge's position.

Satoru doesn't even glance back, just adjusts his stance and prepares to start the match. The dismissal only fuels Saito's irritation.

The first-year shuffles forward, bowing awkwardly. "I-I'll—uh—do my bestest, senpai...?" he mumbles, his voice trembling as much as his hands.

"Whatever," Saito mutters, stepping onto the mat with a scowl.

Satoru raises his hand. "Hajime!"

The match begins, and the first-year makes a desperate move, lunging at Saito with a poorly executed throw attempt.

"NGH...!" His grip is weak, his stance wobbly—he doesn't budge Saito an inch.

"..." The upperclassmen stands there, immovable, his expression darkening with boredom. The kid grunts, tugging harder, but it's like pulling on a steel pole.

"Use your back more to do it!" Saito shouts, his patience gone. Before the first-year can react, Saito delivers a swift kick to his backside. The kid stumbles forward with a yelp, and in one smooth motion, Saito hooks his leg and flips him onto the mat with a textbook judo move. The thud of the fall reverberates through the dojo.

"Ippon!" Satoru calls, his tone flat and detached.

Saito straightens up, looming over the crumpled first-year. "Just looking at you pisses me off," he growls under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. He shoots a venomous glance at Satoru who still doesn't react before turning on his heel and stalking off the mat.

Yamamoto-sensei claps his hands, bringing the dojo to attention.

"Okay, that was it. You've all trained well today," he says, his voice carrying a note of approval.

"Now, for the final matches." He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the assembled students. "Due to the enthusiasm displayed in some of the earlier matches," his eyes flick to me for a brief, pointed moment.

"The final rounds will be held separately. Winners' bracket first, followed by the losers' bracket."

"Akimura," Yamamoto-sensei continues, "you will face Satoru."

Akimura's face lights up, a wide grin splitting his features. He pumps his fist in the air. "Yoshaaa! Finally! A chance to test my strength against the best!"

He turns to me, his eyes shining with excitement. "Shiroi! Watch closely! This is gonna be legendary!"

"Good luck, Akimura," I say, not bothering to suppress my amused smile.

This will be good. The overly enthusiastic human bulldozer versus the stoic precision of a 4-dan. I lean back against the wall, already mentally preparing popcorn.

The dojo is a cauldron of tension, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken stakes. Students lines the edges of the mat, their whispers buzzing like static, others are placing bets, speculating on the outcome. The worn mat stretches out before them, a battlefield under the harsh fluorescent lights.

At its center Akimura steps onto the mat, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a quiet intensity. He takes a deep breath, his eyes fixed on Satoru. (Akimura's POV) I have to win this—for the sake of my ambition. His eyes are blazed with determination, locking onto his opponent as he clenches his fist.

On the opposite side, Satoru stands in silence, his posture relaxed yet razor-sharp and his silence is somewhat a subtle form of intimidation.

Yamamoto-sensei's voice cut through the stillness. "Bow to each other."

They bow, a fleeting moment of respect before the storm. Akimura straightens, his voice breaking the quiet. "Satoru, I always knew we'd face each other eventually. I'm glad it's finally happening."

Satoru tilts his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "Touching. But I can't say I share your enthusiasm." he responds in a cool tone.

"For me, this is just another match. And I'll show you the gap between us." His words are a blade that slices through Akimura's enthusiasm.

A touch of irritation crosses over Akimura's features, but he swallows the sting, letting it fuel him. Some students of the crowd lean forward, others murmur.

"Satoru's gonna crush that chunker." one whispers.

"At least he'll make a satisfying thud when he hits the mats." another replies, smirking.

"Hajime!" Yamamoto-sensei calls out, and the match explodes into motion.

"Oraaaaa!"

Akimura charges like a runaway truck, his meaty hands clawing for Satoru's judogi. His grip clamps down as he leans in with all his bulk, aiming to shove Satoru straight off the mat.

I lounge against the wall, arms crossed, and my sharp eyes glinting. There it is, Akimura's go-to: raw power, no finesse. Thinks he can steamroll anything that moves. Predictable as hell.

A faint gasp ripples through the students as Satoru sidesteps, his feet gliding across the tatami. With a deft hip twist, he channels Akimura's momentum past him, narrowly preventing a Shido.

Oh, that's juicy. But Satoru's not stupid enough to meet force with force. He's letting the big oaf tire himself out, and then counter him with finesse. Nice play!

Satoru seizes the moment, his stance tightening. He slipps an arm under Akimura's, hooking a leg for an Uchi Mata and aiming to hoist Akimura's bulk off-balance. His execution is crisp, every angle precise, but— 

"Hm?!" Akimura's sheer mass anchors him like a boulder. The throw stalls, Satoru's leg trembling against the immovable wall of muscle.

Oof, rough break, I muse, my fingers drumming my chin. 

Akimura snorts, his pride flaring. "Hah! That's all you got?" he growls, flexing his arms as he shakes off the attempt.

Fueled by ego, Akimura roars and lunges again, this time intending to wrap his thick arms around Satoru's torso in a smothering bear hug. He heaves, intending to slam Satoru down with brute force. A student whispers, "He's done for!" as the crowd tenses.

But Satoru reacts like lightning. He sinks his hips, grounding himself, then wriggles free just before Akimura's grasp could make its mark, slipping away like a oiled-up eel. Akimura stumbles forward from his own momentum, while Satoru gracefully retreats, maintaining his distance, his breathing controlled and steady, his eyes locked on his opponent.

Akimura whirls, fuming. "Tsk. Quit dancing around!" he barks. 

The air crackles with tension as they circle, the match poised on a knife's edge. Hmm... Satoru seems quite calm, I wonder if he's noticed Akimura's obvious and simple weakness yet.

Akimura stops attacking, taking his time to rest. His broad frame is rooted in a defensive stance and his chest heaves with labored breaths, with sweat beading on his brow.

Satoru notices the signs, his expression turning cautionary as he cautiously encircles his foe like a predator watching a weary prey. He can see the signs of fatigue starting to set in on Akimura's body.

He's running on fumes, Satoru thinks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. With a sudden, explosive step, Satoru launches his assault.

The barrage begins with precision. Satoru darts in, his hands snaking out to grasp Akimura's gi at the sleeve and chest. He tugs sharply, feinting a throw, then releasing and striking again with quick, relentless grips that forces Akimura to react.

A shove here, a pull there each move is a calculated jab, designed to drain what little energy Akimura has left. Satoru's feet dances across the mat, his 4-dan skill on full display as he chains the attacks without stopping.

"Don't piss me off!" Akimura heaves frontward into empty air. Satoru capitalizes the mistake, and his palm slaps against Akimura's sternum—not to push, but to slowly peel him like an orange. Layer by layer until—

Akimura, his mind racing to keep up, triying to stand his ground. He swings an arm to block, but it's too slow; Satoru slips past, yanking Akimura forward. Another grip, another shove—Akimura's legs buckle slightly, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

This is only natural to happen. After all, he is a fighter built for quick, decisive victories. His raw power usually ended matches before stamina became an issue. But now, that strength is a fading ember, and Satoru, sharp-eyed and relentless, is effectively taking advantage of it.

The crowd around the mat buzzes with tension. "Satoru's got him pinned!" one student mutters. 

Satoru presses harder, sensing the end. He seizes Akimura's arm, pivoting as if to execute a full throw, his movements a blur of control and intent.

Akimura's world tilts. His knees buckle, and his massive frame remains unsteady as exhaustion takes its toll. 

"Not yet!" 

With a feral roar, he musters his last bit of strength and lunges. His hand snaps outward, clutching onto Satoru's collar in a brutal grip.

"Huh?" Satoru stumbles, caught off guard for a split second, his balance faltering.

The dojo falls silent, every eye locked on the two fighters. Akimura's hand is latched onto Satoru's judo uniform, and his footing is faltering. The moment hangs, filled with tension, the outcome is now uncertain.

As Akimura grabs Satoru's gi in the midst of their judo match, his mind flashes back to a pivotal moment from his past.

It was a sunny afternoon, he was just a kindergarten kid. On the playground, he approached a group of classmates, his round face beaming with a hopeful smile.

"Do you want to be my friend?" he asked, his voice soft and earnest. But the other children hesitated, their eyes darting to his larger frame.

"Eww. He's so fat," one whispered, stepping back.

"Yeah, like a whale," another giggled, covering their mouth.

The words stung, and Akimura's smile faded. He tried to join their games like tag and hopscotch but his size made him awkward and slow in their eyes. When he accidentally broke the slide while trying to get down from there, the laughter grew louder.

"Hahahaha. Look at the fat kid!"

"Be careful. Earthquake warning!" they jeered. Feeling the weight of their rejection, Akimura's fingers dug trenches in the dirt as he scrambled upright, retreating to the edge of the playground, alone.

Days passed, each one echoing with the same isolation. One afternoon, as he trudged home with his head down, a strange sound caught his attention. Curious, he followed the noise to a small building nearby.

Peeking through the dusty window, he saw kids his age tumbling onto mats. A boy bigger than the rest grabbed his opponent's sleeve, flipped him over his shoulder, and landed him flat on the mat with a triumphant thud. The others cheered, clapping the bigger boy on the back. Akimura's eyes widened. Here, size wasn't a flaw to be made fun of—it was a strength.

Mesmerized, he pressed closer to the glass, the faint smell of sweat and polished wood seeping through the cracks. He watched as the kids paired up, regardless of height or weight, laughing and learning together. For the first time, Akimura felt a spark of belonging. This was a place where he could be himself and where he could turn his differences into power.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the door. The sensei, a sturdy man with kind eyes, looked up from the mat.

He gathered his courage and took a deep breath before speaking, his voice trembling with hope.

"Can I join?" 

The sensei nodded warmly. "Everyone's welcome here, kid."

With that, the Dojo became his safe haven. He trained relentlessly, the insults and mockery propelling him forward. He had a purpose now, a place where his strength was appreciated and his difference accepted.

Back in the present, Akimura's grip tightens on Satoru's gi. The memory of that first step into the dojo surges through him, reigniting his fire. His every muscle are trembling with exhaustion as he lunges forward once more in one final desperate attempt.

"Let go!"

Satoru is taken aback by the unexpected outburst, his footing wavers as he feels the immense force of Akimura's power while his feet are being lifted from the tatami. Akimura's heart thumps with the anticipation of victory as it seems that Satoru might just fall onto the mat.

"Grahhhh!" 

With a guttural roar, Akimura throws every ounce of his strength into pushing forward. 

"He's going to throw him!" yells a student. The tension becomes unbearable.

But Satoru doesn't panic. His eyes don't waver. He takes a deep breath, then decides to fall.

A half-smile dances on his face as he turns his body to the side. His arms clutch onto Akimura's judo gi, not out of desperation, but with purpose.

Yoko Sutemi. Side Sacrifice Technique.

Satoru indeed falls, but not alone. Like a loose pendulum, his body drags Akimura down, leveraging his own fall as a counterbalance. His leg intercepts Akimura's support, leaving the giant with no way to balance himself. The force of his own momentum becomes his downfall.

"Waza-ari!" Satoru manages to not fall in his back completely. And then, the sound of a body slamming against the mat booms like thunder.

THUD!

Akimura drops heavily onto the tatami, his eyes wide open in surprise. The room is dead silent for a moment, the only sound the ragged breathing from the two fighters.

"Ippon!" Roars Yamamoto-sensei, his arm slicing the air.

The room explodes with exclamations, applause, and suppressed breaths that finally find release. Akimura lies on the mat, panting, the ceiling of the dojo spinning above him. 

Satoru rises slowly from the floor, his breathing steady. He does not smile. Just nods once at his opponent, a gesture of respect.

The dojo burst into applause, a mix of awe and excitement at the stunning reversal. Akimura lays defeated, his chest heaving slowly, while Satoru stands tall, his composure regained and offers a curt bow.

And so, without any drama or screams, Satoru stands as the victor.

I approach the mat where Akimura lies, his back remains pressed flat against the floor, staring up at the ceiling in silence. He doesn't move, he doesn't even acknowledge me as I step closer and my shadow falls across his face.

Crouching down beside him, I tilt my head and say, "Hey, you okay down there?" My voice is casual, but there's a thread of concern woven in the gesture, something to pull him out of whatever spiral he's sinking into. I extend a hand, offering to help him up.

Akimura blinks, his eyes shifting from the ceiling to my outstretched hand. For a moment, he just stares without doing anything. Then, with a heavy sigh, he grabs my hand, his grip is firm but shaky.

He pulls himself up to his feet, brushing off his judogi as he steadies himself. His movements are slow, almost reluctant, and he avoids looking me in the eye.

"Yeah... I'm fine," he mutters, the words coming out in a gruff grumble. He runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, his shoulders slumping like the weight of defeat still presses down on him.

He stands there, tension radiating off him in waves, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He speaks again, his voice tinged with regret and disappointment.

"Gosh, I really wanted to be in that tournament," he admits, his tone filled with self-recrimination. "I thought... I thought I could just brute force my way through. But it didn't work out."

I shake my head, cutting him off before he continues. "No, you're wrong. That's not why you lost." I say in a plain tone.

My words seem to strike a chord in him. His gaze snaps to me, a mix of surprise and confusion flashing across his face.

"What are you saying?" he asks, his voice hardening defensively, "Are you mocking me? I know I lost because I was too weak."

"It's not about strength," I explain. "You lost because you believed strength is the only factor that matter. You didn't strategize, you didn't use any technique. You fought like the size alone was enough. And that's why you ended up flat on your back."

He looks at me with a puzzled expression, his brows furrowing as my words sink in. "But I thought if I was bigger, tougher, I'd win. Isn't that how it works?" he says, his tone taking on a hint of realization as he snaps his fingers.

"Oh, I get it. I'll just need to work out even more, get even stronger. Then no one will be able to beat me with their skill."

I shake my head again, a frustrated sigh escaping me. "No," I say flatly, crossing my arms. "Size is just one piece of it. You leaned on it too hard and didn't use your head. Your opponent outsmarted you, that's all."

Akimura's frown deepens, but I can see him turning it over in his mind, piecing it together.

I soften my tone a little and add, "You fought well, though. You put up a solid fight out there."

Albeit, it would've been better with a little more blood. Something to really make it memorable. 

"What strange things are you saying?," he retorts. "What's a guy doing at the bottom of the loser's bracket, giving me advice?"

I let out a soft sigh, shaking my head. I look directly at the camera, my eyes speaking volumes.

"He didn't hear a word I said!"

Akimura cocks an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "Hey, did you say something?" he asks, but I dismiss it with a shrug.

"Oh, It's nothing."

"Hpmh..." He pauses, turning his attention to my next opponent and lets out a chuckle. His eyes gleam with condescension as he speaks.

"Pfft, don't you have an easy match?", he says, his tone drenched in derision. "That guy is weak, right? You'll win no problem."

I stand with a cocky air, my gaze fixed on the last rival in the loser's bracket. The same kid who clumsily tripped over me during the warm-up and then got utterly dismantled by Saito in an earlier match. The freshman fidgets with his judogi, his awkward movements screaming inexperience.

I let out a sharp, mocking laugh, my lips curling into a smirk. "Heh. I just need to throw him with all my strength. I'm not sure if I'm even going to break any bones."

Akimura, standing nearby, claps me on the shoulder—a friendly but firm gesture. "Don't lose, alright?" he says, his voice carrying a hint of warning.

I shrug it off with a casual roll of my eyes, flicking my wrist dismissively. "Yeah. I hate homework," I let out a short laugh, though the mention of extra lessons sends a faint shiver down my spine. 

Akimura leaves the mat, leaving me and the freshmen face to face. Everyone are watching, not from interest but expecting this fight to end as quick as possible so everyone can finally rest and call it a day.

We bow to each other, the freshman's movement are stiff and hesitant, while mine is fluid.

My lips twitch into a smirk. This is going to be real quick. I'll finish this with just one movement.

I slide into my fighting stance, shoulders relaxed yet poised, exuding a quiet menace. Why? Because I AM the MC!

Yamamoto-sensei's voice rings out. "Hajime!"

The moment the word echoes through the gym, something shifts.

A hush falls over the dojo. All eyes are on me, a strange tension filling the air. A low murmur ripples through the onlookers. Even those who are tuned out by the long line of matches find themselves unable to look away.

"What... what's going on?" Saito murmurs, his voice tinged with awe.

"I... I feel scared," Akimura mutters, his eyes wide.

Silently, I take one smooth step forward. The freshman's eyes widen. Terror floods his expression as his hands tremble.

In a blur. I spring into action, my movements are the epitome of speed and precision. With lightning-fast agility, I grab the freshman's sleeve and collar, my smirk widens in anticipation.

There's no time to react, no space to breathe as I sweep the boy through the air like a whirlwind of doom.

Gasps erupt across the gym.

"So fast—!"

"What kind of technique is that?!"

But then—

In the very middle of the arc, my body twists strangely. An extra spin, a miscalculated pivot. As if my muscles have adquired free will, my hands loosen and my core untightens. Instead of hurling the freshman to the mat, I accidentally send myself airborne. And with perfect timing, I slam my own back into the tatami with a resounding thud.

"Ugh...!" The impact resonates throughout the room, and I lie motionless as a cloud of dust envelops me. The freshman stands awkwardly above me, unsure of what to do.

Yamamoto-sensei steps forward, raising an arm.

"Ippon! The winner is Katagiri-kun." His voice remains flat, devoid of any of the earlier excitement of the crowd.

"What in the world just happened?" a student whispers.

"Did that first-year really manage to pull off that move?" Akimura murmurs, scratching his head in disbelief.

"Was he that strong all this time!?"

The freshman looks down at his hands, like he's holding the sword of destiny. Then he looks around, unsure of what just happened.

"Did... did I do that?" he whispers, his finger pointed at himself as he cocks his head in confusion.

For a moment, I lie there, stunned. The dojo lights swim above me, blurry halos in the haze of my defeat. With a soft groan, I lift my upper body using my trembling arms. With a vigorous shake of my head, I attempt to rattle the dizziness away.

Then—snap!—reality crashes in. I'm on...

Ahh, I'm on the floor! My eyes pop out of my head like spring-loaded marbles, bulging so wide they can roll across the mat. My tongue shots out, flailing like a party streamer, as my jaw drops to my chest.

"Oh no. Oh no. No no no. I screwed up," I manage to sputter, my voice hoarse and rough. My body, still embedded in the mat, continues to twitch involuntarily.

Akimura, watching from the sidelines, facepalms with a groan. "Shiroi that was pathetic."

The sensei's clap echoes through the dojo, bringing the remaining students to attention. "Well, everyone," Yamamoto-sensei announces, his voice calm and authoritative.

"That concludes today's practice. Change and be on your way. Shiroi," he adds, his gaze settling on me, "you stay."

My blood runs cold. A dark cloud of dread descends, eclipsing any lingering amusement from my earlier mishap. My face pales. 

No... It can't be.

The dreaded extra training. It's... it's.... (My computer-like mind searches for a suitably dramatic comparison.)

...like staring into the abyss, and the abyss is wearing a judo gi and has a seventh-degree black belt!

Akimura grins. "Looks like someone's got a date with destiny and a whole lotta push-ups." He winks.

"See ya, Shiroi! Try not to, you know... die." He chuckles, heading towards the locker room with the rest of the students, leaving me alone with the looming figure of Yamamoto-sensei.

"Ahhh! Why me!?" I wail, throwing my arms up in the air in a dramatic display of despair.

This is worse than that time I accidentally superglued myself to a toilet seat. At least then I had an excuse to miss school.

A deep voice, close to my ear, makes me jump. "It's too late for regrets, Shiroi." I turn to see Yamamoto-sensei standing directly behind me, his face partially obscured by shadow, his right eye gleaming ominously.

As Yamamoto-sensei's tall figure casts an imposing shadow over me, my spine tingles with a distinct chill, and I swear I feel like invisible hands are clawing at my judogi, yanking me toward the training mat. The dim lights flicker in the room, casting eerie shadows that seem to dance across the walls, their figures bent and twisted like specters engaged in constant judo struggle. It's as if the very spirit of the training room is pulling me down, into the depths of this excruciating extra training session.

I try to resist, but it's futile. My heart thumps wildly, desperately pleading, "Why me?!" while the training mat looms ahead, a yawning abyss ready to consume me.