Kiryu Kazuma heard the sound of the front door opening and took a deep breath.
—This is it. The moment of truth! Win Chiyoko over with good food… then sell the dojo…
Truth be told, Kazuma wasn't exactly a great cook. But fooling a fourteen-year-old girl like Chiyoko shouldn't be too hard.
He had just finished adjusting his expression when Chiyoko appeared in the kitchen doorway.
"Bro, what are you up to?"
"Mapo tofu. Smells good, right?"
To the Japanese, there were basically two stereotypical Chinese dishes: Tianjin fried rice and mapo tofu.
Tianjin fried rice wasn't even a real Chinese dish, so Kazuma had no clue how to make it. Heck, he didn't even know what it was supposed to taste like. After all, he'd only been in this world for two weeks, and this family wasn't exactly rolling in cash to go eat Chinese food.
But mapo tofu—that, Kazuma could handle.
He'd specially asked the manager of the local Yaohan store to get him a jar of Guizhou chili paste. Originally, he'd wanted Lao Gan Ma, but in 1980, Granny Tao hadn't yet industrialized her craft—the Lao Gan Ma company wouldn't be founded for another sixteen years.
Even this so-called "Guizhou chili paste" was questionable in authenticity, but after tasting it, Kazuma figured it would do.
He'd already sampled the finished mapo tofu. Chiyoko was sure to love it.
Once he won her over, he had to convince her to sell the dojo!
Chiyoko sniffed deeply. "Mmm, it really does smell good. Bro, when did you learn to cook this?"
"I followed a cooking show on TV," Kazuma replied with a ready excuse.
Chiyoko eyed him suspiciously but decided to let it go. "Fine. Then I'll save the curry I bought for tomorrow. Did you cook the rice?"
"Of course!"
"And the miso soup?"
Kazuma hesitated.
—Crap, I forgot the miso soup.
Just like Cantonese folks, Japanese meals weren't complete without soup. Missing miso soup would make them feel something was off.
Especially in this family, which ran a dojo and clung tightly to tradition. They were oddly obsessive about such things.
Chiyoko sighed, tossed her schoolbag onto the dining table, and started rolling up her uniform sleeves.
It was still early spring, so the school uniform changeover hadn't happened yet. Chiyoko was wearing her winter sailor uniform from Etsukawa Girls' Middle School, with a school-issued sweater over it.
Though it was early spring, the weather here in Japan was still chilly. Kazuma himself always felt like wearing a down jacket when going out. Yet there was Chiyoko—just a sweater and her long sailor uniform top, with a short skirt below. It looked cold just to see her like that.
Kazuma had suggested several times that she wear thicker black tights, but she insisted they made her legs look fat. So she stubbornly went out in 80-denier stockings.
Her long, shapely legs peeking through sheer stockings were certainly easy on the eyes… but one glance at her face told you she was freezing.
Chiyoko donned an apron, opened the fridge, and took out some fish and kombu. "No tofu left? You should've saved a piece for the miso soup. Well, since this mapo tofu smells so good, we'll just make do today."
She deftly tossed the prepped fish into a frying pan—pan-frying it first would bring out more aroma for the miso soup.
Kazuma offered, "Why don't you take a break? I can handle it."
The mapo tofu was done, and Kazuma had nothing else to do. He didn't want to just stand around.
But Chiyoko shot him a glance and kept working without pause.
Suddenly, she asked, "Bro… you're not going to bring up selling the dojo again, are you?"
Kazuma was caught off guard.
Chiyoko sighed. "I knew it."
"Sumitomo Construction has offered seventy million yen already. If we sell the dojo, we can buy a nice condo and still have a lot of money left over…" Kazuma began persuading her.
With a slap of her spatula on the cutting board, Chiyoko sent the kitchen knife flipping into the air—but Kazuma caught it before it landed.
"Don't forget," Kazuma reminded her seriously, "you've trained in Rishin-ryū, but I'm still the acting master of this dojo."
"Oh, so now you remember you're the acting master! Weren't you the one who promised to carry on the dojo when Dad was on his deathbed?"
Kazuma groaned inwardly. That was your real brother who made that promise, not me.
The body he now inhabited wasn't originally his—it belonged to Kiryu Kazuma, a Japanese high schooler. But the soul inside was that of Wang Jian, a man from the future.
As a transmigrator from 2020 to 1980s Japan, Kazuma had a clear sense of purpose.
Since he'd come this far, he was determined to make something of himself.
He wasn't sure exactly what yet, but earning some money was definitely step one.
The family he'd landed in owned a rundown dojo—no students, no income. The adults were all gone. Now the siblings lived off their dwindling savings.
Judging from the remaining balance, it was clear the Kiryus hadn't reaped any of Japan's economic boom. The two of them had to pinch pennies just to last until Kazuma's high school graduation.
And that's assuming nothing unexpected happened. If either of them fell ill, with Japan's notoriously expensive healthcare, they'd be out on the streets.
Kazuma had to make money.
In his previous life, he'd been a paycheck-to-paycheck guy working for a thriving foreign trade company. He thought the business was solid—until the global economy took a nosedive in 2020. His company's orders vanished overnight, and it declared bankruptcy.
Kazuma was left penniless, unable to even pay rent.
Life's harsh lessons were now etched into his very bones.
This time, he swore to be prepared—build up a good savings cushion first. The more, the better.
So after sizing up the situation, his first plan was to make money.
And the fastest way was to sell the dojo.
Japan was just entering the glitzy, booming 1980s. Development was happening everywhere. The Kiryu dojo sat right in a newly designated redevelopment zone.
Sumitomo Construction had already visited three times in the past two weeks, each time raising their offer.
Naturally, Kazuma was tempted—why bother trying to rebuild the dojo from scratch when selling it would bring instant cash?
With that first windfall, he could then invest in industries sure to profit based on his future knowledge. Buying Apple stock, for example, or investing in an old Kyoto company called Nintendo that made hanafuda cards. But first, he needed seed money.
Selling the dojo was the quickest way.
It had to be fast. It was already 1980. In two years, Nintendo would launch the Famicom. By then, seventy million yen wouldn't buy squat.
Same for other investments—miss this window, and the entry barriers would skyrocket.
Getting that first pot of gold had to be fast. The faster, the better!
Trying to rebuild the dojo from scratch wouldn't cut it.
Besides, even if he wanted to, Kazuma didn't have the means.
It wasn't about skill—before transmigrating, he'd trained in HEMA and had formally studied Shintō-ryū under a licensed master who'd opened a branch dojo in Beijing. He even held a ranking.
Though he hadn't reached master level, he was certainly qualified to teach kendo. Plus, this body carried Kiryu Kazuma's muscle memory, experience, and knowledge. The original Kazuma was a true kendo prodigy—county champion, national competitor.
But who would enroll in a dojo run by an eighteen-year-old high schooler? They'd go to a more established dojo with an older master.
Selling was the obvious choice.
Except… there was one obstacle: his little sister, Kiryu Chiyoko.
"I'm so disappointed in you, Bro!" Chiyoko glared at him, eyes wide with anger. "This dojo holds so many memories. And you'd sell it for seventy million yen?"
"Chiyoko." Kazuma placed the knife where she couldn't reach it and spoke earnestly. "Memories live in our hearts. They don't disappear just because we lose this building. Would you cheapen those precious memories by thinking they're tied to bricks and wood?"
"When did you get so good at sophistry?" Chiyoko shot back.
"I'm just being logical! We're barely scraping by—"
"We're not scraping by! We have enough to eat and wear, and a roof over our heads!" she interrupted.
"When was the last time you bought new clothes?" Kazuma countered.
"Well… clothes aren't necessities!"
"And you're fourteen now. You should start buying cosmetics!" Kazuma pressed on. Japanese girls started using makeup early—unlike back home.
"I don't want to be a delinquent or the center of attention. I don't need makeup!"
"Then what about my future college tuition? Our savings won't cover it!"
"Then win the national kendo championship! That'll get you a scholarship!"
Kazuma tried to say more, but Chiyoko cut him off. "Anyway! If you sell the dojo, I'll jump off Tokyo Tower!"
Kazuma had no choice but to shut up.
In the web novels he'd read, there were always those decisive protagonists who ruthlessly pursued power and goals. If he were one of them, he might just sell the dojo and ignore the threat of this girl he'd only known for two weeks, with no real blood ties.
But Kazuma couldn't do that.
Outside the dojo issue, Chiyoko was sweet and considerate, taking on nearly all the housework and caring for her brother. She was a very good sister—and pretty, too.
Kazuma couldn't bring himself to disregard her feelings and bulldoze ahead.
—It's fine. Persistence can move mountains. If I just keep working on her…
Just as he looked at Chiyoko's puffed-up cheeks, ready to say something to ease the mood, the doorbell rang.
"Tch, it's probably those Sumitomo guys again!" Chiyoko clicked her tongue.
She shut off the stove and stormed out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. Halfway there, she remembered something and ducked into the dojo.
Kazuma hurried after her, arriving at the dojo entrance just in time to see Chiyoko coming out with a bamboo sword.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to make them give up their crazy ideas!"
She shoved past Kazuma and charged toward the entrance.
Kazuma followed quickly but couldn't stop her from yanking open the front door.
"Stop coming here! Or I'll turn you into punching bags!"
"Chiyoko! Don't! If you actually do that, the police will be all over us! What are you—"
Kazuma trailed off, staring at the scene. Chiyoko, who looked like she'd been petrified, stood frozen. Kazuma glanced outside.
Four burly men in gaudy suits stood there.
Their leader wore a black suit with white floral patterns and a bright red shirt underneath—no tie, just a thumb-sized pin on his lapel.
One look, and Kazuma knew—yakuza.
The man in the flashy suit said nothing. A bald underling stepped forward, glaring at Chiyoko. "Who were you gonna turn into a punching bag, huh?"
Chiyoko, a fourteen-year-old girl, had never seen real yakuza before. She recoiled two steps, nearly dropping her bamboo sword.
Kazuma stepped forward, pulling her behind him and taking the sword from her hands.
"And you are?" he asked calmly.
Of course, Kazuma already knew. In Japan, yakuza and construction companies were often deeply intertwined. Many yakuza groups had roots in unions of dock and construction workers.
No doubt these guys were "associates" of Sumitomo Construction.
At that moment, the man in the flashy suit spoke. "Don't get the wrong idea. We're your new neighbors. Our office is two blocks away. If we cause you any trouble, we hope you'll understand."
The bald guy leaned in close, grinning with a mouth full of fat. "Looking forward to working with ya~"
Though the words were polite, the tone and signature yakuza tongue click were pure intimidation.
It was clear—if they didn't sell the dojo, these guys would be back with more trouble.
The flashy-suit man waved and turned to leave, leading his men away.
Chiyoko peeked out from behind Kazuma and made a face at their retreating backs.
Kazuma sighed. "We really should sell the dojo. Otherwise, they'll keep coming."
"No way! Let them come! Japan is the safest country in the world!" Chiyoko said stubbornly.
Kazuma facepalmed.
In theory, being a transmigrator with a little sister, a house, and no parents should be a double dose of fun.
But at this rate, he'd soon have to put his modern HEMA skills to the test.
They said Shintō-ryū was one of the most practical kendo styles… but would it work against yakuza thugs?
Kazuma hefted the bamboo sword thoughtfully.
—Just in case… I'd better practice some swings tonight.
(End of Chapter)