It was already afternoon when Fujii Mikako arrived at the kendo hall. The moment she walked in, Daimon Gorō called out to her.
"Fujii, where's Kiryu? Why isn't he here?"
"I don't know," Mikako replied. "I stopped by his class during lunch break, but he was absent today."
"I know he's absent," Daimon said, voice growing stern. "I'm asking why."
His natural authority combined with the raised volume made Mikako shrink back a little.
Realizing he'd come across too harshly, Daimon quickly lowered his voice and repeated the question. "Do you know why he's not here?"
"How would I know?" Mikako answered with a shrug.
"Aren't you his girlfriend?" Daimon asked bluntly.
"I'm not!" Mikako immediately denied it, flustered. "I haven't broken any school rules! Don't make me clean the swimming pool as punishment!"
"Calm down," Daimon said. "The rules only say no excessive public displays of affection on school grounds. They don't forbid dating."
"Eh?" Mikako blinked in surprise, unsure if she'd heard that right.
"What do you mean 'eh'?" Daimon gave her a light pat on the head. "If I went after every student just for dating, you and Kiryu would've been suspended ages ago! Now tell me—why isn't he here? The preliminaries start right after Golden Week!"
Mikako sighed helplessly. "I really don't know... because I really am not his girlfriend."
Daimon froze, staring at her in disbelief, as though she'd just said something completely absurd—like aliens had invaded.
Mikako stood awkwardly under his gaze, unsure what to say.
After a few seconds, Daimon finally spoke. "Why not? Aren't you two always glued together?"
"Well... I don't know why I'm still not," Mikako admitted, her face turning red. "But for now, I'm not. Anyway, I don't know why he didn't come. Didn't the school call his house?"
"He only lives with his sister. No one's home during the day. If he's sick in bed, he might not be able to answer the phone." Daimon sighed. "Alright. You can skip practice this afternoon—go check on him. If something's wrong, it'll be bad if we don't find out."
"When you get to his place, use their phone to call the school and tell me what's going on. You know where he lives, right?"
Mikako nodded.
Daimon chuckled. "So you've been to his house already, huh? And you're still not his girlfriend?"
Mikako had no good response to that and chose to ignore the question entirely. "I'll head out, then."
"Go ahead. And pick up something to bring along for a sick visit," Daimon called after her, waving as he turned to oversee the kendo club students warming up.
Mikako flashed a small victory sign behind her back, grabbed her bamboo sword—still tucked in its cloth wrap—and trotted out of the hall.
Watching her go, Daimon shook his head and muttered to himself, "Who's she trying to fool… kids these days."
**
Meanwhile, on Kazuma's side—
It hadn't taken long after meeting Executive Director Ōhara for Kazuma to realize that the man had absolutely no intention of getting involved.
Ōhara's skill at deflecting was masterful. No matter how Kazuma tried—speaking earnestly, reasoning logically—the man never gave a single useful response, only empty platitudes.
And Kazuma couldn't even get angry. The director had graciously set aside time to personally meet with a mere high school student and had maintained a polite, equal tone throughout. Losing his temper now would only make Kazuma look bad.
After an hour and a half of this, Kazuma decided to withdraw. If he stayed any longer, he was afraid he'd lose control and smack the man's infuriatingly pleasant face.
—Damn it. I didn't lose to yakuza in a fight, but here I'm getting completely stonewalled by some corporate dinosaur.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got—and the stronger the urge to slap that smug face.
Chiyoko could sense that Kazuma was about to explode. She clutched his right hand tightly, making sure he didn't "correct" the director's smile with an iron palm strike.
It wasn't until they'd been politely escorted out of the office that she finally released his wrist.
"Damn bastards," Kazuma growled. "I bet the relocation department's performance gets credited to this director too."
Just then, Ogawara approached and, hearing this, quickly lowered his voice. "Relocation and Director Ōhara are from different factions. Be careful what you say. But honestly... we're out of options. The funds to buy the dojo—several tens of millions of yen—would have to be approved by the head office's finance department. And they won't release the money."
"So... there's no way?" Kazuma asked, still unwilling to give up.
Ogawara wiped his brow with a handkerchief—even though the building had central air conditioning and he wasn't sweating. Kazuma figured it was a nervous habit.
"No way," Ogawara admitted. "At least not from my side. But you could try hiring a lawyer. A good one could pressure the relocation department to offer at least market value. An excellent one might even secure a premium."
Kazuma was about to respond when Ogawara added, "But be careful. The relocation department is rumored to be working with the Yanaka Law Office. It's a new firm, but they're very... capable."
Ogawara didn't finish the sentence, but Kazuma could read between the lines.
Shady companies, shady lawyers, yakuza—working together to squeeze two helpless orphaned siblings.
Yep... this is starting to sound like a light novel plot.
Kazuma's mind spun through other ideas. Maybe a bank loan? In this era, Japanese banks handed out loans like candy—they didn't care about repayment rates.
But then again... he was still a high school student. No matter how lax the banks were, they weren't going to lend to a teenager.
Even if he had a brilliant business plan, he'd still have to get past the security guards at the bank entrance first.
And even if they let him in, no bank manager would waste time listening to a high schooler.
The fact that Executive Director Ōhara had agreed to see him at all was an outlier among outliers.
Kazuma sighed and bowed to Ogawara. "We'll be going. Thank you for everything today."
"No trouble at all. I won't see you out," Ogawara replied, bowing in return as the siblings left.
As soon as they were gone, Ōhara's office door opened. The executive peeked out, then beckoned Ogawara inside.
Ogawara entered promptly.
"What were you thinking?!" Ōhara snapped the moment the door closed. "That's the thug who hospitalized Itō from relocation! You should not have brought him here! What if he went berserk and trashed the place? You should've met him in a café!"
Head down, Ogawara responded loudly, "My deepest apologies!"
Thankfully, Ōhara couldn't see his expression—if he had, he would've seen Ogawara's sympathy for the "thug," which would have earned him an even harsher reprimand.
**
Kazuma rode the elevator down in silence, deep in thought.
How was he supposed to earn his first real money?
Loans were out. Selling the dojo wasn't going to work. Was he really going to start from scratch, running a dojo and teaching students?
But he didn't even have a menkyo kaiden license—no one would sign up.
Did that mean his only option was to get into a top university, win kendo scholarships, and climb the social ladder from there?
Japanese society was rigid. Social mobility was tough. But the university entrance exams were still one of the few ways to leap ahead.
Of course, not just any university would do. Second- and third-tier schools were practically useless.
And the Japanese university system was a mixed bag—plenty of schools that wouldn't even count as proper colleges back in China were called "universities" here.
To truly climb the ranks, you had to aim for a top school.
For example, if you wanted to become an elite lawyer or join the police force—you went for the University of Tokyo.
If you wanted to become a diplomat or language specialist—you chose Sophia University.
And so on.
Kazuma considered his strengths. With his kendo skills—boosted by his cheat-like ability—getting into the University of Tokyo and then joining the Metropolitan Police Department wasn't a bad plan.
He could even get back at the yakuza who'd crossed him—and maybe, just maybe, make life difficult for Itō Yūsaku down the line.
He was still thinking this over when someone approached the siblings head-on.
"Excuse me, you two," the man called out. "I have a few questions for you."
Kazuma looked up to see a middle-aged man—someone who looked exactly like the classic detective or police officer type.
And then, sure enough, the man produced a police badge and displayed the cherry blossom emblem of the Japanese police.
(End of Chapter)