The dojo was built in the style of a traditional Japanese Takemichi-style training hall, sprawling across a surprisingly large plot of land.
Even though this area was technically part of Tokyo's suburbs, owning such an enormous dojo was no small feat.
A low, white wall surrounded the entire compound, stretching far into both directions.
The main gate, however, stood out—it was abnormally huge, wide open as if designed to let a tank pass through.
Beneath the green-tiled eaves, where a dojo's na plaque should have hung, there was… nothing.
Up to this point, everything still seed relatively normal.
If that were all, the students from Kaihin Sougou High School would've just marveled at how generous the budget for this joint training camp was, then gone inside excitedly to et students from the other schools.
Instead, they all stood frozen at the gate, staring blankly at each other, completely unsure what to do.
"A-Are we really supposed to go in there?"
A boy carrying a bamboo sword bag whispered nervously.
"Yeah, maybe we got the wrong place?" another boy added.
"It feels… dangerous. If we go in, we might not co out alive," said a cute girl, her voice trembling.
Kaihin Sougou High School was, as the na suggested, a hybrid institution—offering both general education and vocational courses.
It was ford by rging three different schools, giving it a huge campus and a flexible credit-based system.
Being one of the top schools in the coastal region, it naturally attracted great students—especially girls.
Even in the kendo club, nearly half of the dozen or so mbers were female.
Of course, compared to Soubu High's kendo club, they had fewer girls, but their ratio was much higher.
The girl who had spoken was from the general education track, while the others were from vocational courses—future daycare workers or caregivers in training.
Now, all of them stood there timidly, staring at the so-called "dojo" in front of them like it was the open maw of a demon from hell.
Their tiny, barely-noticed kendo club had suddenly received an invitation to a joint training camp.
They were thrilled—so even made homade snacks to share with students from the other schools. But when they arrived...
The courtyard outside the dojo was lined with motorcycles—strange, customized beasts parked neatly along the wall.
Their backrests were ridiculously tall, their exhaust pipes wildly exaggerated, and colorful flags fluttered above them with chaotic slogans scrawled in paint:
"I love you", "Let's get along"...
If soone didn't know better, they'd think they'd ti-traveled back to the heyday of Japan's bosozoku biker gangs.
Yet strangely enough, the bikes were parked perfectly.
Not only were the front wheels all aligned with the wall, but they also seed to be arranged by size and type.
From afar, the scene actually had an odd sense of harmony.
Anyone with OCD would probably ignore the ridiculous decorations and fixate on the flawless symtry instead.
Oh, and every exhaust pipe glead brightly in the morning sun—as if soone had spent hours polishing them with high-grade compound until they shone like mirrors.
The girls weren't the only ones hesitant—the boys looked just as lost.
Their club captain, Mikiyo Ryuushi, frowned deeply, trying to figure out what to do.
He wasn't just any random student; becoming the captain of a dying club required a certain kind of skill.
Leading a neglected club was arguably harder than leading a popular one.
The latter ant competing with equally capable peers, while the forr ant tricking new recruits into joining just to keep the club alive.
Thinking about it, Mikiyo realized his job was probably harder.
Not only did he have to motivate others—he had to constantly stop himself from quitting.
He understood perfectly well how excited everyone had been when they received the invitation.
After all, schools like Higashi High, a powerhouse in traditional kendo, were participating.
Even other Highschool, though slightly below their level, was still strong.
If they could train under such schools—or better yet, form a long-term relationship—it could completely change the future of their club.
Recruiting next year would be so much easier.
As he mulled over this, he began double-checking whether there'd been so kind of mix-up, glancing toward the only person in the group without a bamboo sword.
"Tamanawa, are you sure you confird the address correctly?"
The boy he addressed—Tamanawa Jun—had stylishly tousled hair, the kind you'd see in a Korean drama.
Handso, well-dressed, and confident, he gave off the air of a returnee elite.
Tamanawa raised an eyebrow and replied,
"Sure! This kind of simple info—how could I possibly ss that up?"
As he spoke, he spun his hands dramatically in front of his chest, like he was either miming turning invisible gears—or performing a bizarre religious ritual.
Mikiyo's face twisted in visible pain. Why did this guy always talk like that? And how on earth was his Japanese grade still top of the class?
Suppressing his irritation, Mikiyo asked again, "Who exactly did you coordinate with—the Soubu High student council or their kendo club?"
At that, everyone turned to look at Tamanawa.
He wasn't part of their kendo club—he was a student council officer.
Since this was the club's first interschool training camp, the council had sent him along to make sure everything went smoothly (and to prevent them from embarrassing the school).
Honestly, if he weren't the leading candidate for the next student council president, Mikiyo would've kicked him out long ago.
"It was their kendo club's manager, actually. Real capable person, too—the whole training sche was brilliant, and the execution is just perfect. I'm really looking forward to eting him!"
Tamanawa continued talking cheerfully, hands still moving in rhythmic circles in front of his chest.
Mikiyo's mouth twitched.
He didn't understand half of what Tamanawa had just said—but that didn't matter.
The important part was clear: the coordination was handled by Soubu's kendo club itself, not their student council.
"So you only spoke to their manager? You don't have the club captain's contact? Maybe we should call him, just in case there's been so mistake."
"No No!"
Tamanawa struck another exaggerated pose, imdiately drawing everyone's attention.
The girls just blinked in confusion, while the boys grimaced in silent suffering—they'd clearly endured this guy's antics for far too long.
"Mikiyo, you seriously lack experience. I'm not trying to bla you—but what you're missing is professionalism.
These kinds of interschool events are always handled by the club's manager. From contacting the other schools to renting venues and scheduling tis—it's their job.
So the question you just asked is, frankly, aningless. Reaching out to the other school's captain would only expose how unprofessional we are.
Still, I understand. Your kendo club is small, you don't even have a manager position, so it's reasonable you don't know these things. That's why I'm here to help you.
But don't feel bad or discouraged, everyone. As a mber of the student council, I'll make sure to support you all to the best of my ability!"
…
…
At that mont, not only Mikiyo but every single mber of the kendo club—including the girls—had dark lines forming on their foreheads, teeth grinding in silent rage.
'You know we lack experience—so why not let us gain so? You keep saying you'll help, but where's the actual plan? What are you even talking about?!'
Mikiyo's expression twitched into sothing close to demonic.
He took a deep breath, trying to remind himself—this guy would be next year's student council president.
A jerk he might be, but a powerful one.
Punching him now would probably an losing next year's club funding.
So he forced out a painful smile and said,
"Then, Tamanawa… do you have any solution for this?"
Poor Mikiyo.
His voice ca out as rough as if he'd just swallowed burning charcoal.
Surprisingly, that seed to hit the right frequency.
The smug grin faded from Tamanawa's face, replaced with a rare look of seriousness.
He folded his arms, frowning slightly, as if deep in thought.
The kendo club mbers all turned to their captain with admiration.
Whether they were impressed that he could sohow keep up with Tamanawa's nonsense—or simply grateful for his self-sacrifice—was unclear.
Mikiyo kept smiling through the pain.
Sure, Japanese had plenty of loanwords from English, but when soone intentionally mixed them mid-sentence… the result was just painful.
Still, he had to give credit where it was due—how the hell did Tamanawa manage to enjoy talking like that?
After a long mont of "deep contemplation," Tamanawa finally said,
"Everyone wait here. I'll go check out the condition inside."
That stunned the group.
They'd expected the student council prodigy to call Soubu High and confirm things first.
After all, whether they turned back or went inside that obviously dangerous dojo, both options seed bad.
But instead, Tamanawa was… actually volunteering to go in and scout?
Maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all. No wonder he was so popular in the student council.
Weird, sure—but brave.
Feeling a spark of respect, Mikiyo stepped forward, patted him on the shoulder, and said solemnly,
"If anything happens, just shout—we'll rush in to save you."
That was a lie, of course.
If sothing did happen, they'd all pretend to be random passersby.
With that many bikes parked outside, there'd be no escape otherwise.
Still, with Tamanawa acting all righteous, Mikiyo felt compelled to say sothing heroic.
But to his surprise, the handso boy looked utterly baffled.
"The police box is literally two hundred ters away. If I yell, the officers will co running. Why would you all jump into danger too?"
Everyone turned to where he was pointing—and sure enough, there it was: a small neighborhood police box less than three hundred ters away, sunlight glinting off the little gold badge above the door.
A pair of bicycles were parked neatly outside.
Clearly, it wasn't abandoned.
The entire group froze, their faces going through a rainbow of emotions.
If there's a police box right there… then why are so many biker gang motorcycles parked next to it?!
Good thing Onizuka wasn't around to hear that.
If he had been, he'd probably puff up his enormous chest muscles and shout,
"What, riding a motorcycle's illegal now?! Huh?! Parking next to a police box is a cri too?! What if I run outta gas and need help, huh?!"
Now that, Mikiyo thought, would be peak logic.
He couldn't help but respect it—and suddenly, any lingering guilt about letting Tamanawa go alone vanished completely.
With the kind of tragic resolve one might show sending a loved one to war, the kendo club watched as Tamanawa Jun strode toward the dojo gates—right through the rows of bikes gleaming in the sunlight.
Just then, a black sedan with a Shinagawa license plate slowly rolled down the street.
Under the bright morning sun, its polished surface glead so perfectly it looked brand new, not a speck of dust in sight.
The students instinctively stepped aside to make room—but as the car got closer, it began to slow down.
Then, right in front of the dojo gate, it ca to a complete stop.
'Wait… what's going on?'
'Did we block the road? Are we about to get scolded?'
In Japan, there was never a shortage of adults eager to lecture loitering students "for their own good."
And since they'd been standing here for quite a while, it wouldn't be surprising if a passing officer ca out to check if they were lost kids or potential burglars.
Well—not that anyone in their right mind would ever try robbing this dojo.
Confused but cautious, the Kaihin students exchanged nervous glances.
Ever the "elite," Tamanawa took it upon himself to step forward and explain.
Then, under everyone's tense gaze, the sedan's back door opened.
First ca a long, slender leg…
Then—a ridiculously handso young man stepped out.
'Huh? Not a stern middle-aged man? Not a bald yakuza boss?'
'Where the hell did this guy co from?'
The Kaihin students collectively froze.
Even Tamanawa, who had already plastered on his diplomatic smile, was struck speechless.
'Who is this guy?'
Tamanawa had always believed himself to be Kaihin High's most attractive and brilliant student in the school's hundred-year history.
Yet here, in the middle of nowhere, he'd just t soone who completely outclassed him in both looks and aura.
Yes—a guy.
Even though he'd arrived in an old-fashioned black Toyota sedan, the young man's outfit was surprisingly modern: a silver-gray hoodie, white cotton joggers, clean sneakers, and a fresh, short haircut.
He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a manga—a high school protagonist brought to life.
Every girl in the kendo club suddenly looked starstruck.
One of the girls from the childcare course even started daydreaming about what it'd be like to raise his kids.
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