Chapter Forty-Five: Die, Aoki Tsukasa!

Behind the school’s gymnasium, known for its remote location, there was only a narrow stretch of open ground and a boundary wall; it was, without question, one of the most secluded places in the entire school. Usually, this spot attracted little attention—perhaps only the occasional troublemaker sneaking off for a cigarette between classes, or, after school, a handful of students settling their disputes with fists.

It was Aoki Tsukasa’s first time here, yet he felt he’d soon become familiar with this corner.

A group surrounded Tsukasa, pressing him so tightly there was barely a gap left between them. From the center, Tsukasa could see only a dense mass of heads—shadows everywhere. Twenty-something people might seem a small number in theory, but in reality, it was anything but.

At least, from Tsukasa’s perspective, you could have told him there were a hundred people encircling him and he wouldn’t have questioned it.

Ryota Ishihara, the man with slicked-back hair, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke rudely into Tsukasa’s face, his lips curled into a cold smile. “Anything else you want to say?”

“Ryota, why bother talking to this bastard?” Yasuda, his pompadour bristling with hatred, looked as if he wished he could beat Tsukasa right then and there.

Ryota Ishihara—the man with the slicked-back hair—shot Yasuda a frosty glance. “You seem to hate him, don’t you?”

Sweat broke out on Yasuda’s forehead, yet he forced a grin. “He keeps acting tough in front of you, Ryota. I just can’t stand it.”

“Heh...” Ryota sneered and suddenly slapped Yasuda hard across the face, scattering his pompadour. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You’ve been whining about this bald kid in my ear every day, thinking I don’t realize you just want me to deal with him.”

“This bald brat, I’ll make sure he suffers today. But you—stop playing games around me, got it?” Ryota flexed the hand he’d used to slap Yasuda, his expression twisted.

Yasuda kept his head down, covering his face in silence.

Tsukasa slowly took off his school jacket, looked about for somewhere to place it, sighed, and rolled up his sleeves. He pulled a red Daruma sticker from his pocket and stuck it on his forearm.

“Ha ha ha...” One of the delinquents burst out laughing when he saw the sticker. “Hey, did you see that? He put a sticker on himself. Is he even out of elementary school yet?”

Tsukasa calmly adjusted his sleeves, folded his jacket and placed it by the wall, then twisted his neck, a hint of excitement flickering across his face, raising one corner of his mouth. “I’ve only got three minutes. Let’s not waste time.”

“Huh?” A delinquent barely had time to react before Tsukasa suddenly sprang forward, kicking him straight in the chest and nearly sending him flying. Even then, his staggering body took down three or four others with him.

“Kill him!” Yasuda shouted in fury, lunging forward.

Ryota Ishihara stood rooted to the spot, cigarette dangling from his lips, showing no intention of joining in.

“Bro, I’m going in!” Kaita Ishihara, his eyes shining with excitement, rushed into the crowd surrounding Tsukasa.

Thirty seconds—just hit him for thirty seconds. He should survive, right? Ryota exhaled a plume of smoke. The mass of delinquents completely obscured Tsukasa, but Ryota was sure he was taking a beating.

No matter how tough you are, if you’re forced into a defensive stance and retreating, maybe you have a chance. But surrounded by so many, you’ll lose your balance after a few hits. Once you’re down, it’s just a matter of enduring the blows.

That was the lesson Ryota had learned from years of street fighting.

But gradually, Ryota sensed something was off.

Tsukasa, meanwhile, could only see fists and feet flashing before his eyes, shadows shifting all around. He could hardly tell who was hitting him or whom he was striking.

Pain shot through his body from every side, not overwhelming but enough to fuel his mounting rage.

A punch, a kick—Tsukasa’s blows were not quick, but they were heavy.

It didn’t matter who was attacking him; Tsukasa simply focused on whoever was in front of him, beating them down until they fell, then moving on to the next.

The delinquents surrounding him began to feel uneasy—no matter how hard they struck Tsukasa, he seemed rooted to the spot. Sometimes a heavy punch or kick would make him sway, but the next moment he’d snap upright again, as if pulled by an invisible string—defying physics, like a human Daruma doll.

And this Daruma didn’t just take hits; he struck back, and his blows hurt like hell.

Fear began to creep into their eyes.

Who wouldn’t be scared? The bald kid’s head was covered in blood, yet he wouldn’t go down; and whether with fist or foot, anyone who got hit by him ended up looking like they’d been smashed with a hammer.

Who wanted to get beaten?

Nobody did.

So the circle around Tsukasa started to loosen.

Some of the delinquents didn’t even dare face him head-on, preferring to attack from the sides or behind.

But—did it help?

Tsukasa took a hard kick to the head, his vision blacking out for an instant. Yet he grinned savagely, grabbed the leg in front of him—he didn’t know whose—and yanked it towards himself, then swung his right fist forward with all his might, uncaring where it landed on the face. He let go, knowing the unlucky victim was now on the ground.

Did it hurt? Tsukasa felt nothing. With adrenaline flooding his body, pain barely registered. Though his head was foggy from repeated blows, he kept swinging, tireless, knocking down every blurred figure in his line of sight.

Until... there seemed to be no one left. Tsukasa raised his bloodied face, wiped the blood from his eyes, and the world came back into focus.

Around him, more than ten delinquents lay sprawled on the ground. The rest edged away, feigning ferocity, but it was clear none dared approach Tsukasa anymore.

“Hey...” Tsukasa’s voice was hoarse, one corner of his mouth lifted as blood streamed from his split brow, running down his face. He looked like a demon—utterly unaware of it. “Come on, keep going.”

Ryota’s cigarette had fallen to the ground unnoticed; his expression was grave, his body tense as he watched Tsukasa.

“You’re strong, kid,” Ryota licked his lips, fighting to keep his nerves in check, clenching his fists. “But you must be at your limit... How much longer can you last?”

Tsukasa spat out a mouthful of blood, staring at his right hand, still swinging without restraint, the knuckles smeared with blood—his own or someone else’s, he couldn’t tell. His tone was icy. “About... a minute and a half.”

“Aaaaaaaah!” A scream, raw and desperate, erupted from behind Tsukasa. He barely managed to turn, catching a glimpse of Kaita Ishihara’s twisted expression in the corner of his eye. The next instant, pain exploded in the back of his head, dizziness engulfed him, and the world went black, stars flashing before his eyes.

Kaita Ishihara brandished a wooden sword, his face contorted with rage as he stared at Tsukasa, now staggering, his eyes vacant. “Die, Tsukasa Aoki!”