Thug King

The school day ended not with a bell, but with a collective, anxious exhalation from the students of Seiryu High. The air was electric. The "Seiryu Underground" forum was on fire, the video from 2-B having been viewed over a thousand times. Every student was whispering the name: Tanaka Kenji. He was no longer a person; he was a phenomenon.

Kenji, blissfully unaware of his newfound infamy, packed his worn bag with the same unhurried pace as always. He had spent the rest of the day trying to be a model student, diligently taking notes and listening to the teachers, hoping to atone for his earlier "disruption." He still felt a nagging guilt for failing Rule #18.

As he walked out of the classroom, students flattened themselves against the walls, clearing a path for him as if he were a leper or a king. He found this confusing.

"Perhaps there is a school rule about maintaining a certain distance in the hallways," he mused. "Society is very complex."

Yui Amano had already left, scurrying out the moment the final bell rang, but not before giving him another worried, wide-eyed glance. Kenji noted her continued distress. He had resolved the immediate threat to her, but his actions seemed to have created a new, larger anxiety. It was a perplexing outcome.

His plan was simple: walk home, review his school notes, perform his daily conditioning routine as prescribed by his grandfather, and prepare for tomorrow.

The school's ecosystem, however, had other plans for him.

As he descended the main staircase, he saw a group blocking the exit to the shoe lockers. It was a wall of muscle and matching blue tracksuits, the uniform of the Seiryu Boxing Club. They weren't sloppy thugs like Takeda's crew. These were athletes. Their stances were solid, their shoulders broad, and their eyes held a disciplined arrogance.

In the center of the group stood a tall, powerfully built student with a flat nose and cauliflower ears. His fists were wrapped in hand wraps, even though he was just in his school uniform. This was Isao Ryuji, a third-year and the ace of the Boxing Club, second only to Captain Honda himself.

Students who were trying to leave froze, backing away slowly to form a wide circle. The show was about to begin. This was the first official response from one of Seiryu's established powers.

Isao spotted Kenji coming down the stairs. A cruel smirk played on his lips. "So, you're the new hotshot. Tanaka Kenji." His voice was a confident baritone. "You made a mess in the second-year wing."

Kenji stopped on the last step, his gaze neutral. He recognized the pattern. This was another territorial male, establishing dominance. "I was resolving a dispute," he replied calmly.

Isao laughed, a short, sharp bark. "You call that resolving a dispute? You broke a kid's wrist over nothing. Here at Seiryu, if you want to play in the big leagues, you show respect to the people at the top. You, my friend, have shown zero respect to our Captain, 'Iron Fist' Honda."

"I do not know this Honda-senpai," Kenji said, his honesty completely misconstrued as mockery. "I have no dispute with him."

"You do now," Isao growled, taking a step forward. He fell into a classic boxer's stance, his wrapped fists held high, chin tucked. "The Captain sent me to collect your 'respect tax'. I'm going to teach you that a lucky shot against a fat slob like Takeda doesn't mean a thing against a trained fighter."

Kenji's eyes flickered down to Isao's stance. He analyzed it in an instant.

"High guard, protecting the head. Solid footing, but weight is heavily on the front foot, making him vulnerable to leg attacks. His power comes from his core rotation. He is a short-range fighter. To defeat him, one must break his rhythm and stay outside his effective range, or move inside his guard where his long hooks are useless."

His grandfather's lessons were as natural to him as breathing.

"I do not wish to fight," Kenji stated, a final attempt to de-escalate. He needed to get home for his training. This was an inefficient use of his time.

"Too bad," Isao sneered, and then he moved.

He was fast. Much faster than Takeda. He closed the distance with a boxer's shuffle, his feet gliding over the floor. He led with a jab, a piston-like strike aimed at Kenji's face. It was a textbook move, meant to gauge distance and create an opening.

The crowd gasped. The jab was a blur.

Kenji didn't move back. He didn't move sideways. He did something that defied all logic.

His head tilted back just enough for the jab to skim past his nose, the wind from the blow rustling his bangs. The miss was by less than a millimeter. It was an act of such impossible timing and spatial awareness that it looked like he was toying with his opponent.

Isao's eyes widened in shock. No one had ever dodged his lead jab like that. It was like Kenji knew the punch was coming before he had even thrown it.

Before Isao could retract his arm, Kenji's hand shot up and clamped down on his extended wrist. His other hand simultaneously came down like a blade, striking the inside of Isao's elbow joint.

It wasn't a powerful, bone-breaking blow like the one he'd used on Takeda. It was a sharp, precise strike on a nerve cluster.

TWANG!

A jolt of agonizing, electric fire shot up Isao's arm. His entire limb went numb and powerless, the muscles spasming uncontrollably. His fist, which had been a trained weapon seconds ago, went limp.

"My... my arm!" Isao gasped, his confidence shattering.

He had no time to recover. Kenji, still holding the now-useless arm, stepped forward, flowing into Isao's personal space, inside the range of his other fist. He was too close for Isao to throw a proper punch.

Kenji's shoulder bumped into Isao's chest. It felt like being hit by a small car. The impact drove the air from Isao's lungs and sent him staggering back, his perfect stance completely broken.

The entire exchange took two seconds. The crowd was dumbfounded. Isao Ryuji, the pride of the Boxing Club, had been disarmed and thrown off balance without Kenji even throwing a single punch.

"This is pointless," Kenji said, his voice flat. He was genuinely disappointed. He had seen the man's stance and expected a more interesting "problem" to solve. "Your style is too rigid. You rely only on your hands and neglect ninety percent of your body as a weapon."

This clinical, condescending analysis was more humiliating than any punch could have been.

Enraged and humiliated, Isao roared. He shook off the numbness in his arm and swung wildly with his good hand, abandoning all technique for a desperate, furious haymaker.

Kenji sighed. It was the same mistake Kenta had made.

He ducked under the wild swing. As the arm passed over his head, he rose up, not with a fist, but with his head.

He didn't headbutt Isao's face. That would be messy. He precisely and forcefully drove the crown of his skull up and into Isao's jaw from below.

The crack of teeth hitting teeth echoed in the hall.

Isao's head snapped back. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he crumpled to the ground, out cold before he even landed.

Silence. Utter, profound silence.

The wall of boxers stared, their jaws hanging open. Their ace, a fighter who dominated regional tournaments, had been taken apart like a child's toy. And the final blow... was a headbutt. A brutal, street-fighter move executed with the precision of a surgeon.

Kenji looked at the unconscious form, then at the other boxers. His gaze was empty, but to them, it felt like he was looking at his next meal.

"Is the 'respect tax' now paid?" he asked politely.

The boxers didn't answer. One of them, terrified, took a step back. Then another. Then the entire group seemed to dissolve, melting away, some of them grabbing their fallen comrade and dragging him with them.

In thirty seconds, the hallway was empty, save for Kenji and the stunned, silent audience of regular students.

Kenji adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "Troublesome," he muttered to himself, and finally walked to the shoe lockers.

As he was changing his shoes, he failed to notice a single figure watching him from the second-floor landing overlooking the entrance.

It was Akari Ishikawa.

She had witnessed the entire event. She had seen the impossible dodge, the nerve strike, the clinical deconstruction of a trained fighter. Her heart was beating faster than she would ever admit.

Her initial assessment had been wrong. This was not a barbarian kicking down her door.

This was a force of nature.

And as Kenji walked out of the school gates and into the setting sun, a new, far more chilling thought entered her mind.

He hadn't even used his fists.