My opponent in the semi-finals was a player from Hiroshima named Urabe. He had no notable track record, and it was the first time I'd heard of him. There was something a bit like fate in playing against a player from my hometown in the semi-finals of the national tournament. If I had stayed in Hiroshima, it might have been me who represented Hiroshima instead of Urabe. It felt like I was fighting another version of myself.

Urabe was not a particularly tall player. He seemed to be the type who would play noisy kendo in close quarters. I hadn't paid any attention to Urabe for the past three days, so I had no prior information. It seemed the same was true for the Myohō club members, and no one knew what kind of kendo Urabe practiced.

Oh well, just try it for a few seconds and you'll understand.

He tightened his men-string and stood up. He wasn't sure how far he could go with his taped right leg, but he had no choice but to keep doing kendo.

On another court, Kota Fujinami was preparing for his match against a famous player representing Tokyo. He was stretching carefully. As the host player, he too would be determined to win.

Of the 96 players on the first day, only four remained. Four people standing alone in the vast arena. One of them would be the winner. He took a step forward as the referee stepped onto the court. He drew his sword and crouched. Urabe's expression was calm. His expression was motionless, as if it were fake.

"beginning"

As soon as the referee called out, Urabe stood up, swung his bamboo sword, and took a high-level attack.

"Upper level?"

I heard someone from Myoho lament. It must have been Kunihama. He seemed extremely frustrated that he had never even known that this player could take the upper level.

In contrast, I remained calm as I faced him. I pointed the tip of my sword at Urabe's left kote and slowly moved to the right. In order to hit Urabe's left kote, I needed to move to the right.

Without warning, Urabe struck down on the men. The strike was fast. Moreover, there was no initial movement, making it impossible to predict. He bent his neck just in time to dodge. After moving away, he struck the men again with the same tempo. Although he was striking with a monotonous rhythm, Urabe's bamboo sword once again grazed the men. He quickly approached with a sliding step and somehow managed to dodge the strike.

As we engaged in a sword fight, I was deeply impressed by Urabe's men. Men from the upper level can be struck faster than mid-level, since there is no need to raise the sword. Urabe's men from the upper level was particularly fast. An ordinary fighter would be unable to move and would be hit. It might even be faster than any strike I have ever received...

For a while after the start, they exchanged fierce blows. Urabe knocked down the bamboo sword that had jumped into his kote, and then struck him repeatedly at his men. He again quickly closed in to avoid them, bringing the match to a sword lock. He gradually put some distance between them, and the moment Urabe tried to take an upper stance again, he jumped to his kote with a pull. His flag did not rise, but his strike caught Urabe's kote. He then moved away to a distance and again measured the distance.

He shuffled along, enduring the pain in his ankle. The force of his strikes had clearly decreased compared to before his injury. Even his hikikote would have been a ippon if his foot had been in perfect condition.

Urabe suddenly struck the men again. The speed of the strike was extraordinary, but he was beginning to get the hang of the monotonous tempo. This time he blocked the men firmly with his shinai and unleashed a counter-men. However, the shinai hit Urabe's mengane and it didn't count. With each strike, it felt like his stamina was being slowly drained away.

Suddenly, Urabe raised his right hand. The referee immediately called a halt. Urabe pointed to the back of his head. It seemed that the towel wrapped around his face had slipped off. The match was temporarily stopped so that the towel could be adjusted. He returned to his original position and waited in a squatting position. He couldn't sit upright because his ankle was hurting.

While I was waiting, I looked over to the other court. Fujinami and his teammates were also hitting the ball hard, but neither seemed to be able to make a decisive move. Not a single hit had been recorded on the scoreboard.

It wasn't even halfway through yet, but my whole body felt tired. I felt as if I had been moving for 30 minutes. If this continued for too long, I would be at a disadvantage. There were only about two minutes left.

Even after the match resumed, Urabe continued to perform the same monotonous moves. He wanted to land a point, but every time he stepped forward, pain stabbed at him. His forehead was strangely sweaty as he endured the pain. Somewhere in his mind, he thought to himself, "Even kendo cyborgs have a sense of pain." The pace of the match was gradually shifting in Urabe's favor.

There are no draws in individual matches. The match continues until one player scores a point. In team matches, a draw is fine as long as one teammate wins. However, in individual matches, the only way to win is to score a point yourself. I was slowly tormented by a despair that was almost like dependence.

Again, Urabe threw his men. To block the men for the umpteenth time, he reflexively raised his shinai. At that moment, Urabe's shinai changed direction and struck his right wrist. The monotonous men up until then had been a setup for this kote strike.

He quickly let go of his right hand from the shinai. He held the shinai with just his left hand and narrowly avoided Urabe's kote. However, Urabe's shinai had too much momentum and struck the inside of his left kote, sending a numbness like an electric current running from his wrist to his fingertips. The shinai fell from his left hand.

The call to halt comes, and Urabe returns to the starting line. He picks up his bamboo sword and follows suit. Bamboo sword drop, one foul, the referee announces, facing us. He bows his head and gets into a new stance. Now he can't do anything reckless. There's no room for composure or arrogance in Urabe's eyes, he just looks at us with a calm gaze.

The advantage remained with his opponent. The kote attack from earlier kept crossing his mind, so he couldn't let his guard down even when it came to the men. He'd already been penalized once, so if he went outside the ring or dropped his shinai again, it would be a point for Urabe. He absolutely didn't want to give up a point. On top of that, the pain in his right ankle was getting worse.

What would Professor Ogata do in a situation like this?

I might have thought that way when I was in middle school. But now it's time for me to practice my own kendo. Only Urabe and I are allowed on the court. Ogata-sensei won't fight with me. It's the athlete's job to think of the path to victory.

I no longer have the energy or time to lay the groundwork.

A surprise attack. That was the conclusion.

Urabe jumped at the men. Soon, four minutes had passed since the start of the match, but Urabe's striking speed showed no sign of slowing down. He twisted his body and struck the kote, moving Urabe's bamboo sword away from the midline. Urabe's bamboo sword struck the men, but in a dangerous moment, the flag did not rise. In a sword fight, you never back down yourself. After your opponent backs down, that is your last chance.

Urabe tried to hit his men with a pull, but he dodged it with ease. It seemed he wasn't very good at pull techniques. After hitting his men, Urabe stepped back. He chased after him, desperately moving his sore right ankle. There was a bit more distance between them than he had expected, but there was nothing he could do. Urabe stopped retreating and once again took a high stance with his bamboo sword. At that moment...

As he stepped forward with his right foot, he thrust out his bamboo sword with his left hand. The tip of the sword headed straight for Urabe's throat and pierced it with precision. For a moment, the bamboo sword bent and curved into an arch.

It was a one-handed thrust, something he had never done in an official match.

"Thrust"

All three flags were up. The female timer hurriedly lowered the yellow flag that had just been raised. The thrust was successful exactly four minutes into the match.

I managed to make it in time.

He readied his bamboo sword again, but before Urabe could strike, the electronic bell rang, signaling the end of the match. At the same time as the signal to stop, Urabe released his jodan and returned to the starting line. He did not slump his shoulders or look up to the sky, as losers often do. Until the very end, there was no wavering expression in his eyes.

As he left the court, he noticed the thunderous applause from the audience. As he rose from the tatami, Ogata-sensei blurted out an excuse.

"I was going to attack with both hands."

Ogata sensei does not like one-handed thrusts because he feels they are less reliable.

"But there was a distance between us, so I ended up getting close."

"I don't mind."

Even amidst the applause, the teacher's voice reached my ears clearly.

"Just do your own kendo."

His juniors immediately rushed over to help him, but he stopped them again. He didn't want to expose the sight of them crowding around him trying to help him. His right ankle hurt, but he endured it and sat upright. He didn't want to sit in an unsightly manner when he took off his protective gear.

When he removed his mask, his sweaty face was exposed to the outside air. Someone was looking at him from a little distance in front. The focus was fixed on one image, and the figure of Fujinami Kota emerged. Fujinami stood there, his gaze fixed on the ground. He knew the result without even hearing it. They looked at each other with blank expressions, and the pre-match ritual came to an end. Fujinami immediately left.

The final was up to Kota Fujinami. The long-awaited moment had finally come.

He also missed the semi-finals of the team competition. "Put all your effort into the one remaining match," Ogata-sensei told him. He wanted to watch the match, but his first priority was to get some sturdy tape on his ankle. As he sat on a bench in a deserted hallway to get his ankle fixed, he saw a familiar figure pass in front of him. It was Urabe.

Perhaps he was going to the toilet. There was no sign of crying in Urabe's eyes, nor did he sense any regret. He bowed and tried to pass by.

"Urabe-kun"

When he called out, the figure turned around.

"It's my hometown, Hiroshima."

Urabe stares intently into my eyes, just like during the match.

"Let's practice together next time. I'll contact you."

After a moment, for the first time, an expression appeared on Urabe's face.