Basketball club: "He shattered the backboard with a single dunk!"
Baseball club: "Unmeasurable pitch speed? The machine must be broken!"
Judo club: "It's like grappling a tree trunk!"
Tennis club: "He left a ball-shaped dent in the court!"
After hitting up every sports club for tryouts, we were running out of options. Ichijo Academy, a ritzy humanities school, had a surprising number of athletic clubs, but by day three, we'd nearly exhausted them.
"Three in a row! Bingo!" Rika cheered, crossing out another club on her recruitment pamphlet.
I gave her a deadpan look. "Rika, how many sports clubs are left?"
"Hold on," she said, flipping through the booklet. Only track, swimming, and kendo remained unmarked.
Honestly, I didn't need to keep this up. My physical abilities were clearly freakish. Maybe it's a gag character buff.
In rom-coms, muscle-bound guys are usually comic relief, casually pulling off impossible feats—surviving car crashes or helicopter explosions unscathed. If my body's under that kind of logic, my absurd strength makes sense.
Time to wrap up the experiment. I decided to hit the kendo club last.
"Here he comes!"
"Kim Yuseong's at the kendo club!"
"Call the kids watching track and swimming!"
Somehow, word had spread that I was "conquering" clubs, though I was just trying them out.
The kendo dojo was packed, despite it being after school. A microphone suddenly thrust toward me.
"Kim Yuseong, how do you feel right now?" a newspaper club kid asked.
"Interviews go through me, his manager," Rika cut in, sporting black sunglasses from who-knows-where, clearly enjoying the chaos.
While she handled the reporter, I faced the kendo club captain, Yukika Fuma.
"So, you're the infamous Kim Yuseong?" she asked.
I scratched my neck, embarrassed. "Dunno about infamous, but yeah, that's me."
"You've been hitting up sports clubs. Your reputation precedes you," she said, pointing her shinai at me, her navy hair tied neatly back.
"But the kendo club won't go down so easily."
Her charismatic declaration sparked cheers from the crowd.
"Kyaa! I love you, Fuma-senpai!"
"She's one of the school's top three beauties, fearless against that human weapon!"
"Always stunning, with a big heart."
Ignoring the cringe-worthy shouts, I bowed slightly to Yukika, a third-year. "Tell me about the tryout."
She tapped her shinai on the floor. "One-point match. First to land a valid strike wins. I'll be your opponent."
"Sounds good," I said.
This was my last stop. Win or lose, I didn't care, but I'd never throw a match. It's disrespectful.
"Need armor?" she asked.
"Probably won't fit me, so I'm good."
"For fairness, I'll skip it too."
"No, please wear it. I don't want you getting hurt."
Her eyes narrowed. "…You'll regret that."
Yukika wrapped a white towel around her head and donned her helmet. A redheaded kendo club girl handed me a shinai.
I gave it a test swing, and it sliced the air with a menacing whoosh. I was finally getting the hang of controlling my strength.
Through the club tour, I'd learned to dial back from overshooting my power—30% effort turning into 50%. Fewer broken things proved it.
We faced off on the polished dojo floor. I stood naturally, clueless about swordplay, while Yukika, a master, took a middle stance.
"Let's have a good match," I said.
"Likewise," she replied.
We bowed. The redheaded girl stepped between us, raising her hand.
"Both sides, fight fair!"
Her hand dropped. "Begin!"
"Head!"
Yukika lunged into my space instantly, her strike lightning-fast, like a swallow diving.
Clack!
She blocked it?
I parried effortlessly.
Unfazed, Yukika stepped back, swinging her shinai with rhythmic precision.
Big guys like me are usually slow, but she was stunned by my reflexes. I wasn't predicting her moves—I was reacting to them.
In sports like kendo or fencing, actions are blisteringly fast, with split-second exchanges. Covering that with raw physicality meant my dynamic vision was insane.
"But fights aren't just about strength," Yukika thought.
"Waist!" she shouted, swinging.
I moved to block my waist but adjusted as she feinted.
"Wrist!" she called, aiming for my head instead.
Her mismatched calls and strikes threw me off, slowing my reactions by half a beat.
Her movements are raw.
I hadn't trained in technique. In other sports, my raw power might've crushed opponents, but kendo values skill and speed over strength.
Time to end this.
Using her clan's secret technique, Evil-Cutting Slash, in public was risky, but if no one noticed…
She steadied her breath, aiming her shinai, ready to strike with respect for her tenacious opponent.
"Next move ends it," I said suddenly, raising my shinai overhead.
In that instant, Yukika Fuma, heir to a ninja clan, felt mortal danger for the first time.
https://image.novelpia.com/imagebox/a1/a1a9fb6251363d58044096846014748a_1422959_ori.file
I'll die, I'll die, I'll die, I'll die, I'll die.
My presence, calm moments ago, turned feral, like a beast.
This man hadn't skipped training because he lacked skill—he never needed it.
Like a lion, king of beasts, I stood at the food chain's apex.
Yukika realized this as death loomed.
Grandma, I'm sorry!
If she hadn't come to Tokyo to revive her clan, if she hadn't challenged me to prove herself, maybe she'd live.
Frozen by primal fear, the approaching shinai felt like a guillotine's blade.
At the last second—
Tap.
"I win," I said.
The strike slowed to a gentle touch. Yukika's legs gave out, and she collapsed, her hakama slightly damp.
"Well fought," I said, walking away.
"So you wrecked every sports club and still joined the board game club?" Rika said, sounding deflated.
I smirked. "You seemed to enjoy it plenty."
"Because it was fun!" she shot back.
"Haha, you two are always so close," Satoru said, sitting with us. "Your turn to draw, Ryusei."
We were playing Halli Galli, and I placed my hand on the deck, feeling the cards' pulse.
"Draw! Banana card!"
Say what you will, the board game club is my true home.