Dead Man's Tales: HSOTD

Sitting in the dimly lit backstage area, I could hear the crowd's excitement filtering through the thick curtains—a muffled cacophony that somehow pumped adrenaline through my veins. Here I was, mentally fifteen, about to compete against a bunch of middle schoolers in a martial arts tournament. Embarrassing? Maybe a little, considering my experiences, but right now, I was just thrilled to not be on the losing end for once.

"Finally, I can kick some ass and not get handed my own by Rika," I muttered under my breath, a smirk playing on my lips as I scanned the room. The other fighters, kids really, ranged from fifteen to sixteen years old, all in various stages of pre-fight preparation and listening intently to their coaches. 

Most of them looked nervous, their eyes darting around, hands fidgeting with their gear, heads nodding a little too quickly at whatever last-minute advice they were being given. Their body language spoke volumes of the butterflies probably wreaking havoc in their stomachs. As for me? I was as calm as a veteran warrior walking into a familiar battle. After all, once you've been stabbed to death, squaring off against kids in a controlled environment doesn't exactly spike your heart rate.

I leaned back against the cold metal chair, stretching my legs out and crossing them at the ankles, trying to look more relaxed than I felt. It wasn't fear that tingled through me; it was anticipation. To everyone here, this was a big deal, a step up in their young martial arts careers. To me, it was a chance to prove to myself that I wasn't just the kid who got outclassed by Rika. I needed this win, not just to boost my ego but to confirm that I could handle myself when it wasn't life-or-death.

Suddenly a teen with a flamboyant pompadour haircut approached me. His walk had a swagger to it, a sort of confidence you see in someone used to being the center of attention.

"Hello there, blackman." 

His greeting caught me off guard, and I raised an eyebrow, but chose not to jump to conclusions. 

They were just kids, after all, no need to assume the worst.

"Yo, you need something?" 

The boy fiddled with his hair, combing back the pompadour as he spoke. "I wanted to ask what school you were associated with, didn't see you at last year's tournament?"

"Well, I am homeschooled, and my guardian thought it would be nice to get some experience." 

I gave him a friendly smile, hoping to steer the conversation into more neutral waters.

"Don't worry, if you face me, I'll make sure that you aren't too injured." 

His tone was arrogant, dripping with condescension, but I brushed it off as youthful bravado. 

That was, until his next comment.

"Got to make sure you can fly back to your country." 

The words hung in the air, heavier and more venomous than the previous banter.

My smile faltered, the weight of his words sinking in. 

I clenched my fists at my sides, feeling the anger rise like a tide. I almost kicked the boy—almost. 

But I remembered Rika's words, "Strength is about control… Control over your emotions, control over your fist, and control over your mind."

"Thanks for looking out for me," I replied, my voice steady, giving him an eye smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. He seemed taken aback by my calm response, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as he turned and walked away towards his coach, who frowned upon seeing the exchange.

As he left, a cold realization settled over me. There was more to this conversation; I was being targeted. 

But why? 

"Who is he?" 

"He is the previous year's champion, Musashi."

Turning slightly at the sound of a quiet voice, I was met with the sight of a kid sitting beside me—a little chubby, with black hair and glasses. I blinked, slightly startled. I hadn't even noticed him there before.

"Previous year's champion, huh? Big deal," I replied, trying to sound unimpressed even though part of me was. 

Championships didn't come easy.

"Well, he has been the undefeated champion since he was 10 years old," the kid continued, pushing up his glasses in a way that reminded me of the anime troupe.

That was indeed an achievement. 

My nod was slight but genuine as a newfound respect tickled the back of my mind. Yet, the question still nagged at me: Why was he targeting me?

As if he could read my thoughts, the kid next to me adjusted his glasses again. "You were targeted because, unlike the others, your skills are unknown and that means…"

"A threat," I finished for him, my eyes narrowing as I glanced over at Musashi, then more pointedly at his coach. It wasn't just the kid acting tough—it was the coach who orchestrated this, glaring daggers at me across the room. 

'It's on, you bald fuck,' I thought, a grin spreading across my face. I couldn't resist the urge to stir the pot a bit more. Standing up, I projected my voice, clear and taunting across the backstage area. "Oi, you discount JoJo, thanks for keeping my champion's seat warm for me!"

A collective "ooh" rippled through the backstage as heads turned and whispers flew. Musashi took a step forward, fists clenched, ready to confront me right there. But before he could get a word out, his coach placed a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "We'll meet you in the ring."

As they retreated, I sat back down, the rush of the confrontation still buzzing through me. The kid beside me gave a small smile, seemingly impressed by my bravado or perhaps amused by the drama unfolding. 

The chubby boy and I exchanged fist bumps, he grinned widely. "That was awesome," he said, his eyes shining with excitement.

"Name's Kozen, Kozen Nakayama."

"Kohta, Kohta Hirano," he replied, returning the gesture.

Just then, the loudspeaker crackled to life, and the announcer's booming voice filled the air, calling for the fighters to prepare. "Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats! The tournament is about to begin!"

Ignoring the rest of his speech, which I knew by heart, I turned to Kohta as we moved from the curtain to the tournament area. The venue was set up with three boxing-style rings at the center, surrounded by cheering crowds. Families and friends were shouting encouragements, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and sweat.

"So, what made you start learning MMA?" 

He shrugged. "Last day of middle school is going to come up before I transfer schools, and I wanted to beat my bullies before the 'new life, new me' came around."

"Nice, so when did you start training?"

"Last week," Kohta said, a hint of embarrassment tinging his voice. I didn't laugh or make fun of him. Instead, I felt a surge of respect. It took guts to stand up and decide to fight back.

"Get a baseball or some kind of weapon when you fight your bullies," I advised, watching as he mulled over the idea, his expression thoughtful.

As we reached the rings, the announcer's voice echoed again, cutting through the noise of the crowd. "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! The first match of the day—Kozen Nakayama vs. Musashi Mark!"

Hearing my name announced sent a shiver of adrenaline through me. I clenched and unclenched my fists, feeling the familiar itch of anticipation in my muscles. Kohta patted my back encouragingly as I stepped forward, my gaze fixed on the ring where my opponent, Musashi, was already waiting.

Musashi's posture was relaxed, almost too relaxed, his eyes fixed on me with a cold, calculated look. As I climbed into the ring, the crowd's noise faded into a distant roar, my focus narrowing to the man in front of me.

The referee called us to the center, his voice steady as he went over the rules we both knew well. "Fight fair, fight hard," he concluded, stepping back to give us room.

As I retreated to my corner, taking a deep breath, the reality of the situation settled in. 

I was going to going enjoy this.

The bell rang, sharp and clear, snapping me back to the moment. Musashi advanced, his movements precise and confident. I mirrored him, circling, watching for an opening. Every muscle was tensed, ready to react.