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555 – No Time to Mourn
🕑 Added 2025-09-29 16:30:11 +0000 UTCThirty million yen.
That’s about what it costs for a school just two hours away from Osaka to make a trip to Koshien.
A little farther, and the price shoots up to fifty million—or more.
It’s so much money you might think the coach is pocketing some, but in reality, that’s only the entry fee, the cost just to show up for the opening match with the mindset of “play once and pack up.”
Every victory after that? Lodging and meal expenses rack up all over again.
Why does it cost so much? One glance at the stands during a Koshien game will tell you.
The passion there isn’t just lip service—it pulls in the entire region’s hearts.
It’s not only the players who go; the cheer squad also gets shipped off to Koshien, and often, the whole school comes along.
Travel, admission, uniforms—all covered by the school.
On top of that, folks back home spend their own money to cheer too.
As soon as a team from their area qualifies, plane tickets to Osaka sell out instantly.
At Soubu High School, where Kyousuke enrolled, the team had never reached Koshien.
Still, just looking at other schools’ numbers, it was obvious the bill would never be under thirty million.
His alma mater, Higashi High, had made it three rounds last year before getting knocked out—and that cost them over sixty million yen.
Even for Kyousuke, that’s no small change.
He’d wince at the thought of footing that bill himself. But of course, that’s not his responsibility.
If it ever came to that, the school’s board—families like the Yukinoshita household—would happily open their wallets, just as they already did for the kendo club’s funding.
“But that’s all talk for if we actually make it to Koshien. Even now, we need sponsors. Otherwise, it’s way too shabby for you to be training in these conditions, Boss.
When you go for practice matches with other schools, you can’t exactly take the commuter train, right?”
Kisaki Tetta’s voice carried a rare earnestness.
He wasn’t even part of the baseball team, but his role wasn’t limited to being kendo club manager.
“We’ll leave that for later. In the end, decisions like that rest with Captain Tsuchiya.”
Kyousuke picked up his bamboo sword and swung it twice.
‘Whoosh—whoosh.’
The sharp whistle of air being cut rang through the dojo.
Of course.
Even if he messed around all day, his strikes remained terrifyingly sharp.
Watching him was a pleasure all on its own.
“Yes. I’ll make time to discuss it with Tsuchiya. At the very least, we should order a new batch of training gear. And a proper bus for matches, too.” Kisaki clapped in admiration at Kyousuke’s slashes while speaking.
“You shouldn’t train today. Go home, rest a little, then take care of the errands,” Kyousuke ordered.
“I’m not tired at all, I don’t need—”
“Do you think I’ve fallen so low that my men have to run themselves ragged for me?”
Kyousuke cut him off, laughing as he patted Kisaki’s shoulder.
“Don’t try to do everything alone. Get more help. I know the guys from Bousou Angels can’t be counted on yet, but don’t limit yourself to the group.
Hire from outside if you have to. The company budget can handle it, right? What am I, some sweatshop boss squeezing every last drop out of my workers?”
“The budget’s more than enough…”
Hearing his Boss’s concern, Kisaki was overwhelmed, bowing his head as he muttered, his voice thick with emotion:
“I have been recruiting, expanding the team. But when it comes to matters concerning you, Boss, I just… can’t trust anyone else. Unless I see it with my own eyes, I can’t relax.”
The determination in his tone was absolute.
A little fatigue? A little sleep deprivation? Nothing a few extra cups of coffee couldn’t fix.
“Then sleep at least three hours before you do anything else.”
Kyousuke gave him a light smack on the head with his hand.
“That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir!”
Kisaki snapped to attention, then silently went to change his clothes.
‘Clap, clap.’
Kyousuke tapped his shinai against the floor twice, then called out:
“All right. Line up in order for your beating.”
His voice boomed, easily drowning out the other shouts in the dojo.
That volume was one of his secret weapons in matches.
The moment he let loose, timid opponents would freeze for three seconds flat—plenty of time for him to strike five, six, seven times.
If he roared during close combat, his enemies would walk away half-deaf and rattled for days.
The kendo club members all paused, then quietly obeyed.
They tactfully ignored the odd phrasing of their captain’s command and arranged themselves in a circle.
This wasn’t just sparring—it was demonstration training, the kind everyone had to watch.
Sitting on the sidelines with eyes wide wasn’t any easier than swinging a sword nonstop.
Kyousuke didn’t just thrash his subordinates—he lectured on every flaw in their swings and footwork.
At random, he would even call on the spectators to answer how they would respond in such a situation. Just like now.
And the poor soul in the spotlight today was—
The one with unmatched “wisdom,” who had heroically scored nine points out of a hundred on a math exam, currently gunning for a private university that didn’t require math.
A boy who, in his youth, had fearlessly thrown his frail body into acts of justice.
Though still weak, he had never given up, and now pursued the mythical strategy of “100% evasion, then a single decisive strike.”
Yes—it was none other than Hikigaya Hachiman.
His miserable math scores didn’t mean he lacked logical thinking.
After all, scoring nine instead of zero proved he could reach double digits—he simply didn’t care to.
Compared to the cold, absolute answers of math, he preferred the warmth and nuance of the humanities.
For someone like him, who had turned observation into second nature, watching first and acting later had always been his creed.
Back in middle school, when his nose was broken in a fight and he landed in the hospital, he survived only because he’d stashed extra cash in his wallet as a secret bargaining chip.
(The thugs left satisfied with their “tribute.”)
And that wasn’t his only backup plan.
Before rushing into an alley to play the hero, he had used his last hidden weapon—his innocent, childlike charm.
He’d begged a kindly fruit vendor to check on him in three minutes.
Nowadays, though, his little sister Komachi had nothing but scorn for his so-called “dead fish eyes,” saying they looked rotten enough to make people want to punch him.
She warned him not to go out after 9 PM, or the police would haul him in for questioning.
Komachi didn’t want to have to bail him out—people might mistake her for a delinquent herself.
As siblings, it was a bit much for Komachi to say something like that—it didn’t quite match her usual cuteness.
Of course, she quickly added a twist:
“But this way, I don’t have to worry about someone else stealing Onii-chan away every day.
Onii-chan can stay my Onii-chan forever—and that’s definitely a bonus in Komachi’s book~~”
Foolish little sister.
In her attempt to be cute, she completely abandoned logic.
She made it sound like if someone “stole” me, I’d stop being her brother.
We’re literally bound by blood.
Sure, one of us reeks of rotten personality (me), and the other is an unbeatable ball of youthful cuteness (her)… but hold on.
First off, the idea of me being “stolen” is impossible.
Which means this so-called bonus is something I can secure 100% of the time!
In the end, that’s the price of being cute—your brain stops working properly.
That’s why Hikigaya Hachiman, who was born several steps ahead of ordinary mortals, hid away his natural cuteness—the kind that could rival Prince Genji’s—from the moment he was born.
He refused to stoop to the level of other kids, batting their eyelashes and playing adorable just to earn adults’ affection.
Other children, when carried by relatives, might earn compliments like, “Wow, so cute!” or “Such big eyes!” But me? I was different.
Supposedly, when I opened my eyes for the first time, the entire team of nurses gasped: “Wow, this baby already has dead-fish eyes!” and “How’s he rotting when he hasn’t even started working overtime yet?”
Extraordinary. Unparalleled.
Absolutely transcendent.
Everyone knows that those destined for greatness are marked from birth.
So of course, Hikigaya Hachiman was never meant to be ordinary.
(Granted, the whole hospital story was made up by my dad to mock my dead-fish eyes, but come on—don’t people have children because a monk in a dream said, “This girl is destined for greatness”? If that’s acceptable, then my version isn’t any less valid.)
Originally, my hidden cuteness should’ve remained undiscovered forever.
But thanks to Hojou-sensei’s masterpiece One Punch Man, my childhood dream of being a hero was reignited.
And to forge a backup plan, I decided to unleash that long-buried cuteness.
The old lady selling fruit was so enchanted by my innocent charm that she agreed to my request without question.
…But even after my first and third fallback plans kicked in—like telling Komachi where I’d gone, and setting up a “call the parents if I don’t check in” system—the fruit seller never showed.
Lying in a hospital bed, I thought long and hard before realizing the truth: I was too smart for my own good.
My cuteness was like a hidden stash—it vanished so completely even I couldn’t find it again.
Well, that just meant I’d discovered another incredible talent. With this, after marriage, I’d be a master at hiding secret funds from my wife!
The only issue would be not being able to find them myself.
But that’s fine—I could always send in Komachi. From hidden snacks to pocket money saved for games, nothing has ever escaped her clutches.
Sure, she’d demand a hefty “finder’s fee,” but at least the stash wouldn’t be lost forever.
If I’m the god of hiding things, then my sister is the goddess of looting them!
‘…Wait. Could it be that my missing cuteness wasn’t hidden at all, but stolen by Komachi? Is that why she’s so cute now?’ Hikigaya fell into deep thought.
And 0.1 seconds later, concluded:
‘Doesn’t matter. The cuter a little sister is, the better.’
Anyway, Hikigaya Hachiman is a strategist who’s made observation into a reflex, always acting after careful calculation.
Even against the invincible Hojou, he could stay calm, searching for an opening.
Victory might be impossible, but at least he wouldn’t lose too miserably…
“Hachiman! How long are you going to drag this out!? Morning reading’s about to start!”
The booming voice nearly made him jump out of his skin.
Only then did he realize how deeply he’d been intimidated by Hojou’s flawless stance—he had subconsciously retreated all the way to the edge of the circle.
His butt brushed against someone’s face, and from the familiar squishy feel, he knew it was Zaimokuza.
‘Damn it, why couldn’t it have been Saika?!’
He still wanted to observe more, to preserve his undefeated streak, but he could feel his teammates’ restless stares.
These guys were itching to take their turn getting smacked around, and if he stalled any longer, they’d “borrow” some of that beating spirit to smack him after Hojou was done.
So, cautiously, he stepped forward.
His eyes flicked twice, then—BAM!—he stomped hard, raised his bamboo sword, and let out a fierce shout as he swung at Hojou Kyousuke.
The stomp against the floor, the roar in his throat—it all echoed through the dojo, magnified by the silence of the watching crowd.
In an instant, they clashed. Maai—the critical one-step, one-sword distance.
For all the difference in their size and skill, if your opponent reaches striking range, that means you’re in their range too.
Hojou Kyousuke stood unmoving in the center of the circle. Then, at the very last instant, he raised his shinai.
‘Clang!’
Hachiman’s bamboo sword was blocked cleanly.
Before he could recover, an overwhelming force shoved him backward.
“MEN!!”
The roar in his ear was so loud his heart nearly stopped.
Then came the blow—smack, right to the head.
Point to Hojou Kyousuke. Round over.
“Too slow. Observation doesn’t mean freezing in place. That kind of all-out focus drains stamina fast—and yours is already pathetic. If you’re going to observe, do it while attacking.
And where was your zanshin? Why’d you freeze after I blocked you? Retreating or sidestepping would’ve saved you from a direct strike. Even if you had landed a hit on me, without zanshin, it wouldn’t count.”
As he spoke, Hojou stepped forward and gestured for Hachiman to raise his shinai.
This time, he’d demonstrate.
With one sliding step back, he held his guard steady, sword still firm in front of him.
Even if Hachiman attacked, he’d be ready.
Then, with a sharp step to the side, his sword locked against Hachiman’s until their bodies crossed paths.
At that instant, his wrist flicked, body pivoting smoothly, and he was already back in middle stance—perfectly poised to strike again.
