Episode 13: Fire in the Grains
Rain runs down the stone roads of Koga City during the Spring Tournament qualifying rounds. Rows of cheap lanterns flicker under the long drips from the roofs. The center stage—a red sand dojo. Ryoma Ashikaga, age 16, pulls tight the tape over his cracked knuckles, face set like iron. He’s here for one thing: to win, get the purse, and pay his mother’s hospital bills. Plain. Pure hunger. If you were in his slippers, would you bet your bones on the same prospect?
Coach Tanaka checks Ryoma’s stance from the faded edge. “Get your breathing quiet, hmm? And don’t try to impress the crowd or that sand’ll make you lose all rhythm.–You want to fight your style, not theirs.” The old ref’s whistle shrills sharp; Ryoma bows to him, then to his opponent: Ishiro Fujita, Number Two, local favorite. Tough, but maybe careless, Ryoma thinks. Sand sticks to Ishiro’s skin as if he’s at home in this ring. Felt that vibe before? Sometimes, it’s what comes next that matters.
The opening round shakes the wet walls with stubborn footwork and tight backs. Ishiro presses hard, dead calm. Low sweep, then fast palm against Ryoma’s side that stings hotter than the tournament kaiju broth. Ryoma backs up into the red line, grit clutching to his bare ankles, Coach’s voice flashes in his brain: “Fight simple until the opening blooms!” But Ryoma’s pride chokes up inside. “You’re only strong against the easy… well, I’m not!” he spits out, fists up, chin tucked low.
Outside the ring, two shapes shadow the lantern smoke. Miyuki, math club captain, crushes the paper ticket she’s holding, eyes sweeping every motion Ryoma makes. Her thoughts roll with cracked hope. “Don’t get hurt. Please. Not here, not him… Not because of money.” Matsuji, Ryoma’s hot-and-cold stepbrother, huffs but won’t look away. “Guess I shouldn’t have called him weak yesterday…” Ol’ weird sibling worry.
The crowds drum feet and the dojo sand fans up in thick lines. Ryoma waits—and sees what nobody does: Ishiro’s left wrist twists just a trace before every jab. Pattern revealed. Ryoma shifts, heart loud. What would you do if a rival showed you a tiny route through their armor?
This is where everything bends. Ryoma baits the wrist. Lets it snap quick, then locks elbows, rolls right. Ishiro’s own weight unbalances—first gasp from the crowd. Ryoma pins him to knee, but the red sand bites right into his arm as Ishiro slides free, popping up with dirt stuck all down his face. They laugh, though it stings them both. Who fought last when you could’ve run?
No round settles clear. Sweat greens the tape pad, grains raze cuts across both backs now. End of the second. Ishiro stalks up close, whispers, “Next round’s not gonna let go easy. If you had real guts, you’d drop the cash and give your all.” Ryoma burns at this—grit, guilt, all junk knocked in one sound. He winks, grits out, “Bring something special, then!” As the fans whistle, tension snaps sharp as rain chill in June.
Backstage, Coach Tanaka patches Ryoma’s side. Quick, kind. Tells a five-second flashback: “Year I took a medal on this sand, I threw caution on purpose. That last idiot round, all or nothing. Are you ready to break what’s guarding you?” Ryoma shakes, not sure if it’s trust or old pain. Do you break safety for victory—or save a bit of self instead?
Ishiro comes back wearing a new face—his own nerves show up for the first time. He drops stance, wipes blood from mouth. “It’s not fair, you know.” Ryoma smirks, calls back, “World isn’t.” The next hits on the sand spin harder, gap closing till they’re chests apart, blood rusting the dry grit around their feet.
At the very end, something unexpected crackles: the alarm over the hall triggers; sand mist dims as two unfamiliar men surge from the temple gate outside. Dressed in sharp suits, nothing to do with the match. Miyuki calls out Ryoma’s name, panic wired through her tone. Ishiro hesitates just an instant too long. Tight frame. Gentling grip, then dropped guard. The ref yells for a break. But nobody moves. Did you ever feel, right in the middle, everything about to turn strange? Next week’s fight resumes here.
