‘I always think I look stupid in this gear,’ Osamu says.

‘You do,’ Sakura replies. ‘But then you look stupid in everything.’

‘Very funny.’

Hotaka, Osamu and Sakura are all dressed the same: white coats, white face masks and white hats that look like shower caps. They’re part of the same han group – an organised team of students whose job it is to keep the school clean and tidy, and to serve lunch.

They’ve just collected the lunch trolley with its fold-out serving table and are wheeling it back to their home classroom, where the other three members of their Han group will help serve lunch to the rest of the class and then clean up. That’s their job for the week; they are on lunch-serving duty.

‘I’ll tell you who did look stupid this morning,’ Sakura continues, nodding towards Hotaka.

He is deep in thought. About Tarou Nakamara, the guy who tripped him in Maths. The thug has been niggling Hotaka for months; mostly little stuff – dirty looks and snide asides – never any real challenge. Today’s stunt was a definite ramping-up, and Hotaka is wondering how he should react. He’s taller than Tarou, but no match in physique. He wouldn’t like to get into a fight with him, but he won’t be pushed around either.

Sakura raises her voice. ‘I said, I’ll tell you who did look stupid this morning.’

Osamu grins. ‘Anyone I know?’

Hotaka pushes the trolley harder, and soon they reach their home classroom.

The next fifteen minutes are busy for Hotaka and his Han group as they serve the meals. Lunch is eaten in the classroom, so the students file by with trays, everyone receiving essentially the same lunch: fish with rice and vegetables, plus miso soup, a carton of milk and a piece of fruit.

Hotaka is at the end of the serving table, ladling out the soup. It’s the same repetitive ritual: with each person he bows and takes their bowl, fills it with soup, and bows as he hands it back. They thank him politely. ‘Arigatō gozaimasu.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he replies. He takes the next bowl, and so it goes.

Being in his last year of junior high school, Hotaka has served many lunches, and is soon doing the job mindlessly, unaware of anything.

‘That’s not enough.’

A gruff voice snaps him from his daze. Tarou Nakamara is holding out his tray.

There is plenty in his bowl, but Hotaka reaches across with more soup. As he does so, Tarou tips his tray so that his whole lunch slides off onto the serving table and the floor.

‘You idiot,’ Tarou shouts. ‘Why’d you do that?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You leaned on my tray.’

Almost immediately Miss Abe appears. ‘What’s the shouting about?’

‘He made me drop my lunch,’ Tarou says.

Miss Abe holds up both hands. ‘I’m sure it was an accident.’ She turns to Hotaka.

It was no accident, but Hotaka decides against making a scene. He is on lunch duty, after all. It’s his job to serve.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, looking Tarou in the eye. ‘It was an accident. Please accept my apology.’

Tarou grunts begrudgingly, and Hotaka is about to leave it at that. But then he catches the snicker in Tarou’s tone, and changes his mind.

‘Allow me to get you another lunch,’ Hotaka says. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ He goes to the head of the queue, takes a tray and begins stacking it with food, double helpings of everything as he works his way down the line. By the time he reaches Tarou, the tray is piled ridiculously high. ‘There now,’ Hotaka says with just the hint of a sneer. ‘That should be enough for a big boy like you.’

Tarou nods, but Hotaka can see that he’s seething with anger. He knows Hotaka is making a fool of him. He takes the tray and backs away.

‘Be careful,’ Hotaka calls. ‘We don’t want any more lunches on the floor.’

‘Whoa, man,’ Osamu whispers. ‘You just made one big enemy.’

‘No. I just decided not to take crap from a dropkick.’

One big enemy.

Osamu’s words echo in Hotaka’s head during after-school sport. All through his ten minutes of kendo warm-up exercises, he definitely notices Tarou eyeing him off. As he prepares for the training and combat session, he sees Tarou talking to the instructor and nodding towards him. Hotaka is certain he’s planning something.

Of course. It hits him. Tarou is getting himself paired with Hotaka for a combat session. A little friendly match, he’s probably telling the coach. Yeah, real friendly, one in which Tarou will no doubt thrash him. He’s capable of it. Hotaka is only a beginner; Tarou has been doing kendo for years.

Hotaka hopes it’s not the case as he dons his body armour – the waist and side protectors, breastplate, helmet and grille with neck, throat and shoulder pads. The gear protects against strikes and thrusts from the shinai, the bamboo sword with which they fight, but hard hacks and jabs still really hurt. And Tarou is a vicious kendōka; Hotaka has seen him in action. He also fights dirty, attacking unprotected parts of the body whenever he gets a chance. It’s against the rules, of course, and penalised in proper competition, but it’s not hard to make such slips look unintended. And when it’s just a friendly after-school knock-about, who’s watching anyway? Hotaka knows he’ll be slaughtered.

He pulls on his kote, long padded gloves, takes his bamboo sword, and joins the other kendōka in the middle of the gym for the group training session. There are sixty of them in neat rows and columns. Everyone looks much the same in their black jackets and trousers, faces hidden under grille helmets, with only slight variations in the colour of gloves, torso covers and breastplates.

Hotaka takes his position, then looks around for Tarou. His heart immediately sinks when he realises that that the guy is right behind him. He knows by the breastplate; it’s a rich crimson, the only one of its kind in the group. Tarou is out to get him all right, and he’s starting with a bit of intimidation.

Ignore him, Hotaka tells himself as the exercise session kicks off. He normally loves the kendo exercises, completely losing himself in all the noise and action. Everyone screams their kiai, battle cry, lashing out with bamboo swords, repeating a mix of short sharp strikes, long sweeping blows and lethal thrusts. They practise foot movements: the slow sliding steps as you size up your opponent, the rapid stamping steps of attack, and the sudden leap that catches the foe off guard. Over and over they repeat these actions together – sixty kendōka moving as one – chanting, yelling, striking, thrusting, sliding, stomping. It’s a great release of energy and tension.

But not for Hotaka. Not today. Today the only thing he’s aware of is Tarou, right behind him. He can feel the eyes burning into his back. He can hear the boy’s kiai, louder than anyone else’s, full of aggression. And he’s aware of every strike and thrust of that shinai, some so close that Hotaka can feel the wind on the back of his neck.

You just made one big enemy.

Osamu’s words echo in Hotaka’s head, but he pushes them away.

No. I just made a decision.

That’s it! He suddenly sees everything clearly. Tarou is not going away. In fact, the more Hotaka tries to ignore him, the more aggressive he’ll become. The thug will have to be faced eventually. And a combat bout straight after this practice session is as good a time as any.

No more crap from that dropkick.

So instead of being worn down by Tarou’s intimidation, Hotaka is fired up by it. He hears Tarou’s blood-curdling kiai, and yells over the top of it with a howl that’s longer and louder. He sucks in the air as Tarou’s shinai whooshes behind him, and hacks down with his own weapon, slicing an imaginary foe in half.

No more!

By the time the practice session ends, Hotaka is as ready as he can be. He feels the tap on his shoulder, but before Tarou can formally challenge him, he spins round and gets in first.

‘Onegai shimasu,’ he says.

It’s so very polite, this veiled invitation to fight.