Part I – The Lunchroom Battlefield
The cafeteria at Martial High was not a cafeteria. At least, not in the way Kai had known cafeterias his whole life. He expected noise, sure. He expected chatter, the clatter of trays, maybe even the occasional food fight. But what he walked into every day at noon was something else entirely.
It was war.
The walls reverberated with shouts, the air thick with the scent of miso soup, sweat, and ambition. Tables were arranged in long rows, but they doubled as sparring arenas whenever someone felt like proving a point. One group of second-years were locked in an arm-wrestling contest that had drawn half the cafeteria to their table, while another group performed push-ups between bites of rice balls. In the far corner, a third-year casually demonstrated a roundhouse kick to impress a cluster of giggling girls—right next to the condiment station.
Kai stood frozen at the entrance, balancing a tray in both hands, and wondered—not for the first time—if this entire school was just a massive prank the universe had decided to play on him.
Beside him, Haru looked far too relaxed. "You'll get used to it," he said, sliding his chopsticks into his mouth as if chaos was the natural state of lunchtime.
Kai shot him a look. "Get used to… this?"
Haru gestured toward the crowd. "Think of it like a dojo, but with food. Everyone's still training, just in their own way. Some people do stretches, some people lift weights, some people try to break a table with their forehead."
At that exact moment, a loud crack rang out from the left side of the cafeteria. A boy howled, holding his bleeding forehead while his friends cheered and clapped him on the back.
Kai's mouth twitched. "…Yeah. That's exactly what I was worried about."
The tray in his hands wobbled as he tried to navigate through the sea of bodies. It wasn't just students sitting down—half of them were wandering around, flexing muscles, showing off moves, or challenging each other to spontaneous duels. The floor was a battlefield of sliding trays, spilled soup, and dropped chopsticks.
Kai gripped the tray tighter, as though protecting it from enemy fire. "Do people even eat in this place?"
"Of course." Haru grinned. "But if you can't defend your food, you don't deserve to eat it."
"That's not how eating works."
"It is here."
They weaved their way through the chaos, Kai's eyes darting around nervously. His aunt's voice echoed in his head—always keep your stance balanced, no matter the battlefield. He had thought she meant actual sparring, but apparently, it applied to cafeterias too.
He finally spotted an open spot near the far wall. A bench tucked away, mostly out of the main current of traffic. Relief washed over him. "There. Safe zone."
"Good eye," Haru said. "You're already learning."
They reached the table, and Kai carefully lowered his tray, exhaling as if he had just crossed enemy lines. His chopsticks hovered over the fried cutlet—crispy, golden, everything he needed after a morning of tense classes. Finally, a moment of peace.
Or so he thought.
The air shifted.
It was subtle at first, a ripple through the cafeteria's noisy current. Students quieted, heads turning toward the entrance. Even the group cheering for forehead-breaking stopped mid-applause.
Kai felt it before he saw it. The kind of heaviness that came when predators walked into the room.
Riku's circle.
Three upperclassmen, each of them cut from a different brand of menace, strode through the cafeteria like they owned the floorboards. They weren't Riku himself—that would have been too much—but everyone knew who they belonged to.
The tall one with the shaved head cracked his knuckles like popping firecrackers. The wiry one with sharp eyes scanned the room with the patience of a hawk. The third, heavyset with arms like tree trunks, carried himself with the easy arrogance of someone who had never once lost a fight in these halls.
And their eyes locked on Kai.
"Oh no," Haru muttered, already grabbing his cutlet like it was his last meal. "They saw you."
Kai froze. His chopsticks clattered against his tray. "Why? Why do they always find me?"
"Because you're famous now." Haru grinned without humor. "Rumors spread fast. The kid who stood up to Riku? Everyone's curious. Especially his guys."
"I didn't stand up to him. I just—"
"Doesn't matter." Haru cut him off, stuffing rice into his mouth. "The truth doesn't matter. The story does."
Kai's stomach churned. The trio were already walking toward them, their path cutting a swath of silence through the cafeteria. Students stepped aside instinctively, eager to watch without getting in the way. The noise died down, replaced by a hum of anticipation.
Kai tried to focus on his food. Don't look up. Maybe they'll go away. Maybe they're just passing by.
"Hey."
The tall one's shadow fell over him.
Kai looked up slowly. Soup steamed beside his hand, chopsticks suspended in midair. The tall boy's grin stretched too wide, his teeth sharp as a wolf's.
"So this is the genius," the tall one said, his voice low and rumbling. "The one who thinks he can mouth off to Riku."
Kai's mind raced. He could hear his aunt's voice again—read your opponent before you move. But reading three opponents in front of an entire cafeteria? Not so simple.
He set his chopsticks down carefully, forcing his voice to stay level. "I didn't mouth off. I just spoke."
The wiry one chuckled. "Rumor says you stood toe-to-toe with him. Like an equal."
Kai's jaw tightened. Rumors again. "Rumor says a lot of things."
The heavyset one leaned against the table, making the wood creak under his weight. "Doesn't matter. You made noise. Now you prove if you deserve it."
The tall one reached for Kai's tray.
Time slowed.
Kai's breath hitched. His logical brain fired on instinct—if they take the tray, they control the field. If I resist, I escalate. If I back down, I lose face. Options: none of them good.
He shifted his weight, steadying the tray—
And disaster struck.
His elbow clipped the edge of the bench. The tray jolted violently. Soup sloshed, rice tumbled, and before Kai could stop it—
WHAM!
The tray swung forward like a shield and smacked into the tall boy's face with a wet, sloppy splat.
Silence.
Rice clung to the boy's cheeks. Soup dripped down his chin. A lonely piece of fried cutlet slid tragically off his shoulder and landed on the floor with a plop.
The cafeteria held its breath.
Kai's own breath caught in his throat. His mind screamed: Accident. Complete accident. Not my fault. Oh no, oh no, oh no—
Then the laughter started.
At first it was a single snicker. Then a burst of giggles. Then the dam broke, and the cafeteria erupted.
"He tray-slapped him!"
"Soup Fu! Soup Fu!"
"Look at his face! He's a mess!"
Haru doubled over, nearly choking on his rice. "KAI—you—pfft! You invented a new martial art—Lunch Tray Style!"
Kai sat frozen, his face pale, chopsticks still in hand like he hadn't moved at all. His body screamed panic, but the room screamed legend.
The tall boy, soup dripping down his chin, slowly lifted his head. His eyes burned like a furnace.
And Kai realized, with soul-crushing certainty, that he had just declared war.
Part II: The Crowd Awakens
The cafeteria was no longer just a place to eat. It had transformed into a coliseum.
After Kai's tray-assisted "victory," silence had reigned for a few seconds, as though everyone needed time to process what had just happened. Riku, the boy with the bad temper and the sharp tongue, lay sprawled on the floor, his pride bleeding far more than any visible injury. His group of followers hovered over him in disbelief, unsure whether to help him up or stand back.
Kai stood there, dumbfounded, still holding the dented lunch tray like some absurd champion's shield. He wanted to explain. To protest. To declare that this was all a misunderstanding. But the way the students stared at him—wide-eyed, mouths half open—told him no explanation would matter. The legend had already begun.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wildfire.
"Did you see that? He didn't even move!"
"No, no, it was a counter. Perfect timing. Riku didn't stand a chance."
"Look at his eyes. Calm as ice. That guy's a monster in disguise!"
Kai's inner voice screamed, I am not a monster! I was just defending my food!
But the damage—or rather, the myth-making—was done. Students in martial arts uniforms, each representing different clubs, were already analyzing his "technique." A tall boy from the judo club adjusted his glasses with scholarly interest.
"That movement… it resembled tai sabaki—body shifting. He redirected the attack with minimal effort."
"No way. That was pure kenpo. The precision, the speed—textbook form!" another argued.
Kai wanted to raise his hand and correct them, It was literally just me holding a tray because I like living, thank you very much. But before he could speak, the cafeteria erupted into applause.
Applause!
Kai blinked, feeling his ears heat up. He had never been applauded for anything outside of his mechanical tinkering, and even then, it was usually just his aunt giving him a thumbs-up while chewing dumplings. Now, an entire room full of martial arts students treated him like he had just performed some legendary feat.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!" a small group of underclassmen chanted.
"Name him! Name him!" another shouted.
"Name me what?!" Kai panicked inwardly.
As if on cue, one of the more eccentric students jumped onto a chair, pointing at him dramatically. "Behold—the Tray Emperor!"
Laughter burst out, but it wasn't mocking. It was celebratory. Catchy. Dangerous. The nickname spread faster than Kai could breathe.
"Tray Emperor!"
"Tray Emperor Kai!"
"I want to join his dojo!"
Kai nearly choked on air. A dojo?! I don't even have one! My dojo is… my room, with gears and screwdrivers!
He looked down at Riku, who was groaning as his friends helped him up. Their eyes met for a split second, and Kai instantly wished they hadn't. Riku's glare wasn't fiery—it was icy cold, filled with the promise of revenge. His lips curled into a smirk that sent chills down Kai's spine.
Great. I didn't just beat him by accident. I humiliated him. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
Before Riku could retaliate, the cafeteria doors slammed open.
A tall figure stepped in, dressed in the dark navy uniform of the school's disciplinary committee. His presence alone silenced the crowd. The students straightened instinctively, whispers dying on their tongues.
"Enough noise," the figure said calmly, his voice carrying like a blade sliding free of its sheath. "What happened here?"
It was Jin Arakawa, the vice-captain of the committee, known for his stoic nature and frightening efficiency in handling troublemakers.
Kai's heart sank. Perfect. This is how I get expelled in my first month.
Jin's eyes scanned the room, landing on Riku, who was brushing dirt off his uniform with murderous dignity. Then, slowly, they shifted to Kai.
"You," Jin said.
Kai froze. "M-me?"
Jin nodded once. "Report to the committee office after lunch."
Gasps rippled through the cafeteria. Some students even whispered as if Kai had already been sentenced to death.
Riku smirked again, this time satisfied. He didn't need to take revenge right now—Jin would handle it for him.
Kai's knees felt weak. He wanted to explain, to shout, I'm innocent! but his mouth refused to cooperate. Instead, all he managed was a faint, pitiful nod.
Aftermath in the Hallways
Rumors didn't just spread—they mutated. By the time Kai walked out of the cafeteria, the story had already evolved.
"He didn't just block Riku. He shattered his punch with a single strike!"
"No, no. I heard he broke the tray on purpose—it was a secret technique passed down by wandering monks!"
"My cousin swears he saw sparks fly!"
Kai dragged his feet down the hall, praying for invisibility. Unfortunately, the universe had never once answered his prayers. Students kept staring at him like he was some kind of mythical beast.
A group of first-years trailed behind him, whispering loudly enough for him to hear.
"Do you think he can cut through steel with that tray?"
"Don't be dumb. He probably trains with boulders at night."
Kai clenched his jaw. No. I train with math problems and machine parts. And I lose sleep over gears, not boulders.
When he reached his classroom, his classmates erupted into applause. Again.
"Kai! Kai! Tray Emperor Kai!"
Someone had even drawn a doodle of him holding a shining tray like a sword and pinned it to the bulletin board. It was absurd, ridiculous… and slightly flattering. But mostly absurd.
Kai slumped into his seat, face buried in his arms.
"This can't be happening," he muttered. "I just wanted to eat lunch…"
Evening: Aunt Mei Reacts
By the time Kai reached the small restaurant his aunt owned, he thought maybe—just maybe—the chaos would die down. He opened the door, inhaling the familiar scent of soy, garlic, and sizzling oil.
"Aunt Mei, I'm home."
Mei poked her head out from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour. She smiled warmly, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Ah, the hero arrives."
Kai stiffened. "Wait. How do you—?"
Mei wiped her hands and walked out, holding up her phone. On the screen was a blurry video of him in the cafeteria, tray raised like a shield, Riku sprawled on the ground.
Kai's stomach dropped. "Who filmed this?!"
"The whole school, apparently," Mei said, barely containing her laughter. "You're famous now. My nephew, the Tray Emperor. Do you want me to print t-shirts? They'll sell like crazy."
Kai groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Please don't encourage this."
Mei chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Relax. Fame isn't always bad. But… be careful, Kai. Martial artists take pride seriously. Humiliating someone like Riku, even accidentally, will have consequences."
Her tone shifted, serious now. Kai glanced up, nodding. He knew she was right.
That night, as he sat on his bed staring at the dented tray he had brought home by accident, he whispered to himself:
"I need to figure something out. Fast."
The tray reflected his face back at him, distorted and uncertain.
This isn't just about martial arts anymore. This is survival.
And with that thought, he made his decision. Midnight training would begin—logic against brute force.
Part III: Midnight Resolve
The city outside Kai's window had gone quiet. Streetlights flickered like sleepy fireflies, and the occasional hum of a passing scooter echoed in the distance. Inside his small room above Aunt Mei's restaurant, Kai sat at his desk, staring at the dented tray he had placed carefully in front of him.
It had been hours since the cafeteria incident, yet his mind refused to settle. He had replayed it countless times in his head—Riku charging, his own awkward dodge, the accidental tray smash. It was absurd. A comedy of errors. And yet, everyone treated it like a decisive martial feat.
Kai picked up the tray, turning it over in his hands. The dent stared back at him like proof of something he wasn't sure he wanted to acknowledge.
"I can't let this get out of control," he muttered. "If I keep pretending it was nothing, they'll keep exaggerating. If I try to deny it, they'll think I'm just being humble. Either way, I'm doomed."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Most kids worried about exams or crushes. Kai worried about surviving high school without being turned into an unwilling martial arts prodigy.
Still… Aunt Mei's words lingered. Be careful. Martial artists take pride seriously.
Kai closed his eyes. He could still see Riku's glare, that promise of revenge. He wasn't naive enough to think it was over. If anything, this was just the beginning.
He exhaled sharply. "Fine. If I can't escape this mess, I'll adapt."
The Logical Blueprint
Kai rummaged through his drawer and pulled out a notebook. Unlike most students, his notebooks weren't filled with lecture notes or doodles. They were blueprints, sketches of mechanical designs, pages of equations.
Now, he flipped to a fresh page and, for the first time, wrote across the top: "Martial Arts Research."
He tapped the pen against the page, thinking. Martial arts was about movement. Mechanics was also about movement. Force, leverage, velocity, momentum—those were just variables. Martial arts, at its core, was physics applied to the human body.
"Which means," Kai muttered, scribbling furiously, "if I understand the principles behind every style, I can find the weak points. I don't need raw strength. I need efficiency."
He drew a stick figure, labeling it with arrows: force vectors, center of gravity, torque.
"Judo throws rely on shifting the opponent's balance. Karate strikes depend on speed and precision. Boxing—angles and timing. It's all math."
The more he wrote, the calmer he became. This was his territory. Logic. Patterns. Systems. He couldn't out-punch Riku, but he could out-think him.
Kai stood abruptly, almost knocking his chair over. "Alright. Time to test."
Improvised Dojo
The restaurant downstairs was long closed, the tables and chairs stacked neatly in the corner. Perfect for experiments.
Kai crept down the stairs, careful not to wake Aunt Mei, and set up the space. He grabbed a broom handle, balanced it on two chairs, and hung an old rag from the center. A crude punching dummy.
He took a stance—though it was more inspired by watching TV than any formal training—and swung the tray at the rag. The impact sent the broom wobbling dangerously.
Kai winced. "Okay, note to self: trays are unstable weapons."
He jotted it down in his notebook: Tray – Wide surface area, poor balance. Effective only with perfect timing.
Next, he experimented with chair legs, mops, even the restaurant's rolling pin. Each one gave him data. Reach, weight distribution, striking force.
Between attempts, he'd pause, scribbling equations and diagrams, cross-referencing with what little martial arts theory he had absorbed from overhearing students at school.
By 2 a.m., the restaurant looked like a war zone. Chairs scattered, rag-dummies torn, Kai sweating through his shirt. Yet his eyes glowed with focus.
"This… this could work."
He wasn't training muscles. He was training systems. Testing variables. Building a framework. His own martial art—not bound by tradition, but constructed logically.
And yet, beneath the satisfaction, a nervous thought lingered: Would logic be enough against fighters who trained their whole lives?
A Visitor in the Shadows
Kai collapsed into a chair, gulping water. He hadn't noticed the time passing.
Then, a faint creak reached his ears.
His head snapped up. Someone was standing at the back door.
The figure stepped into the dim light—a tall student in the school uniform, his posture calm but alert. His presence radiated quiet strength, the kind Kai had seen only in upperclassmen.
"Not bad," the boy said, eyeing the chaos of improvised training tools. "You're not just messing around. You're analyzing."
Kai froze. His heart raced. "Who are you?"
The boy smiled faintly. "Third-year. Disciplinary committee. Name's Jin Arakawa."
Kai's stomach dropped. The very same Jin who had summoned him after lunch.
"You… followed me?" Kai asked, his voice shaky.
"Not exactly," Jin replied. "Word travels fast. I wanted to see for myself who this 'Tray Emperor' really is."
Kai buried his face in his hands. "Please, don't call me that."
Jin ignored the plea, stepping further inside. He picked up the dented tray from the table, turning it over in his hands like an artifact. "You embarrassed Riku. That makes you his target now. He won't stop until he crushes you."
Kai swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to."
"Doesn't matter. What matters is how you respond. You have two choices: keep running… or stand your ground."
Kai looked up, meeting Jin's steady gaze. The weight of the words pressed down on him, heavy and undeniable.
Jin set the tray back down and turned to leave. At the doorway, he glanced back. "I'll be watching. Don't disappoint me."
The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Kai sat there, frozen, the tray gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
His heart pounded. His mind whirred. And for the first time, he realized: this wasn't just about surviving rumors. It was about survival, period.
He clenched his fists. Midnight training wasn't just an experiment anymore. It was preparation for war.