9. Rika Arrives

April 2010

Rika’s Arrival

The flight has left my body taut, but it is not fatigue that stiffens my shoulders, it is the knowledge of why I am here. When the Matsuda elders call, you do not decline, you obey, or you are nothing. So, when they told me to go to Ann Arbor, to enter the foreign halls where Michael Stewart trains and learns, and to stand against him, I bowed and accepted without protest.

Now I walk through the streets of this quiet city, the air crisp with April’s leftover chill. Ann Arbor is green in a way Kyoto never is—broad lawns, trees unfurling with spring’s impatience. Beauty does not concern me, what matters is the gate ahead, the familiar sweep of wood and tile that marks a dojo even across an ocean.

The Matsuda family arranged everything—the driver, the quiet car, the subtle but unmistakable reminder that I am not traveling as myself but as their chosen instrument. Every detail whispers: do not fail. I step from the car and stand before the entrance. My hands remain loose at my sides, but inside I can feel the pulse of duty, here is where the test begins.

Inside, the smell is instantly familiar; wood polished by years of bare feet, straw mats that carry the faint tang of sweat and resin. Incense burned just enough to remind students that this is not merely a place of exercise but of spirit. For a moment, my chest tightens—Kyoto’s summer halls feel only a breath away.

The students are already assembled, rows of white gis, backs straight, eyes sharp. I sense the ripple that passes through them as they see me, some curious, some suspicious, a few already hostile. This is not unusual; outsiders are viewed with suspicion.

Sensei Ogata steps forward, his presence stills the air as if the walls themselves bow to him. He is unchanged—stern, unreadable, an immovable stone sculpted by years of discipline. His gaze sweeps the room and returns to me, he does not speak my name as though introducing a guest, he speaks it as one announces a challenge.

“Students, this is Rika Sato,” he says, each syllable striking like a staff upon stone. “By command of the Matsuda elders, she comes to us as kōtekishu to Michael Stewart.”

The air trembles with shock, I hear it in the small intake of breath, see it in the shift of eyes from one student to another. To declare me so openly, to replace Asuka without hesitation—this is not diplomacy, it is declaration. I bow, deep and deliberate, silence expands around me, honor binds me, I will not falter.

When I rise, my gaze does not wander, nor do search for Michael among them, though I can feel his presence like a talisman. That meeting will come soon enough, for now, my role is simple: bow again, acknowledge the task set before me, and accept the burden aloud only through gesture. Inwardly, I whisper to the elders across the sea: I will sharpen him until he gleams, or I will break him until he is dust. He will endure—or he will be nothing.

The students remain hushed, uncertain whether to see me as threat or teacher. Their opinions carry no weight in the balance of destiny. Sensei Ogata raises his hand and with a single motion dismisses them. The mats shiver with their retreating steps, in moments, the hall is empty save for him and me. The reception is complete, the path has begun, and in my chest, my heart beats once, heavy as a taiko (war drum).

Sensei’s Instructions

When the last of the students leave, Sensei Ogata inclines his head almost imperceptibly, and I know what it means: follow. His gestures are few, his words even fewer, but none are ever mistaken. He leads me into a private chamber, a small room with bare tatami, a single low table, and the faint scent of ink and cedar. Sensei sits across from me, his spine is unbending even here, his eyes as still as a pond at midnight. For a long moment, he studies me without speaking, it is not judgment, just measure, finally, he speaks.

“Do you understand why you are here, Sato Rika?”

“Yes, Sensei,” I answer, bowing. “The elders have charged me to be Michael Stewart’s kōtekishu (rival or formidable opponent).”

He nods once, but his gaze sharpens, and I feel the cut of it.

“You speak the words; do you also understand the weight? Rival is not protector, rival is whetstone, the steel that does not grind will never cut.”

The lesson is ancient, I heard it as a child, whispered by instructors who believed pain to be a teacher more faithful than kindness. Still, hearing it from him now, spoken with such calm finality, makes me pause.

“I understand,” I say.

He does not let me breathe relief; his words fall with the gravity of judgment.

“Do not protect or temper your strikes, do not shield him from failure, push him, break him if needed, so that he may be reforged into the man he is destined to become.”

A silence follows, but it is not empty, it is filled with the echo of command. I bow deeper, “Hai, Sensei.”

Inside, I feel the burden, to be ordered to break a man, not my enemy but my charge, is to shoulder a paradox heavier than steel. If he fails, it will not only be his shame, but it will also be mine. If he collapses under my hand, have I sharpened him—or destroyed him?

Sensei’s eyes never leave mine, “Michael’s talent is immense, his body strong, but his spirit...” He shakes his head once, “Clouded. Longing pulls at him; distraction obscure his focus and if he does not shed these, his strength will wither into weakness.”

I let his words settle into me; they are not exaggeration. Already I have seen the shadow in Michael’s movements, the hesitation where purpose should strike. A warrior cannot serve two masters—desire and duty cannot coexist without fracture.

“Do you accept this charge fully?” Ogata asks, his voice low, steady, final. “I do,” I say, my voice does not waver, though my stomach knots. Duty is not chosen, it is obeyed.

For a long moment, he studies me again, then he nods once, as though a verdict has been passed, “You may go.”

I bow deeply once more and rise. The door slides open, cool air brushing across my face. As I step out, the silence of the chamber clings to me. Ogata’s command is not one that can be set down, it is carried in every step, in every breath.

Ogata’s words echo with merciless clarity, commanding me to push Michael past every limit, to break him if needed so that he can be reforged, or else to accept that his path will end beneath my hand.

I walk the corridor back toward the training hall. My hands are steady, but inside, a whisper coils like smoke: If he fails, it will be my failure too, the burden of his destiny is now mine to bear.

Flashback: Rika & Asuka as Trainees

The hallway smells faintly of cedar and dust, as I walk, memory rises like heat from the tatami, unbidden. Kyoto’s summer presses down on me again—humid, relentless, the air thick enough to drink.

We were children then, though we never thought of ourselves that way. In the dojo of our youth, age was irrelevant, only strength, precision, and spirit mattered. The instructors treated us as iron waiting for the forge. I see Asuka again, standing opposite me on the training floor, even as a girl she burned brighter than anyone else—every movement a spark thrown from flint. Her eyes gleamed with ferocity, her stance never still, I remember the way her hair clung to her temples with sweat, the defiance in her stance even when bruises bloomed across her arms.

She attacked with instinct, always forward, always hungry, I countered with patience, with calculation. She was flame, I was steel and every clash between us rang like hammer on anvil. The instructors circled, wooden staves in hand, “perfection is survival,” they said. “Rivalry is your grindstone.”

We struck until our limbs shook, until breath tore ragged from our lungs, her kicks came in furious flurries, my blocks absorbing each one until the final strike slipped past and left me gasping. Then it was my turn, waiting for her to overextend, slipping inside her guard to drive her back. Neither of us yielded easily nor wanted to.