The Story, and the Justification

Whether someone with a line to the upperclassmen had put it up, or a second-year had written it himself behind the cover of anonymity, the students had no way of knowing. What they did know was that the post, locking into everything that followed, kicked up no small storm.

"Hit him!"

"Don't just let him go!"

"Kill him!"

All that day the second-years trained as if they wanted the whole school to hear, bellowing at the top of their lungs. Freshmen crossing from the dormitories to the lecture halls could not help glancing over.

A rush of air. A crash, a thud, a body rolling.

"Aaaagh!"

"Forget the ball! The man first!"

"Bury him!"

"Swarm him!"

It did not matter who went down. Wham. Crack. They flung themselves at one another as if they meant to kill. This was barely a sport at all. It was a fight.

If I get picked to represent the first-years, do I have to fight like that?

The thought alone seemed to turn their stomachs. The freshmen shook their heads and hurried on.

And that was not the only scene that posed a problem. Day-and-night shows of force, dressed up as training, were not enough; now the pressure on the first-years came right out in the open.

Take this, for instance. Gary, a first-year, was sitting alone in the dining hall with his meal. There were plenty of empty seats. Even so, a rumble of footsteps brought the big bodies over, and they went out of their way to plant themselves on either side of him.

What is this?

Painfully awkward. Standing up with the discomfort written on his face would only make it worse, so he had no choice but to face forward and try to eat. Then hulks built much the same way took the seats across from him as well, and he was entirely ringed in by slabs of muscle.

As if even that fell short, they started talking rugby outright. How the height of the game was crashing into people without a thought. How you had to bury a hit properly the first time, or there would be trouble afterward. How they had gone down dangerously more than once, but a few weeks in a hospital bed and you came back well enough. It was plainly a conversation among themselves. Even so, blameless Gary was the one left to bear the full weight of it.

A thin breath through the teeth. Eat a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reasonable amount and get up. Now.

Even as he fled the table in a hurry, barbed laughter kept flying at his back.

"Didn't even get through half of it. Left the rest."

"Cowards, the lot of them."

"Heh heh heh."

Gary was not the only one.

"You James?"

He was only walking the grounds when seniors asked his name with no preamble at all.

"W-why do you ask?"

"You are James, right?"

"Pardon?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"I really don't understand why you would..."

A senior a full head taller than James looked openly down at him. It was the sort of face that would not have looked strange delivering a cuff on the ear, depending on the answer. James had to drop his gaze.

"The one who got hurt bad playing rugby. That you?"

"H-hurt? What do you mean, hurt?"

"Heard your leg got wrecked. Long stay in the hospital."

By then, anyone would have caught the drift.

"Wrong person, maybe?"

"Y-yes. I believe that's the case."

"Strange. That can't be right. Odd."

The smile that followed was an open warning.

"Then I'll just be going..."

Even as James hurried his steps, he could feel the malice pouring onto the back of his head, clear as anything.

That afternoon, perhaps because the rumors about the second-years had spread everywhere, nearly everyone who used to step forward for rugby in PE had vanished. No surprise. More than one or two hulks sat on the far benches, glaring across the field. Get marked by the second-years and school life turned hard. That much was obvious, so forget playing — they would not even come near the rugby pitch.

Only three of us took our places. Me, Jack, and Peter.

Jack, unable to stand the sight, opened his mouth.

"Want me to go run those guys off?"

"Who?"

"The second-years over there."

Oh, for heaven's sake.

"Bet I could send them packing in a minute."

"And get hauled before the disciplinary committee again?"

"So what if I do?"

"Then you can't play the rugby match."

"That won't do!"

He shook his head as if the mere thought were horrifying. Peter, by contrast, read the situation with a cool head.

"That post from yesterday. Second-year dorm IP, just like I thought."

"In the end they're set on sabotaging this. No question."

Peter bit his lower lip, then went on.

"If they didn't want to fight, they could have refused the qualifier cleanly and been done with it. Instead they're hassling us with threats? There's a scheme in this. There has to be."

A scheme.

Obvious.

Even if it was only because they were still burning over everything they had taken, they were busy with some petty revenge.

"So what should we do?"

At Peter's question I answered, perfectly calm.

"Just leave them."

"What?"

"A story? A justification?"

His face said he hadn't the faintest idea what I meant. I grinned. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠In a few days he would see the whole of it anyway. I turned to Jack.

"Let's just practice."

Two days later. The day the magazines were delivered to the school.

Perhaps that was why. Classmates came flooding in without exception, every one of them carrying a copy. The ones who had already devoured Dragon Planet and Capsulemon in turn went back to the beginning and started reading the magazine properly, cover to cover. Friends who had picked up speed-reading turned the pages faster than the rest, and one of them lifted his voice as if he had struck gold.

"This is huge! Huge!"

"Why?"

"Page forty-one!"

He made such a fuss that every page turned together. This had better not be nothing, or he was catching an earful. Plenty of faces were skeptical. Then, the moment they all opened to page forty-one—

"Whoaaa!"

As if they had rehearsed it, they reacted as one. The reason was simple.

"Th-they're serializing it every week?"

"Where does it say that?"

"Look at the bottom. From training all the way through the matches. It says they'll keep running it for weeks."

"Where?"

"I said the bottom. The very bottom."

"No way — for real?"

And that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was not all. Every first-year who entered the qualifier was to be issued a uniform made by Ultimate.

"Are they insane?"

A little early to be losing their heads. Their eyes moved to the next page.

"Ohhh!"

Until now, getting your face in the magazine made you a star inside these walls and no further. But if the book went out to every school? From then on you might become what people called a celebrity across the whole country. Even the friends who never studied seemed to have their heads turning fast today.

"If they drop it nationwide at the same moment the first-year coverage starts..."

"This is them telling us outright to become stars!"

Of course there were worried voices too.

"You think the second-years are going to sit and watch a spectacle like that?"

"Right. They're already scaring people on the quiet. Stick your neck out because you're going in a magazine, and how are you supposed to handle what comes after..."

The counterargument came flying.

"You worry too much."

"...?"

"The reporting team's coming to the school, aren't they? You think journalists are going to watch the second-years playing the thug and just sit there?"

"They'd cover that too? Write it up?"

"Obviously!"

"The second-years will feel the heat, won't they?"

"Well, yeah. Their dirty work gets mounted and framed. They won't find that easy."

Two things move a person. Desire, and fear. Those who are good at it mostly make you recognize a lack, and so call desire forth. Those who are bad at it prod anxiety in the open and live by threats. Carl Bernstein was a classic of the latter kind.

From what I heard, the boy had published a magazine of his own today and scattered copies through the school. And look. Not a single person had brought one in.

He doesn't trust that he can be loved, so all that's left is intimidation, with force out in front.

Idiot.

Even while I was putting those thoughts in order, my classmates kept spilling talk.

"When's PE?"

"If I want to join the first-year team, who do I tell?"

"You think saying it will be enough? We'll have to audition, won't we?"

Same hour. The faculty office.

Devon, looking through Queensman, was worked up in an entirely different way.

"Whoooo!"

What had caught his eye was a single line.

They're putting out every piece they've released so far in big sizes?

Ohhh! The date was this weekend. He was single and had nothing particular to do. Worked out nicely. For a while Devon wore a happy smile. As if he had already had a glass, the view beyond the window looked unreasonably dear.

Still beaming, he picked up another magazine. On the way in he had heard a new one was out and being given away free, so he had taken a copy.

I'm not even hoping for Queensman. Half of that would do.

He opened it in high spirits. Within reason, he thought he could enjoy the thing. And yet, for some reason, his head kept nodding. Sleep poured over him. And that was the whole of it — exactly the level of those magazines strewn in a messy pile around a bookstore. If Queensman gathered every piece of its contents to a single point inside one concept, this was all over the place, as if they had grabbed whatever might snag a little interest and slapped it in. So why spend precious time on it?

"Haaahm."

Devon was yawning and tossing the book aside when an unfamiliar voice came from behind him.

"Sir."

He turned his head. Carl Bernstein stood there, face blank.

"I came because of what my junior, Park Jihoon, proposed."

"Ah. That was in the magazine too."

Carl said nothing.

"So you're accepting? Nice and bold?"

Carl answered with a smile no one could quite read.

"No."

"Eh? It's about to be the talk of the whole country. Don't tell me you're scared."

"Certainly not."

"Then?"

"I was concerned that the value of rugby might, if we aren't careful, end up distorted."

Devon only stared.

"Dividing into teams by year and picking a winner — I judged that it goes against the spirit of rugby."

"The spirit of rugby, is it..."

"Surely harmony and unity are greater values than victory?"

Devon's face asked whether the boy had just wandered in from the United Nations. Not that Carl's opinion shifted for it.

"If reaching the national tournament matters that much, we are prepared to yield our place to the first-years. That is our position."

"This isn't because of what ran in the magazine, is it?"

"Of course not. Not in the least."

"But you knew about it. That's what you're saying."

"Pardon?"

"The piece in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠magazine. You knew it was there. That's why you had an answer."

For a moment Carl's face sank into thought.

"You crying?"

"Sorry?"

"Your color's awful."

Carl held his silence.

"If not, off you go. I heard you."

At Devon's words, Carl only pressed his mouth shut.