Ōnita High was more than just a school. It was an institution.
Known for its academic rigor and elite athletic programs, it prided itself on producing Japan's brightest minds and most promising athletes. Most students were admitted through its notoriously difficult entrance exam, while others earned their place with sports scholarships. Every corner of the sprawling campus reflected the school's prestige modern buildings, pristine sports facilities, and a culture of excellence that loomed over its students like a shadow.
Taro Sugimoto, despite appearances, had earned his place here. The old Taro, before the growth spurt, had been diligent and sharp. He'd aced the entrance exam, securing his spot among the academically gifted students. But now, walking through the immaculate campus on his first day, he couldn't help but feel like an imposter.
The whispers had started almost immediately.
"Is he really a first-year?"
"I bet he failed the first year and is retaking the school year."
"Look at him. He probably eats five times what we do."
Taro sat stiffly at his desk, his hands gripping the edge of his notebook. The teacher's voice faded into the background as the words echoed in his mind, growing louder with each repetition. He didn't need to turn around to see the smirks or feel the stares; he could sense them, heavy and unrelenting.
When the bell rang for lunch, Taro hesitated, unsure of what to do. The thought of walking into the crowded cafeteria, of weaving through rows of tables filled with groups of friends laughing and chatting, filled him with dread. The stares would be worse there. The comments louder.
Instead, he found a quiet corner near the lockers and pulled out the lunchbox his mother had packed for him. Inside was a stack of neatly rolled meat-and-vegetable wraps, a side of sliced fruit, and a small container of her homemade ajvar. The sight made him smile despite himself.
He scarfed down the food quickly, more out of habit than hunger, and wiped his hands on a napkin. But even as the comforting flavors lingered on his tongue, the knot in his chest didn't loosen. He couldn't go to the cafeteria. He couldn't sit there and endure the stares.
He needed to move. To go somewhere, anywhere else.
Leaving his lunchbox in his bag, Taro wandered the campus. Ōnita High was massive, and the further he walked, the more he realized how little he had seen. The sun shone brightly overhead, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns and gleaming buildings.
The sports facilities were eerily quiet at this hour. The sprawling football pitch stretched out like an emerald sea, its white lines sharp and unbroken, the goalposts standing silently against the backdrop of the empty field. The athletic track surrounding a massive central field was pristine, its lanes untouched.
Eventually, Taro's wandering brought him to the gymnasium, a towering structure with large windows that allowed sunlight to pour in. He pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. The faint scent of polished wood and rubber greeted him, familiar and comforting.
The space inside was enormous. It was one large court, designed to be split into two smaller practice courts with the use of a retractable divider. The gymnasium was shared between Ōnita High's basketball and volleyball teams, both of which were highly competitive, though the gym's layout clearly catered to basketball.
The basketball hoops loomed high above, mounted on the ceiling. They hadn't been lowered yet, their professional-grade rims and backboards waiting silently, like giants resting in their nests. Seeing them retracted like that made the space feel even bigger, more daunting, as if it were holding its breath for the players who would eventually bring it to life.
Taro lingered in the center of the court, tilting his head back to take it all in. The pristine surface under his feet seemed to buzz with potential. He imagined what it would feel like when the gym came alive: the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor, the rhythmic pounding of a basketball, the shouts of players, and the sharp blow of the coach's whistle.
As he wandered further, he came across another impressive structure: the sleek, glass-fronted building that housed the Ōnita High Performance Center. Bold letters adorned its front, gleaming in the sunlight like a promise of greatness.
Curiosity tugged at him, and he stepped closer, peering through the wide windows. Inside was a pristine gym, its rows of high-tech workout machines gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The equipment looked expensive, the kind of gear he'd only ever seen in professional setups on TV. Everything about the building screamed excellence.
Taro stepped inside cautiously, the faint scent of rubber and metal greeting him. The machines were arranged in perfect rows—treadmills, elliptical trainers, stationary bikes, and weight benches stacked with immaculate plates. The floor was polished to a mirror-like shine, and motivational posters adorned the walls, their bold messages catching his eye:
"I hated every minute of training, but I said, 'Don't quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion." – Muhammad Ali
"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act but a habit." – Aristotle
"I've failed over and over again in my life, and that is why I succeed." – Michael Jordan
He wandered deeper into the Performance Center, his fingers trailing along the cool metal of a weight bench. He could almost hear the rhythmic clanging of weights being lifted, the faint hum of the treadmills. But for now, the space was still, waiting.
Beyond the gym, through another set of glass doors, lay something even more surprising: a sprawling horse track surrounded by neatly maintained stables.
Taro pushed open the doors leading out of the Performance Center and stepped into the sunlight. The sprawling horse track stretched out before him, encircled by neatly trimmed hedges and gleaming white fences. Beyond the track, a row of stables stood with their doors open, revealing horses in various states of grooming or rest.
The scene was alive with quiet energy. Trainers moved with practiced precision, leading horses to and from the track. A few students in crisp riding uniforms were brushing down the horses or adjusting saddles, their motions smooth and confident. It was clear this wasn't just an extracurricular activity for them—it was a craft, one they'd spent years mastering.
Taro lingered by the fence, his eyes wide and sparkling as they took in the sight.
The horses were magnificent.
One in particular caught his attention—a chestnut mare with a white star-shaped marking on its forehead. It moved gracefully around the track, its strides long and powerful, as though the ground beneath its hooves existed solely to propel it forward.
"Whoa…" Taro breathed, leaning against the fence. His amber eyes practically shimmered with admiration, his awe spilling over into his expression. For a moment, the world around him blurred. The sneers in class, the towering gym equipment, the intimidating basketball hoops—all of it faded away as he watched the mare.
"What are you doing here?"
The sharp voice snapped him out of his daze. Taro turned to see a girl in a neatly pressed riding uniform standing a few feet away. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she carried herself with an air of authority that was hard to miss. Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over, her tone clipped.
"I was just…" Taro trailed off, motioning weakly toward the horses. "Watching."
"This isn't a spectator's event," she said curtly. "The horses aren't here to entertain random students."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"Captain Eriko!" a boy's voice interrupted.
Taro turned to see a tall, lean student walking toward them. His light brown hair was tied back loosely, and unlike the girl, his demeanor was warm and friendly. His uniform bore the same crest as hers, though it was slightly rumpled, as though he didn't take himself as seriously.
"Haruto Koyama," the boy introduced himself, grinning as he extended a hand toward Taro. "I'm part of the horse riding club."
Taro hesitated, then shook his hand. "Uh… Taro Sugimoto."
"You like them, huh?" Haruto asked, nodding toward the horses. "I get it. They're incredible. That one," he said, gesturing toward the chestnut mare, "is Dreamcatcher. She's one of our fastest. Smoothest stride I've ever ridden."
"Dreamcatcher…" Taro echoed, his voice filled with wonder as he stared at the horse. The name fit perfectly.
"Yeah," Haruto said with a chuckle. "She's amazing. But it's not easy to ride her. You have to sync up with her rhythm. She won't respond to brute strength or clumsy movements. It's all about balance, control, and trust."
"Balance, control…" Taro murmured, his gaze softening.
"Haruto," Eriko interjected sharply. "He shouldn't be here." She stepped forward, her tone taking on a sharper edge. "The horses aren't used to strangers—especially not ones as…" She let her gaze sweep over Taro, her lip curling in distaste. "Big as you."
Taro's stary-eyed expression faltered.
"I wasn't going to get near them," he said defensively, stepping back from the fence.
"Good," Eriko snapped. "Because someone your size might accidentally crush one. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
Haruto looked uncomfortable. "Eriko, come on. That's—"
But Eriko held up a hand, silencing him. She turned back to Taro, her eyes narrowing further. "Shouldn't you be somewhere else? Classes, maybe?"
Her words jolted Taro out of his daze. He glanced at his watch, realizing with a sinking feeling that she was right. Lunch break had ended fifteen minutes ago, and he had no idea where his next class was.
"I—yeah," he mumbled, stepping further away from the fence. His hands fell to his sides, clenched into fists. "Thanks for reminding me."
Eriko smirked, her expression cold and cutting. "Anytime."
As Taro turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched, Haruto frowned. "That wasn't necessary, you know."
"He doesn't belong here," Eriko replied flatly. "This isn't his space."
Haruto sighed, shaking his head as he watched Taro disappear around the corner.
Taro trudged back toward the main campus, Eriko's words echoing in his mind. "Someone your size might accidentally crush one." He shook his head, willing the sting to fade, but the weight of it lingered.
He glanced back at the track, catching a final glimpse of Dreamcatcher mid-stride. The horse's movements were fluid and deliberate, a perfect balance of strength and grace. Taro stopped in his tracks, his fists unclenching as he stared.
They're strong, but they're controlled.
The thought struck him unexpectedly, and he felt something stir deep inside. The girl's words had cut him, but Dreamcatcher's movement stayed with him. It wasn't just about being strong—it was about knowing how to use that strength, channeling it with precision and purpose.
For a moment, Taro let his imagination take over.
He pictured himself riding behind Dreamcatcher, gripping the reins with practiced ease. The horse thundered down the track, its powerful strides propelling them forward. Taro imagined the wind rushing past his face, the rhythm of their movements in perfect sync. The crowd in the stands would cheer as they crossed the finish line together, a team bound by trust and understanding.
He smiled faintly at the thought. But as quickly as the image formed, reality crept in. Taro looked down at himself, his height towering over everyone else in his grade. A horse jockey? He was too tall already. The average jockey was short and weighed next to nothing. The thought lingered, a bittersweet realization that his daydream didn't fit the body he had.
But basketball...
The image shifted. He saw himself on the court, no longer clumsy and hesitant but commanding and composed. His movements were fluid, deliberate, and every step he took seemed to carry weight. The game flowed through him, the ball moving effortlessly in his hands as if it belonged there.
He envisioned himself in the post, using his size to seal off defenders and score with ease. The crowd roared as he spun past his opponent, his soft touch sending the ball through the net. When they collapsed on him with double or even triple teams, he imagined firing a perfect pass to a teammate cutting to the hoop or spotting up beyond the arc.
The court came alive in his mind like an orchestra, every player moving in perfect harmony, with him conducting it all. He wasn't just a scorer or a playmaker—he wasn't really a player; he was the offense. The defense bent to him, every movement dictated by his presence.
That's who I want to be.
Taro imagined himself scoring when he wanted—powering through smaller defenders or finessing a hook shot over the outstretched arms of a bigger opponent. And when the entire defense focused on him, he saw himself calmly reading the floor, finding the open man, and making his teammates better.
The vision was vivid, almost tangible, and for the first time in a long while, Taro felt something stir inside him: hope.
This is where I belong, he thought. Not on the track. On the court.
He straightened, his shoulders squaring slightly. He turned back toward the main campus, his steps more deliberate now. He wasn't sure how yet, but he would learn. He would train, not just to be strong but to be controlled, precise, and deliberate—like Dreamcatcher.
As he reached the edge of the campus, the bell for the next class rang. Taro glanced back one last time at the track and then toward the towering gymnasium with its basketball hoops resting high above.
I'll start here, he thought, determination flickering in his amber eyes. I'll start with what I know.