CHAPTER 39: THE MOUNTAIN PATH BEGINS

With Dirga completing his two-week quest in the film room, a new Chapter waited—one that didn’t involve sitting or screens.

Fourteen days of watching tape. Fourteen days of rewinding plays, studying spacing, reading defenses. His Tempo Sight was awakened, his instincts sharper than ever.

And now, there was only one week left before the Kansai Regional Tournament.

Coach Tsugawa stood before the team with his clipboard in hand. There was a familiar glint in his eyes—half motivation, half chaos.

"Dirga’s cleared to train fully," he said. "So starting tomorrow... we’re heading out."

Heads turned. Whispers buzzed.

"It’s a five-day retreat. Kurama Village. Mountain area. Kyoto Prefecture. Remote. Cold. No distractions."

Dirga blinked. "Wait, mountain?"

Before he could finish, Taiga and Aizawa exploded beside him.

"TRAINING CAMP?!"

"FIERY YOUTH! HOT SPRINGS! CHARACTER GROWTH!"

They broke into synchronized fist-pumping as if they were in an anime opening.

Rei muttered, "God help us."

Even Rikuya, the stoic monk, cracked a rare grin.

Sayaka flipped through her clipboard with authority. "We leave at 6:00 AM sharp. National holiday gives us time. Pack warm clothes, no gadgets, and prepare for hell."

"Sounds like fun," Kaito grinned.

The team wrapped up early, mentally bracing themselves for whatever was coming.

The Next Morning

Dirga woke up early, the sky still dark. Takeshi-sensei was already gone—probably at school coordinating logistics. That left Aoi alone at home. Dirga felt a bit guilty but figured she’d be fine. Knowing Aoi, she’d probably reorganize the entire kitchen out of boredom.

Dirga limped slightly, though the pain had faded. He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked to the gym in the cold morning air. The streets were quiet—no cars, no sound. Just the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes.

When he arrived at exactly 06:00 AM, his jaw dropped.

A full-sized charter bus was parked out front.

"...This feels like overkill," Dirga muttered.

Then he saw why.

Taiga and Aizawa were dressed like they had stepped out of a 2009 street fashion catalog—baggy jeans, hoodies with embroidered dragons, clashing colors, and chunky sneakers.

"YO DIRGAAAAA!" Taiga shouted. "READY TO MEET MOUNTAIN GIRLS?"

"THE HOT SPRING ARC BEGINS!" Aizawa struck a ridiculous pose, sunglasses gleaming even in the shade.

"...I want to go home," Dirga deadpanned.

Sayaka passed by, glancing at his simple jacket and jeans. "So minimal."

"I call it ’not insane,’" Dirga replied.

Rikuya began ushering everyone into the bus.

But just as Dirga climbed aboard, the driver made a turn... and pulled into the parking lot of Toyonaka High.

"...Huh?"

"Oops," Takeshi-sensei said casually from the front. "Forgot to mention. This is a joint training camp with Toyonaka."

Dirga froze.

The door hissed open.

Aoi stepped up first, hugging her father and beaming. "We’re here!"

Then came Coach Reina Akane, fiery as always, shaking hands with both Horizon coaches like generals preparing for battle.

And finally—the team.

Masaki King. Yuto Kobayashi. Shunpei. Daichi. Haruto.

Every player from the final.

The air shifted.

Tension thickened.

Toyonaka sat left.

Horizon sat right.

Like samurai in a duel, silently daring the other to move first.

Dirga sat near the back. Masaki took a seat across the aisle.

They exchanged nods. Nothing more.

The bus rolled on.

Hours passed. Most of the team had fallen asleep. Only Dirga and Masaki remained awake, staring out windows.

Masaki broke the silence. "How’s the foot?"

"Healed," Dirga said. "Thanks."

Masaki nodded. "Glad to hear it. You ready for Regionals?"

Dirga smirked. "Always."

Their conversation was brief. Polite. Heavy with history.

But before any awkwardness could set in—grrrrrrgle.

Stomachs echoed.

Sayaka and Aoi walked down the aisle with lunch boxes, handing them out.

Chicken katsu. Rice. Pickles. Rolled omelets.

But no one spoke.

Tension returned like an unwanted draft.

Dirga sighed. This was stupid.

Then—he reached across the aisle.

And stole Masaki’s sausage.

Masaki blinked. "You... did not."

Dirga popped it into his mouth. "Tastes like victory."

That broke it.

"WAR!" Taiga yelled and lunged at Yuto’s bento.

"BACK OFF!" Haruto shoved Rikuya, who calmly parried the attack with a rice paddle.

Soon, bento lids flew. Chopsticks clashed. Aizawa climbed a seat like a monkey. Shunpei tried to swing his soy sauce packet like a shuriken.

Then—

"ENOUGH!" Sayaka and Aoi shouted at once.

Everyone froze mid-battle.

"Eat. Like. Civilized. People," Sayaka hissed.

But the tension?

Gone.

The two sides laughed. Joked. Shared bites. The war of bentos had become the bridge.

Five hours later, the bus pulled into Kurama Village.

The temperature dropped. Mist crept along the trees. The bus wound its way through narrow mountain roads, the forest swallowing sound and light.

They arrived at the Kurama Seirin Lodge, nestled in the woods like a forgotten shrine. The lodge was old—wooden siding, moss-covered roof, no neighbors in sight.

No streetlights. Just mist and pine.

Dirga stepped off the bus.

The air was sharp. Clean. Too clean.

It smelled like old tatami, firewood, and something... else.

The team looked around.

"Why does it feel like we entered a horror movie?" Hiroki whispered.

The mist thickened.

"Stop it," Rei muttered, adjusting his bag.

As they gathered their belongings, the lodge door creaked open.

A woman in traditional robes stepped out, her face pale, hair tied up in a loose bun.

"Welcome," she said. Her voice was soft. Too soft.

Dirga squinted. Something about her presence didn’t match her tone.

She bowed deeply. "We’ve been waiting."

"...Okay," Kaito muttered. "That wasn’t creepy at all."

They followed her inside.

The floor creaked beneath their steps. The paper doors were yellowed with age. The lodge had no clocks, no televisions, and only old oil lamps hanging from the walls.

"Is that... incense?" Rei sniffed.

"No," Taiga said. "That’s cedarwood and ghost."

Sayaka glared. "Cut it out."

But as Dirga looked around the quiet hallways, something pricked at the back of his mind.

The fog.

The silence.

The woman’s smile.

There were no other guests.

No other lodges nearby.

And carved faintly into the beams above the entrance...

Were symbols he didn’t recognize.

He stepped closer.

They weren’t Japanese.

Not modern Japanese.

They were old. Curved. Worn.

He blinked.

And when he looked again...

They were gone.

Just the grain of the wood.

"...I need sleep," Dirga muttered.

But in his gut, something whispered:

Welcome to the mountain.