I Am The Strongest Ghost Hunter

Chapter 15

Raito stood there like a statue, hand still hanging in the air, completely unshake—yeah, let’s call it that.

Akito strolled up, laughing his ass off.

“I told you,” he chimed, slapping Raito on the back. “That’s classic Sakura. Girl acts like physical contact is a death sentence.”

Raito dropped his hand, cheeks heating up. “Hmm. Physical contact, huh?”

“Not the dirty kind you’re thinking, perv,” Akito shot back, rolling his eyes. “Come on.”

Raito grinned despite himself. “Fair. But we gotta talk to her anyway. We can’t train if she keeps bolting every time someone breathes near her.”

“Yeah,” Akito sighed, “you’re probably right.”

They followed the trail of chaos—panicked footsteps echoing down the corridor—straight to the girls’ restroom door.

Thin wall. Same as the boys’ side. And clear as day, Sakura’s frantic voice leaked through.

“No, no, no! I don’t wanna wash it! He’s so cute and handsome—I might never get to touch him again! I’m not washing it off, no, no, no!”

She sounded straight-up obsessed, muttering like a lovesick maniac.

Raito’s face went nuclear. ‘Wait… she’s talking about… my hand?’

Akito bit his lip so hard to keep from laughing he nearly drew blood.

Raito cleared his throat, voice cracking. “Hey, Sakura?”

Dead silence. You could hear a pin drop.

“Wh-who’s that?” she squeaked, panic rising.

“It’s me—Raito. Let’s head out for training?”

“O-okay! G-go ahead, I’ll… I’ll meet you there?” she stammered, voice tiny and shaky.

“Okay! We’ll be training at—” Raito whispered sideways to Akito, “—where exactly?”

“Training ground, dummy,” Akito hissed back.

“—at the training ground for now!” Raito called.

“O-okay! I… I’ll be there in a bit!” she squeaked.

Raito and Akito exchanged one long look—half amused, half terrified—then turned and booked it to the training ground.

Their first official team practice was about to start.

With the cutest, shyest, most touch-phobic girl in the entire GHO.

When they finally reached the training ground, Akito marched Raito straight to the sparring mats like he was showing off his personal playground. Rows of wooden weapons lined the wall—bokken swords, staffs, tonfas, even a couple of nunchucks that looked like they’d been through hell and back. The air smelled like sweat-soaked wood, old varnish, and the faint metallic bite of blood that never quite washed out.

Raito stared at the rack, eyes wide, actually impressed. “These are… wow. They’re so cool.”

Akito snatched a bokken sword, gave it a quick, practiced twirl. “Yeah, they feel good in the hand. Which one do you like the most?”

Raito shrugged, half-smiling. “Honestly? I feel like I could use any of them.”

Akito barked a laugh. “Oh really? Big talk, newbie.” He reached in, dug out the absolute worst option—the nunchucks—and tossed them at Raito with zero mercy.

Raito barely caught them, the rope tangling around his fingers like it had a personal grudge. “Oh yeah… I can definitely use this,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm.

He took a dramatic stance—feet wide, shoulders squared—threw one end over his shoulder like he’d seen in a hundred action games, then started twirling them with exaggerated “whoosh-whoosh” sound effects, making himself look like the budget version of a ninja.

Akito snorted. “Hmm. Not bad for a beginner.” Then he lunged—testing, not serious—bokken swinging in a clean, controlled arc.

Raito tried to parry. Tried. The other end of the nunchucks whipped back and cracked him square in the forehead.

He staggered, clutching his head. “Ow—damn it!”

Akito doubled over, laughing so hard he almost dropped his sword. “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already KO-ing yourself!”

Raito rubbed the red welt, glaring at the nunchucks like they’d betrayed him personally. “How the hell does Liu Kang even use these things? It looks so easy on TV.”

He dropped them with disgust, grabbed a bokken instead. Took a stance—better this time, feet planted, grip firm, eyes narrowed like he actually meant it.

Akito’s grin sharpened. “Alright. Let’s see if you can actually fight.”

He lunged again—faster, more serious.

Raito ducked the first swing, countered upward—bokken whistling. Akito blocked sideways, smooth, effortless, then stepped back, testing range.

“Not bad,” Akito said, circling slow. “Now let’s see how far you can really go.”

He exploded forward—no more holding back.

Sideways slash—Raito blocked, wood clacking hard.

Upward cut—Raito parried, stumbling a step.

Akito pressed, relentless—barrage after barrage, strikes flowing like water, giving Raito zero breathing room. Every block rattled Raito’s arms. Every dodge left him off-balance. Sweat already stung his eyes.

Raito spotted an opening—tiny, desperate—lunged.

Akito’s bokken cracked across his thigh. Raito dropped to one knee, gasping, leg screaming.

Akito stepped back, breathing steady, not even winded. “Not bad at all.”

He offered a hand. “That’s the difference between a newbie and someone who’s spent two years getting his ass kicked every day.”

Immediately Akito pulled Raito up, the two of them catching their breath amid the echo of wood-on-wood.

Then a voice—soft, trembling, almost swallowed by the room—slipped in from behind.

“I… I… it’s so wrong.”