Art par IA: In a junior high school in Tokyo, there was a boy named Kenji—arrogant, untouchable, and the son of a powerful politician. With his father's influence shielding him, Kenji ruled the school through fear. Teachers looked the other way. Classmates either followed him—or stayed silent. Then came Fuji Yamato. A poor, soft-spoken transfer student, Fuji wore secondhand uniforms and brought simple lunches from home. His gentle nature made him an easy target. Kenji zeroed in. It started small: snide remarks about Fuji’s clothes, whispers about his “beggar” lunch. But it grew crueler. His notebooks were torn to shreds and tossed out the window. His shoes were hidden in the trash. One day, Kenji ordered a classmate to pour juice on Fuji’s sketchbook—his most treasured item. “Why don’t you cry, huh?” Kenji mocked. “Or are you too used to losing things?” Laughter always followed. Even when Fuji came to school with bruises or mud-soaked belongings, he never told a soul. He just cleaned up and kept his head down. His silence made him seem weak. But it wasn’t weakness. Then came the field trip—a rainy day in the mountains. The bus swerved, lost control, and skidded toward the edge of a cliff. Screams filled the air. The vehicle tilted dangerously. Kenji, flung from his seat, was left hanging halfway out the emergency exit, legs slipping, fingers clutching the slick floor. “Help me!” he screamed. No one moved. Not his friends. Not the classmates he’d scared into silence. Only one did. Fuji. Despite his slight frame, Fuji lunged forward, gripping Kenji’s arm with all his strength. He pulled, inch by inch, as the rain poured around them. Finally, Kenji collapsed safely inside. Fuji smiled, breathless. “No one deserves to die,” he said softly. “Not even you.” Hours later, Fuji succumbed to internal injuries from the crash. At the memorial, Kenji stood before the entire school. His voice shook. “I bullied him. Humiliated him. Broke his things. Spread lies. And still… he saved me.” That day, Kenji changed. He abandoned his old crowd and used his family's wealth to start the Fuji Yamato Scholarship—for students like Fuji, with little to their name but unmatched strength of heart. Each year, Kenji visits Fuji’s grave. He never forgets the boy who showed him what real courage looks like.

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In a junior high school in Tokyo, there was a boy named Kenji—arrogant, untouchable, and the son of a powerful politician. With his father's influence shielding him, Kenji ruled the school through fear. Teachers looked the other way. Classmates either followed him—or stayed silent. Then came Fuji Yamato. A poor, soft-spoken transfer student, Fuji wore secondhand uniforms and brought simple lunches from home. His gentle nature made him an easy target. Kenji zeroed in. It started small: snide remarks about Fuji’s clothes, whispers about his “beggar” lunch. But it grew crueler. His notebooks were torn to shreds and tossed out the window. His shoes were hidden in the trash. One day, Kenji ordered a classmate to pour juice on Fuji’s sketchbook—his most treasured item. “Why don’t you cry, huh?” Kenji mocked. “Or are you too used to losing things?” Laughter always followed. Even when Fuji came to school with bruises or mud-soaked belongings, he never told a soul. He just cleaned up and kept his head down. His silence made him seem weak. But it wasn’t weakness. Then came the field trip—a rainy day in the mountains. The bus swerved, lost control, and skidded toward the edge of a cliff. Screams filled the air. The vehicle tilted dangerously. Kenji, flung from his seat, was left hanging halfway out the emergency exit, legs slipping, fingers clutching the slick floor. “Help me!” he screamed. No one moved. Not his friends. Not the classmates he’d scared into silence. Only one did. Fuji. Despite his slight frame, Fuji lunged forward, gripping Kenji’s arm with all his strength. He pulled, inch by inch, as the rain poured around them. Finally, Kenji collapsed safely inside. Fuji smiled, breathless. “No one deserves to die,” he said softly. “Not even you.” Hours later, Fuji succumbed to internal injuries from the crash. At the memorial, Kenji stood before the entire school. His voice shook. “I bullied him. Humiliated him. Broke his things. Spread lies. And still… he saved me.” That day, Kenji changed. He abandoned his old crowd and used his family's wealth to start the Fuji Yamato Scholarship—for students like Fuji, with little to their name but unmatched strength of heart. Each year, Kenji visits Fuji’s grave. He never forgets the boy who showed him what real courage looks like.
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In a junior high school in Tokyo, there was a boy named Kenji—arrogant, untouchable, and the son of a powerful politician. With his father's influence shielding him, Kenji ruled the school through fear. Teachers looked the other way. Classmates either followed him—or stayed silent. Then came Fuji Yamato. A poor, soft-spoken transfer student, Fuji wore secondhand uniforms and brought simple lunches from home. His gentle nature made him an easy target. Kenji zeroed in. It started small: snide remarks about Fuji’s clothes, whispers about his “beggar” lunch. But it grew crueler. His notebooks were torn to shreds and tossed out the window. His shoes were hidden in the trash. One day, Kenji ordered a classmate to pour juice on Fuji’s sketchbook—his most treasured item. “Why don’t you cry, huh?” Kenji mocked. “Or are you too used to losing things?” Laughter always followed. Even when Fuji came to school with bruises or mud-soaked belongings, he never told a soul. He just cleaned up and kept his head down. His silence made him seem weak. But it wasn’t weakness. Then came the field trip—a rainy day in the mountains. The bus swerved, lost control, and skidded toward the edge of a cliff. Screams filled the air. The vehicle tilted dangerously. Kenji, flung from his seat, was left hanging halfway out the emergency exit, legs slipping, fingers clutching the slick floor. “Help me!” he screamed. No one moved. Not his friends. Not the classmates he’d scared into silence. Only one did. Fuji. Despite his slight frame, Fuji lunged forward, gripping Kenji’s arm with all his strength. He pulled, inch by inch, as the rain poured around them. Finally, Kenji collapsed safely inside. Fuji smiled, breathless. “No one deserves to die,” he said softly. “Not even you.” Hours later, Fuji succumbed to internal injuries from the crash. At the memorial, Kenji stood before the entire school. His voice shook. “I bullied him. Humiliated him. Broke his things. Spread lies. And still… he saved me.” That day, Kenji changed. He abandoned his old crowd and used his family's wealth to start the Fuji Yamato Scholarship—for students like Fuji, with little to their name but unmatched strength of heart. Each year, Kenji visits Fuji’s grave. He never forgets the boy who showed him what real courage looks like.

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