Twist Serve!
The ball landed and rebounded straight toward Ryoma's face, spinning violently.
Under Yoru's guidance, Ryoma had shortened the ball's ground contact time, making the serve even more powerful.
But against Yoru, such a technique wasn't enough to score outright.
With a slight tilt of his body, the ball grazed past his cheek and soared high.
Before it could fully clear his head, a white racket intercepted it midair.
Smash!
Yoru returned the ball with a sharp, downward strike.
The shot was blindingly fast—streaking across the court and landing at the farthest corner before bouncing out of bounds.
Ryoma's eyes tracked the trajectory, but his body couldn't react in time.
By the time he lunged, the ball had already bounced twice.
First point lost.
Yoru leads, 15-0!
(Note: Tennis scoring originates from 15th-century France, later refined in England. The 15-30-40 system is said to be based on sextant divisions in astronomy. A game is won at 40, then sets are counted as 1-0, 2-0, etc. First to six games wins the set. At 5-5, a player must win by two games (e.g., 7-5). At 6-6, a tiebreaker (first to 7, win by 2) decides the set.)
Yoru remained calm. "Your Twist Serve has improved, but against someone with higher stats, it just sets them up for an attack."
"Increase the rebound angle, tighten your motion—make it threatening while keeping an escape route."
Ryoma grimaced.
Easier said than done.
But he knew Yoru had mastered this refinement almost immediately after learning the serve.
If Big Bro could do it, so can I!
Thwack!
Ryoma served again—this time a flat, powerful strike.
The speed, angle, and placement were impeccable, far beyond what most kids his age could manage.
But for Yoru?
Not even close.
The moment the ball bounced, his racket was already there, intercepting it before it reached its peak.
The return was brutal, accelerating the rally's tempo instantly.
Ryoma barely managed to reach it, lunging from the center mark.
Yet as soon as he hit it back—
Yoru was already at the net.
Shit!
Ryoma's stomach dropped.
His brother had closed in silently, like a shadow.
"If you're confident in your return, don't fixate on the ball—watch your opponent's movement."
Yoru's voice was cool, detached.
The moment the ball crossed the net, his racket flashed.
A crisp thud, and the ball crumpled midair, rocketing back before Ryoma could blink.
30-0.
Ryoma swallowed hard, staring at the ball rolling outside the baseline.
Two points.
That was all it took for Yoru to remind him of that suffocating pressure.
No matter how many times they played, it never got easier.
Especially knowing Yoru was holding back.
No—
"Holding back" wasn't the right term.
This was just casual play.
Ryoma still remembered that match years ago, where Ryōga had been reduced to a puppet in Yoru's hands.
Even Nanjirō had admitted Yoru possessed a monstrous innate talent—one Ryoma had never fully witnessed.
Yoru had refused every request to see it.
The mystery alone was terrifying.
40-0.
...
1-0.
Ryoma lost his serve without winning a single point.
Every rally ended in two shots or fewer.
"Hah… hah…"
Though only one game had passed, Ryoma's forehead was already slick with sweat, his breath ragged.
The sheer mental strain of facing Yoru drained him faster than physical exertion.
"Again."
Ryoma reset his stance, gripping his racket tighter.
Since this wasn't an official match, they skipped the court switch.
Yoru bounced the ball lazily, smirking. "I'm serving with a Twist this time. Be ready."
Ryoma's fingers tensed.
Yoru's Twist Serve was nothing like his.
Thwack!
A streak of light shot toward him, drilling into the court before skidding—not rebounding toward his face, but jutting sideways at his armpit.
A nightmare angle.
Ryoma gritted his teeth.
Yoru had hit this serve at him over a thousand times, each iteration adapting to his stance, grip, even his blink patterns.
In short—
Yoru could control the rebound angle at will.
And his version had no arc—just a flat, bullet-like trajectory masking the spin until it was too late.
Ryoma twisted desperately, barely dodging, but the angle was too sharp.
No chance to counter.
15-0.
Yoru rested his racket on his shoulder, amused. "Master this, and you control the rally from the first shot."
Ryoma didn't argue. It was true.
Unpredictable. Unreadable. Unstoppable.
Even Nanjirō had praised Yoru's Twist Serve as "the most refined he'd ever seen."
And in Ryoma's eyes, that was the highest praise.
Second serve.
This time, the ball hooked sideways mid-bounce, carving a "7" shape in the air.
Ryoma's swing met empty space.
30-0.
Third serve.
A vertical rebound, shooting straight up—blinding Ryoma with the sun's glare.
He lost sight of the ball entirely.
40-0.
Final serve.
The ball landed, then rebounded backward, curving over the net and landing neatly in Yoru's palm.
He smirked. "Haven't shown you this one before, have I?"
Ryoma could only stare, breathless.
Yoru stood there, racket in hand—a mountain piercing the clouds, casting an inescapable shadow over him.