3-0!
4-0!
5-0!
In just five minutes, Yoru had taken an overwhelming lead.
Only one game remained until the match's end.
"Hah… hah…"
Ryoma braced himself on his knees, gasping for air, his clothes drenched in sweat. His racket lay discarded on the ground.
No resistance. None at all.
"Do I really have a chance to catch up to him?" Ryoma thought bitterly.
Yoru had told him more than once that he'd surpass him by middle school.
But right now, that goal felt impossibly far away.
Then, Yoru suddenly spoke.
"Ryoma, you've always asked me what happened with Ryoga back then."
Huh?
Ryoma looked up, confused.
Thud—! Thud—! Thud—!
Yoru didn't answer. Instead, he bounced the ball against the court.
Sixth game. Yoru's serve.
Thud—!
A simple flat serve.
The speed and power were calibrated just enough to push Ryoma to his absolute limit.
Normally, he could handle it. But now, exhausted, every return was a struggle.
After just a few exchanges, his legs gave out. He couldn't reach the next shot.
15-0!
Yoru scored.
"No chance…"
Ryoma dropped to one knee, using his racket to prop himself up.
"How am I supposed to surpass this by middle school? What a joke."
He clutched his chest, trying to steady his breathing. If he kept gasping like this, he'd pass out.
And then it'd be over.
"Three more points… Another crushing defeat."
Ryoma's vision blurred as he stared across the court.
Fatigue made Yoru's figure indistinct—but the overwhelming presence standing at the baseline was unmistakable.
"Father must want me to beat him so badly."
At some point, Nanjiroh had started throwing every possible opponent at Yoru—even prodigies from the U.S. U-17 team.
He'd hoped to humble his adopted son, to push him into taking training seriously.
Instead, Yoru—who barely practiced—had only grown stronger, his dominance becoming absolute.
Ryoma had overheard Nanjiroh muttering more than once:
"When will someone finally put this kid in his place?"
"…I want to win too."
The whisper escaped Ryoma's lips.
Then, slowly, he pushed himself up.
His gaze sharpened.
"I WANT TO WIN!"
The moment he said it—
Something inside him shifted.
A faint glow emanated from his body. An indescribable aura enveloped the court.
Ryoma blinked. "This feeling…"
"Oh?"
Yoru smirked, intrigued. "Well, well. You actually stepped into that state. Not bad."
"But the match is already at this point. How do you plan to turn it around?"
Ryoma didn't answer.
His expression was serene, detached—as if the world around him no longer existed.
Muga no Kyōchi.The State of Selflessness.
My heart has become nothing. Emptiness is everything.
Yoru chuckled and served.
The ball shot forward, exploding at Ryoma's feet in an instant.
Yet Ryoma simply—
Swish!
—returned it with flawless precision.
His form mirrored Yoru's own half-volley technique from earlier.
The ball streaked across the net, landing at the farthest edge of the court before rocketing out of bounds.
"..."
Ryoma stared, surprised at how effortlessly he'd executed it—the speed, the angle, all perfect.
15-15!
His first point of the match. The first time he'd ever taken a point from Yoru.
"I'm winning."
No arrogance. No celebration.
Ryoma just walked back to the baseline, stance steady.
For him, the comeback had only just begun.
In Muga no Kyōchi, his fatigue dulled. His focus sharpened. His body moved with terrifying efficiency.
"Ryoma."
Yoru's voice cut through the silence. He was smiling—but there was something unreadable in his eyes.
"Muga drains stamina like crazy. Not that you can hear me right now."
Thud—!
Another brutal serve.
Ryoma didn't process the words. He just moved on instinct, intercepting the ball mid-trajectory.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
From the fifth game onward, the match transformed.
Ryoma had never felt this strong. His reflexes, his intuition—all peaked.
Meanwhile, Yoru's errors piled up.
The scoreboard flipped rapidly.
1-5!
2-5!
3-5!
…
6-5!
Not only had Ryoma caught up—he'd taken the lead.
All in ten minutes.
"This power…" Ryoma murmured.
Muga no Kyōchi was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt unstoppable.
Across the net, Yoru knelt, panting heavily, drenched in sweat—just as Ryoma had been earlier.
40-0.
One more point, and Ryoma would win.
"Brother… This time—
—I win."
"Maybe now, like Father said, you'll understand defeat… and train harder."
Swish—!
He tossed the ball high, eyes blazing, his glow intensifying—
———
———
"Why'd you decide to use that on him?"
Nanjiroh—who'd been reading his usual "adult" magazine—now sat on the court's edge, watching Ryoma.
The boy stood frozen, eyes vacant, faint light shimmering around him.
Yoru, who was supposedly on the opposite court, wiped his hands with a towel.
"A parting gift," he said simply.
Nanjiroh sighed. "Muga no Kyōchi… I didn't expect your Ten Illusions technique could even replicate this. You're messing with Ryoma's growth timeline."
Awakening Muga was supposed to happen in middle school in his plans.
"Letting him taste it early isn't a bad thing," Yoru replied, packing his racket away. "You've been controlling his development too much, old man."
He glanced at Ryoma.
"He's becoming too much like you."
Under Nanjiroh's guidance, Ryoma had followed a rigid path—his playstyle, his strengths, all mirroring his father's.
Meanwhile, Ryoga had thrived freely, his talent flourishing unchecked. He'd always been stronger.
Honestly?
Without plot armor, Ryoma would've never beaten Ryoga.
And if things kept going this way, the odds of Ryoma surpassing Nanjiroh were zero.
Unless, of course, the story demanded it.
But back in Yoru's world, the final showdown between Ryoma and Nanjiroh had never been written.