BANG—!
The sound of impact echoed across the court.
The tennis ball trembled for a split second before vanishing from Yoru's side of the court.
Its speed and power pushed Yamato to his absolute limit.
"Too fast!"
But—
He could still catch it!
With razor-sharp focus, Yamato detected a subtle shift in the ball's trajectory. His feet blurred as he dashed toward the predicted landing spot.
The moment the ball bounced, his racket was already there, intercepting it mid-rise.
Super Half-Volley!
One of Yamato's signature techniques.
A move that accelerated the rally's tempo, seizing back the initiative—common even in professional matches.
Yet Yoru had no intention of copying it.
Why?
The form was too ugly.
In the original story, Fuji Yuuta (Fuji Syusuke's younger brother) had also mastered this technique.
While effective, the stance resembled a frog mid-leap—an aesthetic disaster.
Yoru had assumed it was just Yuuta's personal flair.
But seeing Yamato replicate the same ungainly posture?
Hard pass.
He'd rather rely on his own timing.
Strength mattered, but style was forever.
Swish—!
The return shot was fast, but trivial for Yoru.
Before the ball could land after crossing the net, he unleashed a brutal inside-out forehand, driving it toward the sharpest corner of the court.
Sharp Angle Drive!
The angle was merciless, the speed overwhelming—leaving Yamato no chance to react.
BANG—!
Dust kicked up near the sideline as the ball rocketed past, slamming into the chain-link fence.
"Yoru scores. 30–0!"
The umpire's call was suffocating.
The Seigaku regulars collectively inhaled.
The Super Half-Volley was Yamato's trump card. Even if it didn't guarantee points, it shouldn't have been countered this effortlessly.
"This guy… he's on another level."
"Is he really a first-year?"
"Age doesn't define skill—just physical development. He's just a straight-up genius."
Murmurs spread among the regulars, their gazes shifting from shock to something fiercer: excitement.
After all, Yoru was theirs now.
His arrival meant Seigaku's strength had just skyrocketed.
While the crowd buzzed, the match raged on.
BANG—!
40–0.
BANG—!
1–0.
Two more games flew by, neither lasting more than two exchanges.
Yet Yamato's eyes never left Yoru—studying him even mid-rally.
"Prepping for the 'Misdirection Shot,' huh?"
Yoru smirked internally.
According to the system's data, Yamato had another technique: Misdirection Shot.
Likely the prototype of the original's "Mugen no Yume" (Illusory Dream).
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The ball streaked back and forth.
BANG—!
2–0.
BANG—!
3–0.
Even after deliberately slowing the pace to let Yamato observe, Yoru claimed three straight games without breaking a sweat.
By now, even the newest club members could see the gap.
"Had enough time yet?"
Yoru's sudden question froze Yamato mid-step.
He noticed?
Monster.
"Yeah. More than enough."
No point denying it. Three games of scrutiny had burned Yoru's habits into his mind.
Now it's my turn.
BANG—!
Yamato's serve wasn't particularly fast, but the spin was vicious.
Yoru intercepted it cleanly, firing back a deep drive.
"Now!"
Yamato's eyes flashed.
He lunged, arm fully extended, and swiped at the ball before it could bounce—
BANG—!
A crisp impact reverberated.
Yoru's brow furrowed.
Even before contact, he'd known the ball's trajectory. Years of experience and instinct honed through countless matches had hardwired it into him.
In other words—predictive intuition.
Most pro players developed it.
That was why elites like Tezuka could return invisible shots purely on reflex.
But Yoru knew Yamato's technique exploited that very instinct.
Instead of moving, he stilled himself, sharpening his senses to their peak.
Then—
There.
A razor-sharp presence prickled at his awareness… from the opposite direction of where his instincts screamed.
"Clever. If I didn't know the trick, I'd have fallen for it too."
Yoru's voice was calm as the "ball" rushing toward him flickered—revealing the real one curving toward the far corner.
In a blur, he pivoted, intercepting the true shot with ease.
The Misdirection Shot was, at its core, a simple feint.
Its threat lay in Yamato's deceptive prep and swing—misdirecting the opponent's instincts.
"Wha—?!"
Yamato's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
The ball sailed past him, kissing the baseline before soaring out of bounds.
BANG—!
"Yoru scores. 15–0."
"How… how did you—?"
Yamato stared, disbelief etched into his features.
"The technique's solid. Just unlucky I've seen something similar." Yoru shrugged. "Once you know the gimmick, it's easy."
After all, this was just the Misdirection Shot—not its evolved form, "Mugen no Yume."
The latter could force misreads even if the opponent knew the trick.
This?
Child's play.
"…I see."
Yamato exhaled, some tension leaving his shoulders.
Yoru was right. The move's strength was surprise. Without it, the shot was ordinary.
"Skill? What skill?"
"Did something happen just now?"
"Looked like a normal return to me."
"Are we missing something?"
The spectators were baffled—Ryuzaki included.
The Misdirection Shot (and even "Mugen no Yume") appeared utterly mundane to onlookers.
Its magic was reserved for the opponent.
"But I'm not giving up yet!"
Yamato steadied his breathing and served again.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The rally resumed, crisp strikes ringing out.
Though his signature move had failed, Yamato refused to surrender.
Techniques like his thrived on prolonged exposure—the longer the match, the better he could adapt to Yoru's habits and refine his feints.
But first…
He had to survive the onslaught.
BANG—!
4–0.
BANG—!
5–0.
In under ten minutes, Yoru dragged the match to its final stretch.
"Too strong…"
Yamato wiped his brow, chest heaving.
"But I've got you now!"