"This serve... you can't return it."
Tezuka's icy voice echoed across the court.
The Seigaku tennis club members stared in confusion—until the next moment left them utterly stunned.
Even Kirihara, mid-swing, froze. His usual composure shattered, replaced by sheer disbelief.
"How... how is this possible?!"
A heavy silence fell over the court. Every eye locked onto the ball as it spun violently—then, impossibly, rolled backward before stopping dead at the base of the net.
No bounce.
Just like the drop volley from before.
"Zero-Shiki Serve."
Yoru silently noted the technique.
His system prompted him to replicate it, but he declined.
Perfect Copy was tempting, but Ryoma's Doubled Return offered 20% extra gains—far more valuable than skill levels. Besides, why waste time training when you could just chill?
The Zero-Shiki Serve had pressed mute on the entire match.
Then, after thirty seconds—chaos erupted.
"—No bounce! None at all!"
"What kind of sorcery is this?! It's just like that drop shot earlier!"
"No, this is way harder! A drop volley is one thing, but a serve with zero bounce?! That's a whole different beast!"
"This is basically an unreturnable serve!"
The murmurs crescendoed into outright clamor.
Yamato exhaled sharply. "That's terrifying. This Tezuka kid... he's a straight-up genius."
Yoru nodded.
Creating a technique like this did qualify as genius-tier. In a way, the Zero-Shiki Serve was unstoppable.
Sure, in the original series, someone had scooped it up—but that was only possible in small-time tournaments like the All-Japan Nationals.
In world-stage rules? No chance.
Official tennis regulations required the ball to bounce before a return. No bounce = no touch. Attempting it would earn a penalty.
For Tezuka to weaponize that? Absolutely cracked.
Kirihara, now recovered from his shock, stared at Tezuka with newfound respect—and wariness.
As a seasoned player, he instantly recognized the serve's brutal implication: Tezuka could now hold his service games indefinitely.
But...
His eyes sharpened.
Tezuka had subtly massaged his wrist after the serve.
"The strain's getting to him."
He noticed.
Tezuka's stomach tightened.
He'd hoped the Zero-Shiki Serve would psych Kirihara out, forcing errors later. But if his opponent realized the physical toll...
No. I have to keep using it.
Gritting his teeth, Tezuka bounced the ball again.
"You can't keep spamming that technique," Kirihara said flatly.
Tezuka ignored him, recalibrating his stance.
The Seigaku members leaned forward, breath held—could he really do it again?
Swish—!
The same knee bend. The same racket tilt. The same razor-sharp slice.
The ball traced a graceful arc before kissing the court—and dying on impact.
Kirihara blitzed to the landing spot, racket raised.
Zero-Shiki's strain means inconsistency. If I catch even one slip—
But the ball, as before, refused to bounce.
"Game, Tezuka. 30-0."
Another point sealed.
"—He did it AGAIN! No fluke!"
"Under official rules, this is literally unbreakable. How do you even counter this?!"
"Damn... is this kid better than our captain?"
"Hard to say. Both have Zone and Perfect Pinnacle. If they hold serves, it's a stamina war."
"Another monster genius, huh..."
The Zero-Shiki Serve had, in one stroke, elevated Tezuka to Yoru's tier in their eyes.
The sheer rule-defying audacity of it left no room for debate.
"You're a real freak, kid."
Kirihara wiped his brow, sweat now glistening.
The pressure was mounting—but he wasn't panicking.
Tezuka's wrist told the real story: this serve had an expiration date.
Thud!
Another Zero-Shiki.
The ball landed, spinning viciously.
Kirihara teleported to the spot, eyes laser-focused.
Screeeeech—!
The grating sound of rubber shredding against court filled the air.
This time, though—the spin wavered.
"NOW!"
Kirihara's pupils contracted.
Just as the ball seemed destined to crumple at the net—it twitched.
A microscopic bounce.
Kirihara's racket exploded forward.
Whoosh!
The ball screamed past Tezuka—smashing into the fence with a metallic shriek.
"Game, Tezuka. 40-0."
Yoru's gaze dropped to Tezuka's wrist—now visibly reddened.
"Tch. Close."
Kirihara smirked, resting his racket on his shoulder.
He'd overhit the return, sending it out. But the proof of concept was there:
One more slip. That's all I need.
Match point.
One more point, and Tezuka would lead 3-1.
"One more."
Tezuka exhaled, ignoring his wrist's protests as he tossed the ball—
BANG!
A golden streak vaporized the ball mid-air.
"Enough."
A voice, cold and final, cut through the tension.
Everyone turned.
Yoru, jacket draped over his shoulders, stepped onto the court.
"Aww, predicted this."
Kirihara rolled his neck, sighing.
He'd expected Yoru to intervene once Tezuka's wrist flared up—just not this soon.
And I didn't even get to return it properly...
"Yoru-senpai, why—"
Tezuka's protest died as Yoru grabbed his wrist—sending white-hot pain lancing up his arm.
"One more serve, and you're looking at a real injury. There'll be other matches."
"But—!"
Tezuka's fists clenched.
"Stubbornness won't change the outcome. Kirihara outclasses you for now."
To emphasize, Yoru flicked his racket—launching a bullet toward Kirihara.
Understanding flashed in Kirihara's eyes.
In a blur, he intercepted the shot, his racket vanishing into an afterimage as he—
CRACK!
The ball warped past Tezuka, embedding into the fence.
"This...!"
Tezuka's eyes widened.
read finish work inpat***
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