BAM! BAM! BAM!
The sounds of racket strikes, ball impacts, and net collisions blended into a seamless rhythm.
The entire sequence—the return, the trajectory—completely defied Tezuka's anticipation.
He hadn't expected Kirihara to still have this hidden up his sleeve.
"Ultra-Speed Return. Matched with an Ultra-Speed Serve—clocking around 200 km/h."
"These two moves have zero drawbacks. Even if your wrist wasn't injured, do you really think you could return them at your current level?"
Yoru's voice was calm, almost detached.
For Tezuka, this speed was simply too much.
Kirihara's Level 7 base stats were undoubtedly anchored by his Speed—coupled with his innate talent for acceleration.
Meanwhile, Tezuka's Level 6 base stats were Technique-focused, and his pre-growth-spurt physique meant his overall stats were lower than Kirihara's. That alone made countering impossible.
Just as Yoru said—
Once these two techniques were unleashed, Tezuka wouldn't even have a chance to react.
Tezuka Zone. Hyakuren no Kiwami. Zero-Shiki Drop Shot.
None of it would matter if he couldn't touch the ball.
The Zero-Shiki Serve could still secure him points, but only on his own service games—and even then, he couldn't use it indefinitely.
Understanding this, a shadow of resignation flickered in Tezuka's eyes.
"Don't overthink it. I'm just a few years older than you. At your age, I wasn't anywhere near this monstrous."
"Besides..."
Kirihara smirked, leaving the rest unsaid.
Truthfully, before joining Seigaku, he might not have been a match for Tezuka.
If not for the intense training that had sharpened his stats and fundamentals, today's result could've been very different.
Yoru ruffled Tezuka's sweat-dampened hair. "Let's go. You've got matches tomorrow—meet me at the train station."
"The JR Tournament?" Yamato stepped down from the umpire's chair, curious.
Tezuka nodded. "Semi-finals and finals tomorrow."
"You two coming to watch?" Yamato glanced at Kirihara.
The speedster shrugged. "Why not?"
Both had been intrigued by Tezuka's performance today. They wondered what other prodigies this year's JR Tournament might unveil.
"Alright, head home first. 8 AM at the station."
"Understood."
Meanwhile, in the U.S.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The rhythmic impacts of tennis balls echoed through an upscale club.
On the court, two figures darted back and forth—one noticeably smaller, his body wreathed in a faint, glowing mist.
Ryoma and Ralph.
Thanks to Yoru's influence, Ralph had met Ryoma much earlier. By now, they'd forged a solid bond—or rather, Ralph had come to see Ryoma as a little brother too.
BAM!
A final, decisive strike from Ralph sent the ball streaking past Ryoma's defenses, landing just inside the baseline.
"Game, 6-1!"
At the call, Ryoma collapsed onto the court, chest heaving, the aura around him dissipating.
Ralph walked over, hauling him up. "Don't lie down right after a match. You'll wreck your body. Your brother would kill me."
Gasping, Ryoma sat up. "Why… is the gap still this huge? I'm still too weak."
Ralph rolled his eyes. "Kid, at your age, the only one I've seen crazier than you is Nan himself."
"Where's the gap between me and Big Bro?" Ryoma's gaze burned with intensity.
Ralph hesitated.
Truthfully, Ryoma was like a miniature version of Yoru—wielding all his techniques, even awakening Muga no Kyouchi and Hyakuren no Kiwami, creations of the legendary Samurai Nanjirou.
Yet somehow, he still fell short.
"How to put it..."
"Your brother... has no obvious weaknesses. Every aspect of his game is polished to perfection—like a machine."
"You've mastered nearly all his moves, even unlocked Hyakuren, but your execution lacks the same impact."
"If I had to pinpoint the difference..."
Ralph studied Ryoma for a long moment before concluding: "It's your fundamentals and stats."
"Fundamentals... and stats?" Ryoma frowned.
"Exactly."
"From the first time I played Nan, he was flawless—power, speed, mental fortitude, stamina, technique. All maxed out."
"What's terrifying is his fundamentals. Even without fancy techniques, his forehands, backhands, volleys, serves—all are perfected beyond his age."
Ryoma swallowed hard.
Ralph continued, "I've met other all-rounders. They balance their growth, but none match Nan's freakish development."
"It's like... if someone trains purely for power, they might reach the top of their age group. But Nan? He surpasses age limits in EVERY category."
"That's just raw talent, I guess."
Even Ralph couldn't help a wry smile.
As far as he knew, Yoru wasn't even a hard trainer—yet his results defied logic.
Talent was the only explanation.
"Talent, huh?"
Ryoma pushed himself up, leaning on his racket.
"Even if it's talent... I'll still surpass Big Bro!"
"Talented people just reach the peak faster, that's all!"
"Ralph, one more match!"
"Bring it on."
Soon, the crisp thwack of tennis balls resumed.
Had Yoru been there, he'd have advised Ryoma to stick to steady training—no miracles could bridge the gap overnight.
This wasn't something sheer effort could overcome.
As the protagonist of The Prince of Tennis, Ryoma naturally possessed top-tier physical gifts.
But Yoru's presence had forced Ryoma's potential to awaken prematurely, pushing him to his pre-growth-spurt limits.
His stats and fundamentals had already hit Level 6—putting him, in a way, on par with Tezuka, despite being two years younger.
Beyond refining his existing techniques, Ryoma couldn't progress further until his body matured.
Level 6 was the human body's limit before physical development.
Not everyone had a system like Yoru's to break through to Level 8.
That's why, before leaving the U.S., Yoru had planted the seed of Muga no Kyouchi in Ryoma—a workaround for growth.
Otherwise, Ryoma might've stagnated until the original story's timeline.
For someone like Yoru, who preferred efficiency over grind, that was unacceptable.
But with the emergence of special missions, Yoru had found a new path to power.
The Next Day – JR Tournament Venue, Kanagawa