Kanagawa
JR Tournament Venue
Early morning.
Yoru, Tezuka, and the others arrived at the venue. The crowd was noticeably larger than yesterday.
The JR Tournament was a big deal in Japan. By the semifinals and finals, not only would regular spectators pack the stands, but reporters would swarm in as well.
The moment they entered, Yoru's gaze locked onto two figures below—the so-called "God-Emperor Duo."
Honestly, these Japanese names are so extra.
A "Child of God" and an "Emperor"? For a tiny country, they sure had a dragon-level ego.
Yamato, wide-eyed, looked around like a time traveler who'd just stepped into the 21st century. He'd never experienced a match under this much scrutiny.
Kirihara nudged Tezuka. "Who's your opponent?"
Tezuka scanned the stands, then pointed toward a black-capped boy on the opposite side. "Him. Sanada Genichirou."
"Schedule says the first match is Yukimura Seiichi vs. some nobody. Tezuka's up second."
"With Tezuka's skills, winning the whole thing should be easy, right?" Yamato couldn't help but glance at Tezuka.
After yesterday's performance, he couldn't imagine anyone older surpassing Tezuka at this age.
"..."
Tezuka stayed silent, but the confidence behind his glasses was unmistakable.
Match Start.
Yukimura descended onto the court, his signature jacket draped over his shoulders—a look that made Kirihara side-eye Yoru.
Damn, that's cool. Gotta try that someday.
Yamato, meanwhile, was instantly dismissed. Too weak. Also, kinda sketchy.
PING!
A crisp strike marked the beginning of the semifinals.
Yukimura's serve.
Knees bent, body coiled, racket snapping forward—textbook perfection.
A standard flat serve, but blisteringly fast, landing razor-close to the outer line.
Yamato's jaw dropped. "His fundamentals are insane."
That single serve alone screamed elite.
The match unfolded.
The scoreboard ticked mercilessly.
Yukimura's opponent was outclassed.
Tezuka, Kirihara, and Yamato's expressions shifted—curiosity hardening into focus, then outright wariness.
By the end, their faces were stone.
"Game. Yukimura Seiichi wins. 6-0."
Total match time: 8 minutes, 53 seconds.
"He's strong," Kirihara muttered.
Yukimura hadn't used a single flashy technique. Just flawless fundamentals, zero mistakes—like a demonstration reel.
"Another monster," Yamato breathed.
"Genichirou," Yukimura called as he stepped off the court, ignoring his sobbing opponent. A sly smile curled his lips. "Don't lose now."
Sanada adjusted his cap, his gaze slicing toward Tezuka, who was warming up. "It'll be over fast. Save your energy for the finals."
They'd known each other for years. Outside of Yukimura, Sanada had never met a peer who could challenge him—let alone take a game.
"I'll be waiting."
Yukimura trusted his friend's skill.
"Go get 'em, Tezuka! We're rooting for you!"
Yamato, inexplicably, whipped out a tiny flag: "TEZUKA FIGHT!"
Tezuka's cheeks pinked.
Baby Tezuka hadn't yet mastered his future poker face.
BEEP!
"JR Tournament Semifinal, Match Two: Tezuka Kunimitsu vs. Sanada Genichirou. Players, prepare. Match begins in ten minutes."
"Consider this my warm-up."
Sanada strode onto the court, racket in hand—no warm-up. He just stood there, staring.
"He's not even stretching?!" Yamato blinked.
"This version of Sanada's only ever lost to Yukimura," Yoru said flatly. "Reality hasn't humbled him yet."
Then—
Yoru's fingers paused mid-hair-ruffle.
His eyes snagged on a hulking figure in the stands—a man in a black tracksuit emblazoned with "GERMANY."
Next to him, a bespectacled assistant scribbled notes.
Ah.
A rumor from the original series resurfaced: Tezuka had received an offer from a German elite club in elementary school. Fans debated its validity, but here was the proof.
Their eyes were glued to Tezuka. Sanada? Invisible.
Trying to poach my future ace? Over my dead body.
Yoru's smirk turned razor-edged.
BEEEP!
The referee's whistle shrieked.
"Players, take your positions. Match begins now!"
"If Tezuka becomes Seigaku's next pillar, the school could dominate for at least another year after the captain graduates," Yamato mused, hopeful.
"Hm?"
Yukimura's head tilted.
Seigaku's successor?
He knew of Seigaku—the alma mater of Samurai Nanjirou, once Asia's top player. Their recent record was dismal, but for them to scout a middle-schooler as heir?
That meant exceptional talent.
Yukimura's gaze sharpened. "So you're their chosen one."
Game Start.
First game: Tezuka's serve.
Sanada's lack of warm-up didn't faze Tezuka. Once the match began, nothing existed outside the court.
Sanada, meanwhile, was still mentally prepping for his imagined finals showdown with Yukimura.
I'll crush him early. No mercy—
THWACK!
A gunshot-like impact.
Sanada's head snapped up—too late. The ball had already kissed the court, rocketed past him, and slammed into the back wall.
It rolled back, stopping at his feet.
Sanada's body locked. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
"When did—?!"
"15-0, Tezuka Kunimitsu!"
The referee's call was merciless.
Sanada's jaw clenched.
This glasses-wearing bastard…
For the first time, it hit him:
This opponent was different.