The coach eyed Rito's grip again as he adjusted his stance. "So, you weren't bluffing earlier. You really have played before. That grip doesn't come from just watching on TV."
Rito forced a sheepish smile, his free hand brushing through his hair. "I did play a bit… but it's been a long time."
In my old life, sure. In this one? Not even once.
"Well then, let's see how rusty you are." The coach's lips curved into a small grin as he raised his racket. "I'll feed you a few. Just relax and return them."
Rito nodded and moved into position at the baseline. He could feel the faint tremble of anticipation in his fingers, but the racket sat naturally in his hand, like it belonged there.
The first ball came floating over at a gentle pace. Rito's eyes sharpened instantly—Dynamic Vision catching the subtle spin, the speed, and the exact arc of descent. His body moved without pause, footwork sliding into place as if rehearsed a thousand times.
Step, turn, swing —
Pop!
The ball cracked off the strings, sailing back across the net and bouncing cleanly inside the line.
"Good," the coach called. "Again."
Another ball came. And another. Each one Rito returned with ease—forehands, backhands, even a sudden low shot. His movements weren't flashy, but they were sharp, precise, and efficient. The kind of control that spoke of endless repetition.
From the sidelines, a few players had begun to watch. Murmurs rose.
"He wasn't kidding when he said he'd played before."
"His timing's really clean. Feels like he's been doing this forever."
Rito's lips twitched. 'Crap… I might be overdoing it.' He tried to ease up, but holding back felt unnatural, almost wrong. The ball came, and his body just knew how to answer.
When the basket was empty, the coach rested his racket against his shoulder, studying him with a thoughtful expression. "Not bad. Not bad at all. You're rough around the edges, but the basics are solid. Looks like your foundation is still there."
Rito laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess it didn't fade as much as I thought."
From the fence, Natsu's eyes sparkled. She leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. "See? I knew you'd be good, Rito. That was awesome!"
"Well, you're doing fine by now," the coach said, lowering his racket with a satisfied nod. "Why not have a play with someone? Testing your strokes against a live opponent will tell us more than feeding drills."
From the sideline, the middle-aged woman who had first welcomed him folded her arms, smiling knowingly. "Agreed. With what I've just seen, he's easily at the level of our B courts. Maybe even brushing A court quality if he sharpens up."
Rito blinked, almost choking on his own spit. 'B court? A court? Wait, wait, I just got here! Don't throw me into the lion's den already!'
Before he could even voice an objection, a warm hand clasped around his own.
"Rito! Let's play together!" Natsu's bright voice cut through the murmurs, her golden ponytail bouncing as she leaned forward, eyes sparkling. Without hesitation, she gripped both his hands and shook them eagerly, her grin wide enough to rival the sun.
Rito felt the chill run down his spine before he even saw it. Slowly—too slowly—he turned his head.
Standing at the edge of the court, like a shadow towering over him, was Takuma.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes narrowed into a glare sharp enough to cut steel. His aura screamed one thing: rival.
Rito froze, his hands still trapped in Natsu's enthusiastic hold. His brain screeched. 'Oh no. Oh no no no no. Don't tell me—'
Takuma's nostrils flared, his expression carved with pure indignation. His voice, low and heavy, reached across the court.
"…Who the hell is he?"
The other players shifted uncomfortably, whispers running wild.
"Takuma's mad."
"That new guy's in for it…"
"Poor kid, he doesn't even know what's coming."
Meanwhile, Rito swallowed hard, his smile frozen in place. 'Why?! Why do I always trigger the angry rivals' flag so damn fast?!'
Natsu, completely oblivious to the murderous glare boring into Rito's back, beamed even brighter. "It'll be fun, right, Rito? Let's do a rally!"
Rito glanced between her glowing face and Takuma's death stare, cold sweat trickling down his temple.
'Fun? For you, maybe. For me, this is survival!'
"Natsu, let me do it."
Takuma's voice cut in sharp, his heavy steps echoing against the hard court floor as he moved closer. His tall frame loomed over the group, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He's a guy. With his stepwork, it's bad if he gets accustomed to female rhythm. He'll do fine working with me."
There was no mistaking the intent behind those words—this wasn't about helping Rito. It was about testing him. Crushing him.
Natsu's cheerful expression faltered for just a moment, her brows furrowing. "Takuma…" But before she could protest, Rito raised a hand lightly, forcing a smile on his lips.
"It's fine, Natsu. I don't mind."
'Damn it… I mind, I mind so much!' Rito cursed internally, but even as he did, another thought slid into place. Compared to Ei-chan's shaky, inexperienced start, his own condition was far better. He wasn't stepping into the unknown. He had [Tennis Lv. 5], [Dynamic Vision Max], and Ei-chan's whole framework burned into him.
In other words, he was ready to face this.
"Good," Takuma said flatly, already turning his back as if everything had been decided. His broad shoulders rippled beneath his shirt, the outline of a practiced athlete who had earned his place as the top high school server in the nation.
Rito exhaled slowly, his heartbeat steadying. He reached into the small bag he had brought along, pulling out a notebook and a pen. With practiced movements, he crouched near the bench and quickly drew a neat rectangle, outlining the shape of the court. He added markers along the service box, little dots where he could record landing points.
The other members exchanged puzzled looks. "What's he doing?"
"Is he… drawing?"
"Taking notes… during practice?"
Only the older woman who had been observing earlier tilted her head with a faint, impressed smile.
Rito straightened, flipping his pencil once between his fingers. His eyes locked on Takuma, who was now spinning the tennis ball in his hand, warming up his wrist.
'Alright. Let's see it—the serve of the nation's top high school player. If I'm going to keep moving forward… I need to analyze you.'
He stepped onto the baseline, racket firm in his grip. For the first time that day, the nervousness faded from his expression, replaced by quiet focus.
"Ready?" Takuma asked, his voice low and sharp.
Rito nodded. "Yeah. Let's play."
From the anime itself, Rito already had some data on Takuma. A big server, the pride of the current Japanese high school generation, a player whose entire game could tilt the balance with a single swing. He wasn't just strong—his serve was almost lethal.
That much Rito knew. And because he knew, he had no intention of recklessly trying to take it head-on.
His stance lowered, racket angled in front of him as his eyes locked—not on the ball, but on Takuma's wrist. The toss will fool me if I stare too much. The real key… is the wrist at the moment of contact.
Across the net, Takuma bounced the ball twice, eyes narrowing as though he were measuring Rito's resolve. Then, with an effortless motion that carried terrifying weight, he tossed the ball high. His body coiled like a spring, legs propelling him upward, shoulder rotation fluid, and timing perfect.
And then—
Bang!
The racket connected dead center, the sound a sharp crack that echoed through the court. The ball shot out like a bullet, a blazing line drive that cut the air with brutal speed.
Rito's eyes widened, his [Dynamic Vision] catching every detail in slow motion. He saw the arc of the racket. He saw the ball explode off the strings. He saw its trajectory land deep into the service box.
But his reaction was a breath too slow.
His legs pushed off—late. His racket swung—late.
The ball blurred past him before he could even touch it, smacking against the back fence with a violent thud that rattled the metal.
Rito froze, his heart thudding in his chest. A bead of cold sweat traced his temple as his grip on the racket tightened.
"…What the hell was that…" he muttered under his breath, his throat dry.
He had seen it all. From toss to wrist snap, from angle to impact. Yet seeing and stopping were two completely different beasts. His brain had understood—but his body hadn't kept up.
Across the court, Takuma didn't smile. Didn't taunt. He simply bounced the next ball, expression unreadable, as if telling Rito, "That was just the start."
Rito exhaled, forcing a shaky grin even as his stomach twisted. 'So this is what it means… to face a monster serve.'
'Ehh!'
Natsu thought, looking at Takuma serve, she could tell that he was being very serious, just like he used to be in a match. 'Takuma...'
The court had gone silent.
Everyone watching understood—Takuma wasn't just playing casually. He was angry. And when Takuma was angry, he got serious. For most of the younger players, this was a rare chance to witness his true serve in action. A terrifying display of speed and precision that could boost their own motivation just by watching.
The air shifted when another presence entered the court.
Yusaku Miura.
The old coach of STC, a man with years of experience etched into his posture and eyes that had seen generations of players rise and fall. His footsteps were steady as he came up to the fence, gaze settling on the set-up. His eyes landed on Takuma's expression—tight jaw, flared nostrils, anger radiating with each breath. A small twitch ran across Miura's brow, but he didn't intervene.
"…Idiot," he muttered under his breath. But still, he folded his arms and stood silently. Sometimes, players had to clash head-on to grow.
Back on court, Takuma was bouncing the ball again, shoulders rolling loose with practiced rhythm. His frame was relaxed, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his mood.
On the other side, Rito crouched slightly, notebook in one hand, pencil scratching furiously across the page. Ten seconds. That was all he gave himself. In those ten seconds, he diagrammed the rectangle of the court, the landing spot of the previous ball, and scribbled two lines of trajectory. His handwriting wasn't beautiful, but his notes were precise.
Closing the notebook with a snap, he slid it back into his bag, standing tall again. His eyes locked on Takuma—not on his glare, not on his towering figure, but directly at his wrist.
With his ego, he won't change it this fast. He wants to crush me the same way again. As long as that wrist aligns, he'll throw the same damn serve.
Rito's lips curved into a tight smile, a spark of adrenaline buzzing through his veins. And this time, I've got you tracked.
Across the net, Takuma tossed the ball high once more, his body twisting into that lethal motion. His racket cut through the air with that same violent snap—
Bang!
The bullet-like serve screamed forward, the exact same trajectory, the exact same speed.
But this time, Rito's body was already moving. His eyes had predicted the flight, his legs launched into the split-step at the right instant, and his racket arm swung forward with conviction.
Strings met the ball with a clean, crisp pop!
The return shot wasn't just a desperate block—it was controlled, angled, and sent slicing back across the net with surprising force. Hitting the edge of the open court, it went past like a whiz, getting Rito a point.
Gasps erupted from the sideline.
"He returned it?!"
"No way, on the second try?!"
"Unbelievable…"
Natsu's eyes shone with delight, fists clenched tight. Even Miura's brows rose faintly, surprise flickering across his seasoned face.
And Takuma—Takuma's eyes widened a fraction, his stance faltering for the briefest second.
Rito straightened, chest rising with steady breaths, his gaze never leaving Takuma's.
Ace return delivered.
"Fifteen–all."
Takuma's voice cut across the court, low and clipped, his teeth gritted as he forced the words out. His glare lingered on Rito, a silent acknowledgement laced with irritation. He had counted the point.
On the opposite baseline, Rito's lips twitched into a wry smile. So, he keeps count in his head too, huh?
He jogged lightly to the bench, notebook in hand once again. The pencil scratched as he marked the trajectory, jotting a quick note about the timing of his split-step and the racket angle he'd managed to catch. Ten seconds—no more, no less. Then he closed it with a sharp snap, sliding it back.
The murmurs from the sidelines grew louder.
"He's… taking notes between serves?"
"That's crazy…"
"Or genius…"
Back at the baseline, Rito exhaled, racket firm in his grip as his eyes returned to Takuma.
Takuma's expression had shifted. The raw anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but the wild heat had cooled into something more dangerous—calm. Focused.
Rito's chest tightened. 'Yeah… he's switched modes. No more ego-driven repeats. Now he's in game mode.'
For a moment, silence stretched over the court. The weight of it pressed down, heavy with expectation.
Takuma spun the ball once in his palm, his posture tall and steady. His glare locked with Rito's across the net, and his lips moved silently.
"…Let's see you keep up."
Rito adjusted his grip, crouched slightly lower, every nerve in his body alert. His eyes didn't blink, trained squarely on Takuma's wrist again.
Round two. He's serious now. 'Which means I've got to read even faster.'
After that Rito was clobbered; with Rito muscle not adjusted to serve, Takuma was easily able to break his serve and with 6-1 he lost it to Takuma. And the 1 bracket he took was from the first break, which was thanks to takuma seeing Rito, who seemed like Ike at some point, so he ended up getting emotional and losing.