Oshitari Yūshi had been wrong about one thing.
The defensive weakness Ryohei had once shown? After a month of focused training to plug that gap, it had long stopped being an issue. The past was the past. Now was now.
It would be a mistake to keep measuring everything by what had been.
One by one, every regular player of Hyōtei—except Atobe, who had his own private court—arrived at the tennis club. After a quick greeting, everyone went about preparing for their usual drills. Everything seemed ordinary, until—
Seizing the moment, Ryohei Rin decided to stop hiding.
He cleared his throat. "Ahem."
"Everyone at Hyōtei, I'm afraid today's training schedule will have to wait."
The words landed like a stone. For a beat, the entire group froze.
"Ah!" Even Ōtori Chōtarō—who had been standing closest to Ryohei—startled and let out a small cry. "Don't do that to me—my heart!"
Once he recognized who it was, Ōtori's voice trembled, half annoyed, half relieved. The other regulars didn't shout, but their expressions matched Ōtori's surprise: they were staring at Ryohei, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, as if they hadn't expected him to be here at all.
"You—" someone muttered.
Oshitari, usually steady and composed, felt a ripple of shock at Ryohei's sudden entrance. The method was unsettling, the kind of thing that gave him goosebumps just to think about.
"When? I was the first one here earlier…" Ryohei shrugged, casual.
"First one?" Oshitari's face went blank for a moment. An uncomfortable realization crept over him—did Ryohei hear what he'd been saying a moment ago? Had he been overheard talking about others behind their backs? The idea made Oshitari shift and chuckle, trying to steer the conversation away from his own embarrassment.
"Since you're here," he said, attempting to regain control of the moment, "I suppose you want to challenge us?"
"But—" he added, lowering his voice, "you should think carefully first. There's a big gap between Hyōtei's regulars and the sub-regulars."
His words were reasonable. It had only been a month since Ryohei had defeated Taki Haginosuke. In tennis, a month is a short time—hardly long enough for a drastic jump in ability. Challenging the regular selections now, Oshitari thought, was premature.
"Why rush? You can wait until the regional qualifiers next month," several regulars chimed in.
Yes, Ryohei was talented—but aren't all of them talented? They were older, in their third year of middle school, with two more years of training and a lot more match experience. No matter how promising Ryohei was, catching up in just one month seemed impossible. They didn't want his ambition to crash into disappointment, so they tried to temper it with caution.
Ryohei listened to their polite warnings and smiled. It was getting hard to keep a lid on his excitement.
Hyōtei's top picks—were they really that strong? From the way things were spoken of in the club, they sounded like major players, but when Ryohei thought about it, Hyōtei's regulars (aside from Atobe) still trailed behind Seigaku, Shitenhōji, and Rikkai in the larger picture. Even Atobe's peak growth had been later, in the U-17 period; junior-high Atobe was not at the top of the national rankings.
Ryohei tilted his head and let out a laugh. "This is funny."
"Just one or two of you—do you all really think you're that great?"
The disdain in his face was real; it didn't seem like an act.
"What did you say?" a voice snapped.
"Do you really think beating Taki Haginosuke is something to be proud of?" Ryohei kept his tone unhurried, but every word landed like a challenge. "If you're so sure of yourselves, show me the strength to back that pride up."
"Who do you think you are—" someone began, but Otori cut in, embarrassed and flaring.
"Rin—" he said sharply. You can't say that here."
To mock the club like that—on the court, in front of the team—was like spitting in their faces.
Shishido Ryō, ever the calm one, stepped forward and clapped Otori on the shoulder. "Hmph. Otori, ignore him. The more insecure someone is, the louder they brag. Don't waste your breath. Come train with me and polish that new move."
Otori nodded without hesitation; he trusted Shishido. That trust had been forged through long hours of training together.
As Shishido and Otori prepared to step around Ryohei, a pair of large hands planted themselves between them.
"'Bragging'…" Shishido said, meeting Ryohei's gaze. "Nice word. But it's not just us who think highly of ourselves."
Ryohei's eyes went cold. "But you—act like you're better than everyone else. Claim you're extraordinary. That attitude suits you, Shishido."
The words hit true. Shishido—long hair, confident posture, the kind of player admired by juniors like Otori—carried a vanity that could be mistaken for arrogance. When someone rises in rank and praise, pride comes easily, and Shishido was no exception. Time had taught him restraint, but the old impulses remained.
Ryohei's intent was clear: he wanted Shishido to experience a clean defeat—something that would shake the conceit away and expose the raw truth of his abilities. He wanted to provoke something honest out of the Hyōtei regulars, to test their steel before the regionals.