The scoreboard glared: 4–0.
The set was almost sealed, but the crowd wasn't chanting only Kaza-ma! anymore.
Whispers of Messiah threaded between the waves of noise.
Ren dragged himself to his feet, chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the glass floor. His HUD flickered with a warning:
[Stamina: Critical Zone]
[Mental Buff Active — Survivor's Instinct Lv.1]
Across the net,
He'll crush it—
No. At the last instant, he flicked a drop volley instead. The ball died at the net, impossible to reach.
"Fifteen–Love."
The crowd roared, but Ryuji's eyes never left Ren. Testing. Measuring.
Second serve—wide this time. Ren lunged, guessed right, and blocked. The ball floated deep. The rally stretched four, five shots. Then Ryuji unleashed a heavy cross that tore the point away.
"Thirty–Love."
Ren's knees shook. He's playing with me. Not destroying—examining.
From the booth, Ayaka's voice quivered:
"Messiah #99 is being dissected... the Dragon is probing every angle."
Maria clenched her fists on her lap. "Chico... don't let him break you."
Shizuka muttered, "If you collapse now, I'll never forgive you."
Mio whispered, "...Breathe. Just breathe."
Third serve—Ren forced himself lower, eyes locked on seams. Weak Spot Vision flickered—blue cone on the forehand. He swung, barely redirecting.
Ball returned.
Ryuji stepped in—and for the first time, Ren guessed right, angling his racket to deflect. The ball nicked the net cord, dribbled over.
The stadium gasped. A point stolen.
"Thirty–Fifteen."
A murmur swept the stands. The Substitute scored.
Ryuji's expression shifted—a faint smile. He served again, faster, sharper. Ren chased, stretched, frame-hit into the glass.
"Forty–Fifteen."
Next point, Ryuji ended it with brutal precision.
"Game, Kazama."
The scoreboard blinked: 5–0.
But the crowd's noise had changed completely. The Dragon was still supreme, yet the Substitute was no longer invisible. Every gasp, every murmur built into something dangerous—belief.
Ren staggered to the baseline for his next serve, vision hazy, but a crooked grin tugged at his lips.
I'm not winning this set. I know that. But every ball I steal... is another breath I prove I belong.
The priest's voice carried: "Game six, Messiah serve."
And the storm raged on.