The afternoon at Seiyu University was exactly like all the others: sunny, noisy, and absurdly indifferent to the weight of guilt that Kenji Yoshida had been carrying for the last nine years.
Kenji walked along the red tiled sidewalk, dragging his feet with an almost professional indolence. He wore a pearl gray hoodie that was two sizes too big for him, and baggy athletic pants—the perfect attire for apathy. His goal was to be invisible, to go unnoticed, a ghost only seeking the shortest route to the least effort.
If anyone bothered to look at his face, they would see a tall young man, with a wasted athletic build, and dark brown eyes that seemed to look at the world through dirty glass in which there was only darkness and guilt. These were the Shattered Eyes, a permanent trauma that clouded his true ability.
—Kenji, damn it, faster! You look like you're carrying the weight of a refrigerated truck!
Kazuo Kudo, his best friend and nemesis of silence, was pulling him by the arm with contagious and absurd energy. Kazuo was Kenji's antithesis: short, a constant torrent of chatter, and dressed in a ridiculously flashy T-shirt celebrating an old robot anime.
—I am at my optimal speed to avoid unnecessary fatigue —Kenji muttered, trying to pull his arm back—. And I already told you, Kazuo. I'm only here because you threatened to change my Wi-Fi password, and if there's no Wi-Fi, I can't keep leveling up in my favorite LOL game. That threat is an act of terrorism-level warfare.
—Don't be so dramatic, sloth bear! —Kazuo used the internal nickname Kenji, to his annoyance, had earned for his ability to lounge around and do things with minimal effort—. You are here to admire art. The Table Tennis Club is an art gallery in crisis, and the main painting is the Empress.
Kazuo paused dramatically, looking up at the sky.
—Miku Watanabe. She's blonde, she's fierce, she's a textbook tsundere, and her passion for saving that club—Kazuo sighed with devotion— elevates her beauty to an epic level, a level that reaches the heavens. And I want to see that, Kenji. I want to see her fight!
Kenji, in his internal monologue, only felt profound disinterest.
«Fighting. Effort. Passion. These are emotions that only cause pain and are a waste of time; the world would be better if such ridiculous things didn't exist. If your Empress has so much passion, she should spare me the show she's putting on and let the club die in peace. She should just give up, no matter what she does, she's going to fail.»
—The club is on the verge of closing, you know that —Kenji said aloud, trying to discourage him—. The defeat in the last regionals was catastrophic. People from the club will start leaving after being humiliated like that. Soon there will be neither a club nor an Empress to watch.
—That's where you're wrong, my pessimistic friend! —Kazuo stopped abruptly in front of the doors of the secondary gym, a brick building that already looked abandoned—. Miku's beauty is not just physical; her true beauty is the way she thinks. Despite everything that is happening, she keeps her head held high. She's not going to lose that easily. A catastrophe is about to happen, and I want to be in the front row to document her heroic victory. Go in!
Kazuo pushed him through the door, and the dry sound of the impact echoed in the hallway.
The inside of the gym was like a cemetery. Fluorescent lights flickered over a polished wooden floor that was otherwise empty. Five ping pong tables were lined up, but only one felt alive. The others were covered by a thin layer of dust that screamed abandonment.
Around the only active table, only three downcast students in messy uniforms were huddled. And, standing between them and the door, was a figure radiating the tension of a piano string about to snap: Miku Watanabe.
She was, in effect, the Empress.
Miku was an athletic girl, with an impeccable posture, and blonde hair tied back in a tense, elegant ponytail—a beauty in every sense of the word. Her eyes, at that moment, were an intense amber color, shining with the Strategic Fire that characterized her game. She wore an immaculate club uniform. There wasn't a single fold out of place; it was her armor.
But Miku's attention was not on the newcomers. It was focused, like a laser, on the suited man in front of her.
It was the university Dean, Takahiro Shindo. An obese, neat, and short man, he wore a small, cruel smile that didn't reach his eyes. He represented bureaucracy, the institutional threat.
—I apologize for the inconvenience, Miss Watanabe —said the Dean, his voice a dry, condescending whisper amplified in the empty gym—. But performance is performance. The Table Tennis Club did not meet the minimum participation score, and your last regional defeat was... humiliating, which tarnished the university's name. Your members, as you can see, are deserting; few are left, and at some point, there will be no one in this gym besides you.
Miku clenched her fists, enraged by what the Dean said because she knew deep down he was right. Kenji, watching from the entrance, felt a pang in his chest—a feeling that wasn't panic, but recognition: it was the same despair one feels when facing an unjust defeat.
—We still have members, Dean Shindo. And we still have time —Miku replied, her voice trembling slightly, but maintaining control—. We only need one month, please, I beg you, give me one more month, this cannot end like this. The next regional Mixed Doubles tournament is the last chance where the club can prove its worth.
Dean Shindo pulled a document from his briefcase and placed it on an empty table.
—One month. We will only give you one more month. It will be your last chance. Be thankful that the Board is not cruel; it is simply efficient—if something is not yielding results, it will be eliminated. Here is the official notification. Unless you demonstrate a significant increase in enrollment and obtain at least one victory in the Mixed Doubles format by the end of the month, this space will be allocated to the Golf Club. We need a more serious and profitable image.
The word "golf" was the ultimate humiliation. It meant Miku's sport was considered a children's pastime, as if all the effort she was putting in had no value.
The few club members flinched, as if their shoulders weighed a thousand kilograms. Miku's frustration was so intense that Kenji could almost feel a physical pressure emanating from her. It was the Crimson Lightning Aura, the Hammer of Absolute Decision, struggling to break free.
—We accept the terms —said Miku, her voice now steel, her Strategic Fire eyes shining with a promise of violence—. We will win. And the Table Tennis Club will be saved from the destruction of being closed. You can be sure of that!
Dean Shindo smiled, that half-smile Kenji hated.
—I hope so, Miss Watanabe. Your time starts now; make good use of it.
The Dean left, leaving behind an institutional void that felt more oppressive than his presence.
Kenji, seeing Miku alone against the world, felt an uncomfortable familiarity. He was witnessing the same despair he had felt nine years ago, but with one difference: she refused to fall; she kept her head held high.
—Yes! The Empress in Berserker mode! —Kazuo whispered to Kenji, with misplaced euphoria—. This is better than any anime. Observe the dramatic intensity!
Miku turned, her frustration still raw, and her amber eyes immediately fixed on the intruders. Seeing Kenji, who was visibly taller and more athletic than the remaining club members, her frustration channeled into a specific anger.
—You two —her voice was hard as ice.
—Ah, my name is Kazuo Kudo, and I am your humble admirer, your number one fan. And he is Kenji Yoshida! He is a sleeping prodigy! —Kazuo tried to introduce himself with a comical bow.
Miku ignored Kazuo. Her eyes fixed on Kenji's indolence, his baggy hoodie, and his dull Shattered Eyes. To her, Kenji was not a traumatized person; he was an arrogant deserter who had the audacity to be talented and not use it.
—Sleeping prodigy? —Miku approached Kenji, challenging the height difference. Her invisible aura, the Hammer of Absolute Decision, was about to detonate—. I don't need deserters. I need players. Or are you one of those who watch with that "I could do better" face while the rest of us drown?
Kenji felt a chill. The Empress was attacking precisely the core of his resentment. He tried to activate his main defense mechanism: apathy.
—I don't criticize the effort of others; I just avoid over-exerting myself so I don't waste my time —said Kenji, moving to leave. I have no interest in sports. Your club is not my problem; if it must close, so be it, I do not intend to intervene.
—Stop right there! —Miku intercepted him, blocking his path with surprising agility—. If you have as much talent as your friend says, join! I need you!
—No —Kenji responded firmly.
—Yes. If you don't join, the club dies. And if the club dies, what will you do with your time? Lounge around? —Miku desperately tried to find a breaking point.
As they argued, one of the disheartened club members, with an audible sigh, carelessly dropped his racket. The racket slid across the floor and stopped at Kenji's feet.
The object was simple: wood, black and red rubber. But for Kenji, it was a cursed artifact, something he must never touch with his hands.
His breath hitched. The already tense atmosphere froze abruptly.
Kenji's Shattered Eye amplified. The world around him instantly turned gray, silent, cut off. Lines of gray static—the Shattered Glass Wall Aura—began to climb his neck and arms, trying to isolate him from danger. It was panic in its purest form.
He tried to step back, but stumbled. His right hand, instinctively reaching out to prevent a fall, extended towards the racket.
No!
The scream was only in his mind, but the intensity was such that fear flooded his veins, spreading throughout his body and mind. The memory of the defeat and the coach's call merged. He couldn't touch it. If he did, the portal of guilt would open.
Kenji threw himself backward, falling onto the floor with a noise that echoed throughout the gym. His right hand withdrew, trembling violently, just a centimeter from the handle. His face was white, pale, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow; he was sweating excessively.
Miku Watanabe, the Empress, looked at the athletic and tall Kenji on the floor, terrified of a piece of wood.
She didn't see panic. She saw confirmation of his arrogance.
—Really? —Miku knelt down, her Crimson Lightning Aura threatening to incinerate him. She picked up the racket and raised it high—. Do you think you're too special to touch the racket, Prodigy? Is your talent so elevated that the mere existence of the sport offends you?
Miku was boiling. Her frustration with Dean Shindo, the deserting members, and the threat of closure, focused on Kenji.
—If you're not going to help save this club, then from now on, you will be my toy. I'm going to prove that your talent is worthless if you don't have the courage to use it!
Kenji, barely catching his breath, with his Shattered Glass Wall Aura slowly beginning to dissipate, felt the pressure of hunger. The collapse had expended the little energy he had left.
—I-I'm... hungry —he managed to stammer, returning to his only real need: food.
Miku looked at him in disbelief. The seriousness of the moment had evaporated with a single word. Kenji, on the floor, looked like a hungry, lazy creature, not a terrified prodigy.
A slow, calculating smile appeared on the Empress's face. A predator's smile.
—Perfect, lazy prodigy —Miku said, standing up. Her Strategic Fire in her eyes intensified—. You owe me one. And I have a lot of scholarship money to spend. I will sign you as the Secret Reserve Player. You won't have to touch a racket. You just have to show up, physically train, and do what I tell you. In exchange, I will give you the best food at the university, every day without fail.
Kenji's fear rivaled his desire. High-quality food. Without effort.
—What is this about? —Kenji asked, trying to find the catch.
—It's about the club needing an athletic mascot for recruitment, and I need a Mixed Doubles partner who can move their feet without having a panic attack —Miku said, with her tsundere tone at its peak. She extended her hand, not to help him up, but with a hundred-yen bill—. Now, get up. Your training starts tomorrow. And you pay for your first roasted pork ramen.
Kenji looked at the bill. He looked at Miku. He looked at the racket. The fear was immense, but the hunger and the promise of not touching the racket were greater.
He took the bill.
The Empress had found a slave. The Table Tennis Club had its "mascot," and Kenji Yoshida had signed up, for a bowl of ramen, for the return to the sport he hated. Dean Shindo's clock was still ticking.