"Guess it's my turn~"
Yoru pulled out his racket and stepped onto the court.
The summer heat was brutal, but he kept his jacket on—suffering was temporary, but style was forever.
Hearing the commotion, Mitsuya Akuto's heart sank.
When compiling Seigaku's data, Yoru and QP had the least usable information. Even with what little he had, exploiting it was near impossible.
Yūji Mōri—one of Japan's top players—hadn't lasted ten minutes against him.
In theory, with enough data, Mitsuya could defeat anyone. But that required two things:
1. The skill gap couldn't be too wide.
2. He needed comprehensive data.
"Ahhh! Yoru-kun is already playing? So handsome!"
"My prince! Kiss me!"
"Look over here~!"
The moment Yoru reached the center court, the female spectators erupted.
But his only thought?
...So. Damn. Hot.
---
"Rikkai Dai is finished."
Yūji Mōri's voice was flat as he watched Mitsuya warm up. He knew Yoru's strength firsthand—this wasn't a contest.
And after him? That European (QP) was waiting.
Given how easily he'd crushed Nakahachi Gaido, neither Akutsu Jirō nor Udon Bunta stood a chance.
---
Mitsuya finished his warm-up and approached the net for the handshake.
Yoru's grip was firm, his tone casual.
"You've schemed so hard for this. How about I give you a chance?"
Mitsuya's pulse spiked.
...He saw through everything.
For the first time in his strategic career, he'd been outplayed before the match even started.
Yoru continued, voice just loud enough for the crowd to catch:
"If you take even one point off me, I'll forfeit. Sound fair?"
Silence.
Then—outrage.
"One point and he quits?!"
"Who the hell does he think he is?!"
"Rikkai's a 12-time champion—this is insulting!"
"At least pretend to be humble!"
The fans roared, but Rikkai's players stayed eerily calm.
Mitsuya had warned them: "Yoru and QP are beyond my calculations."
This? It might be their only opening.
In war, there was no "dishonorable victory." For Rikkai, winning was everything—losers vanished into obscurity.
After a long pause, Mitsuya forced out the most humiliating words of his life:
"...I'll hold you to that."
"Naturally."
Yoru turned, walking to the baseline with his racket loose in his grip.
"Game set! Kantō Finals, Singles 3—Rikkai Dai to serve!"
---
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Mitsuya bounced the ball, mind racing.
He scoured his data for anything exploitable—but the gaps were too vast.
"Mitsuya Akuto, serve clock is expiring."
The referee's voice snapped him back.
No choice. Adapt on the fly.
Toss—high!
Using his height, he aimed for a smash-style serve, maximizing the rebound angle.
CRACK!
The ball shot like a bullet, slamming the court and kicking sharply upward—a trajectory designed to force errors.
"Will it work...?"
Mitsuya's grip tightened as Yoru still hadn't moved from the baseline.
Then—
"Clever."
Yoru blurred, appearing at the impact point in an instant. His arm whipped forward—
BANG-BANG-BANG!
Three sounds merged into one. Point over.
---
In the stands, Sanada gaped.
"...My Fūrin Kazan (Wind Forest Fire Mountain)."
Even off-court, he recognized it—Yoru's version was faster, sharper.
Yamato adjusted his glasses. "Looks like Kirihara-senpai's Super Speed Counter."
"Not even close." Kirihara shook his head. "Captain's copy is slower but precise. My technique's raw speed makes control shaky—even now, I can't guarantee perfect placement."
Mitsuya stood frozen.
No data. No counter.
"Yoru leads, 15–0!"
Akutsu Jirō's eyes widened. "...Too fast."
That single strike had outclassed even Kirihara's best.
---
QP murmured, "No holding back, then."
That shot would've pressured him. Fūrin Kazan's swing speed masked its trajectory—unreadable without precognition.
Yoru was playing seriously.
"Obviously~"
Yoru smirked internally.
You don't make a boast like that and half-ass it.
A "lose-on-one-point" game was thrilling—but Mitsuya was too weak for real stakes.
So he'd entertain himself without risking defeat.
---
The match became a slaughter.
CRACK! "30–0!"
CRACK! "40–0!"
CRACK! "Game! 1–0, Yoru!"
Break point in just over a minute.
Without data, Mitsuya floundered—every return was alien, every strategy crumbling.
Yoru bounced the ball idly.
"No data. No plan. What now, Mitsuya?"
Mitsuya's stats showed zero buffs—proof his intel was useless.
Then—
Thud. Thud.
Yoru paused.
"There's a move I haven't used in a while. Bet it's not in your files."
A faint grin.
"Funny thing—people always underestimate it."
Toss—
The ball soared, and the crowd held its breath.
---