The tennis ball left Yoru's fingertips, spinning lazily into the air.
A slight crouch, a twist of his torso—then his racket whipped forward.
BANG!
A golden streak of light exploded toward the outer corner.
Mitsudaira Akuto lunged, desperate to intercept—
But the moment the ball touched the ground, it shot straight upward, nearly smashing into his face.
Only a frantic dodge saved him.
The ball arced high, then crashed against the back wall.
Yoru leads, 15-0!
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"That technique—!"
"Wait, isn't that just a Twist Serve? But the speed… and that angle!"
"It bounced vertically! It almost hit him!"
"Since when could a Twist Serve do that?!"
"Depends who's using it. Even pros struggle with returns like that."
"Tch. I tried learning it once. Humiliating. Unless you're a genius, don't bother."
Most were awed by the sheer dominance of Yoru's serve—proof he earned his arrogance.
So far, Mitsudaira was completely outmatched.
But Tezuka Kunimitsu, watching intently, saw deeper.
"His control… is terrifying."
Sanada frowned. "What do you mean? It's just a Twist Serve."
To him, the technique was basic—effective against amateurs but exploitable at higher levels.
Tezuka's voice was ice. "Yoru's version doesn't stay on the ground."
What?
Sanada's breath hitched. Now that he thought about it—
The ball had immediately rocketed upward after the bounce. No skid. No delay.
A Twist Serve refined into something monstrous.
---
Yoru's Smirk
"Ready for another?"
BANG!
Same motion. Same lethal spin.
Mitsudaira's jaw tightened. "An impressive serve. But to think you'll ace me repeatedly—"
"The one overthinking here… isn't me."
Yoru didn't even wait to see the return. He just turned and walked away, as if the point was already his.
And it was.
The ball landed—then jerked sideways at a 90-degree angle, kicking away before Mitsudaira could react.
30-0!
"Impossible!"
Mitsudaira's mind reeled. That deflection defied physics!
Yoru's voice cut through his shock. "What's wrong? Never seen a real Twist Serve before?"
---
The Demolition
40-0!
The next serve backspun after the bounce, curling into the net.
2-0!
The fourth serve returned to Yoru's hand like a boomerang.
The crowd erupted. Even Seigaku's team stared in disbelief.
Yamato swallowed hard. "Have you… ever seen that?"
Kirihara shook his head. "Never."
A standard Twist Serve bounced at 60 degrees at most.
Yoru's? 120 degrees. Directional control. Variable speed.
It wasn't a technique—it was art.
---
Yoru's Memory
"So this shocks them?"
A childhood memory flashed—Echizen Nanjiro, grinning as he whipped a wooden stick through the air.
The ball had spun like a tornado, drilling into a river and exploding water (and fish) skyward.
That day, Yoru learned:
There are no weak techniques. Only weak users.
---
The Execution
Mitsudaira scrambled to analyze Yoru's patterns.
Futile.
"Zone" activated, rendering data tennis useless.
Then came "Perfect Harmony"—and its reverse.
By then, Mitsudaira had given up. Hope hinged on Yoru slipping.
Spoiler: He didn't.
3-0!
4-0!
6-0!
Total match time: Under 10 minutes.
Yoru's only sweat came from the heat.
A breeze finally stirred, making his fluttering jacket look scripted.
(Internally: "Took you long enough, wind. Almost ruined my aesthetic.")
---
Aftermath
"Unreal… The captain of Rikkai didn't score once?!"
"Is this the end of an era?!"
"Don't celebrate yet. It's still 2-1. Akaya Kurenai is next—he's no pushover."
"Regardless… that Yoru kid is terrifying."
---
The Hand That Crushed a Dynasty
Yoru stood at the net, arm extended.
"Handshake?"
The words hung in the air.
Mitsudaira stared blankly, his faith in data tennis shattering.
---
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