Masaru served again. This time a low, skimming serve to the front. Yuto returned it tight to the net, but Masaru flicked it high in a beautiful arc.
Yuto raced back, leapt for a smash… but Masaru was already in position. The king picked it up with textbook form and angled it away from Yuto's reach.
2–1 Masaru.
The next few rallies followed the same cruel script. Masaru drawing Yuto into the front, then forcing him all the way back. Making him commit too early. Testing his footwork. Exploiting the small gaps before Yuto even realized they were there.
3–1.
4–1.
5–1.
Hoshino clapped each time Masaru scored. "Wow! He hit it again!"
Yamada nodded eagerly. "Kimura will catch up. Probably."
Yuto's turn came again. Masaru misjudged a return, sending it high but short. Yuto stepped in and hammered it down.
5–2.
Yuto took the shuttle for his serve. He breathed once, twice, and flicked a precise low service aimed at the far corner.
It was a clean idea.
It just wasn't clean enough.
Masaru stepped in with a slight tilt of his shoulder, disguising the shot until the last possible blink. He brushed the shuttle gently… then reversed direction and tapped it into open space.
Yuto froze for half a heartbeat before reacting, but by then the rally was already over.
6–2 Masaru.
Hoshino dragged a hand down his face. "Yuto, man, please stop giving him chances to show off."
Yamada just muttered, "The comeback better start soon."
Masaru twirled the shuttle between his fingers. His serve again. The king looked confident, steady, untouchable… until he finally noticed something.
Yuto wasn't standing where he'd been before.
He had shifted back, just a step, but enough to matter. His grip looked tighter, stance lower, the kind of adjustment that said I'm done getting toyed with. His knees were bent deeper, center of gravity ready to spring in either direction.
Masaru narrowed his eyes. A low serve would get pounced on. Fine—give the boy a sky-high one. Let him scramble backward.
The shuttle sailed into the backcourt… and Yuto was already reacting.
Not scrambling.
Moving with intention.
He lifted the shuttle back toward Masaru's rear court, a clean, high stroke that forced Masaru back faster than he expected. Masaru reached it, steady but not comfortable. A drop shot from this position would be risky, maybe even reckless. So he chose safety, a simple rally stroke to reset the point.
He expected Yuto to nudge it near the net. That had been the pattern so far.
But Yuto didn't follow the pattern.
He bent forward sharply from the waist, body folding like a drawn bow, and unleashed a diagonal smash. His angle was wicked, his timing sharper than before, and the shuttle cut across the court with a violent hiss.
Masaru flinched more from shock than from speed.
The shuttle hit the floor clean.
6–3.
Hoshino slapped Yamada's shoulder. "He woke up."
Yuto took his place at the service line, shoulders tight with focus. He wasn't changing the plan. Same low serve, angled to the corner. It skimmed over the tape, clean.
Masaru stepped in instantly, the king reading it like a children's book. His return fell just over the net, a feather-light tease daring Yuto to mess up.
Yuto didn't panic. He flicked it high toward the backcourt, forcing Masaru to sprint back on his heels. The king launched himself into a crosscourt smash, all sharp angles and confidence.
It should have been the end of the point.
But Yuto's arm stretched, impossibly long. He got the shuttle up. Barely.
Hoshino yelped, "He actually reached that?"
Yamada muttered, "Kimura's wingspan is illegal."
Masaru wasn't done. He pivoted and fired another smash to the opposite side, commanding the court like it belonged to him.
Yuto lunged, sliding, scraping, and somehow lifted that one too. The shuttle popped up weakly, floating like a promise that wasn't going to be kept.
Masaru didn't hesitate. Third smash. Clean. Merciless.
The shuttle thudded into the floor.
7–3.
Masaru exhaled and twirled his racket. He didn't gloat. He didn't need to. The scoreboard was doing it for him.
Masaru stood at the service line again, finally respecting Yuto's reach. No more reckless high serves. His racket brushed the shuttle forward in a tight, low arc.
Yuto stepped in, letting the shuttle climb and then driving it high toward the backcourt, almost kissing the deep corner. Masaru tracked it down and returned it, but his shot hovered too close to the net.
Yuto was already there, shadow falling across the tape. Masaru braced for the obvious smash.
Instead, Yuto tilted his wrist and flicked the shuttle all the way to the backcourt, gentle as a breeze. Masaru tried to turn his momentum, but it was like trying to sprint in reverse. He skidded, reached, and missed.
7–4.
Yamada shook his head. "Kimura's acting like he planned that."
Yuto didn't react. He was already moving to serve.
Again, that cursed low serve to the corner. Predictable but annoyingly precise.
Masaru handled it cleanly this time. Yuto answered crosscourt, and suddenly they were locked in a rally. Quick shots, shifting angles, both boys refusing to give an inch.
The count stretched until they hit eighteen strokes. Yuto finally judged Masaru's lift as drifting long. He let it go.
It didn't go out.
8–4 Masaru.
Masaru's next serve skimmed low. Yuto lunged forward faster than anyone expected, racket whipping with a frustration-loaded attempt at a kill.
The shuttle smacked the tape and dropped straight back onto his side.
Hoshino winced. "That's tragic."
Yamada groaned. "Kimura, buddy…"
9–4.
Masaru stepped back, thinking Yuto's nerves were shaking. He switched it up, launching a high serve again, confident the earlier fluke wouldn't repeat.
Bad read.
Yuto reacted instantly, rising like someone had yanked him upward with invisible wires, smashing the shuttle straight down before Masaru even returned to stance.
9–5.
Masaru blinked.
Hoshino screamed like they'd won a championship.
Yamada echoed him, "That's my boy Kimura!"
Yuto stepped up to serve again, looking like he was about to repeat that same low-corner routine he'd spammed all game. Hoshino and Yamada leaned forward, already expecting the pattern.
Then Yuto shifted his grip a hair. His stance angled differently.
The shuttle went flying upward in a clean, booming arc. A full high serve. Out of nowhere.
Masaru's eyes widened. He scrambled back, feet skidding on the wooden floor, body twisting awkwardly just to get his racket under it. The contact was messy, the shuttle wobbling midair like it was struggling to survive.
Yuto didn't give it the chance.
He pounced, smashing it with a clean, brutal strike that echoed across the empty gym like someone slapped the floor with a plank.
9–6.
Yuto didn't waste time. He stepped up, eyes steady, and fired another serve. Masaru tensed, trying to guess high? low? corner? trick?
Yuto chose violence.
He snapped the shuttle straight at Masaru's torso. No finesse. Just a direct body shot.
Masaru jolted, his racket nearly slipping from his hand as he twisted awkwardly to save it. The return floated weakly upward.
Yuto pounced.
9–7.
But Masaru had officially stopped underestimating him. His expression sharpened. His feet settled. He was done getting surprised by random techniques from a tall stray kid.
Yuto served again.
Masaru read it perfectly this time, cutting off the shuttle before it gained height. A long rally followed, fast and sharp, the kind that made the air crackle in the empty gym. Yuto kept scattering smashes, Masaru kept returning them like a machine.
Masaru finally slipped in a soft, deadly net shot. Yuto lunged but was half a step late.
10–7. Game point.
Hoshino exhaled. "Kimura's in trouble."
Masaru stepped up to serve with the calm of someone who knew he only needed one clean chance. He sent a low, tight serve skimming to Yuto's forehand.
Yuto rushed in, brushing it barely over the net. Masaru darted forward, and suddenly the two were locked in a rapid-fire net duel. Tiny taps. Point-blank reactions. Racket strings snapping lightly against the shuttle, neither giving an inch.
Then Masaru found it — a tiny gap when Yuto's weight shifted just a fraction too far. He pushed the shuttle diagonally across the tape.
Yuto stretched, fingertips grazing the air, but the shuttle dropped.
11–7.
Masaru breathed out, the slightest grin tugging at his mouth.
Masaru exhaled, hand on his hip. "Kimura… right?"
Yuto nodded, expression unreadable, breath slow but steady.
Masaru studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. "You've got serious potential."
Yuto didn't react. Hoshino and Yamada reacted for him, bouncing like hyperactive puppies.
Masaru continued. "You focus too much on the shuttle instead of the player. Your positioning is off sometimes. You take extra steps for no reason. But…"
He smirked faintly.
"You're dangerous. You should join the badminton club too."