Tsukiko had known the prelims wouldn't be generous, but she hadn't expected the universe to shove Hana Kuremi in front of her this early. The moment she heard the name during court announcements, something inside her stomach tightened, a coiling knot of déjà vu and grim recognition.
Last year's runner-up. Last year's wall. Last year's disappointment.
She'd convinced herself she was stronger now, smarter now, harder now. She'd worked her legs until they felt like they were carved from rope. She'd drilled footwork patterns until they replayed in her dreams like an unskippable ad. She'd forced herself to stop hiding behind raw talent and actually learn the geometry of the court.
Still, Hana Kuremi stood across from her with the same unshakeable presence as always. Calm. Unreadable. Her expression was the kind that made opponents feel like they were walking into an exam they hadn't studied for.
The warm-up felt like nothing. Routines her body did without asking her brain. Stretch, bounce, shadow swing. But Tsukiko's heart thudded too loud, her fingers felt too hot on the grip. She tried to steady herself. It's fine. It's just another match. Just another opponent.
But she didn't believe that, and she knew Hana didn't either.
When the whistle blew, the crowd's buzz faded into a tight, ringing pressure in Tsukiko's ears.
The first rally lasted thirty-two shots.
It should have been a good sign. Long rallies usually meant Tsukiko was wearing her opponent down. But Hana didn't look worn. Her footwork was small, efficient, like she was gliding over invisible rails. Every lift she returned came with the perfect height, every drop hit the tape and slid down like silk.
Tsukiko switched early from probing shots to her signature pace, the hard-driving, aggressive style she was known for. Steep smashes. Jump smashes. Slice drops that cut so sharp the shuttle seemed to curve.
But Hana countered each one with unnerving patience.
At 7–7, Tsukiko tried a surprise cross smash from her deep forehand. She felt the impact vibrate through her arm, solid and satisfying. It was one of her better ones.
Hana deflected it beautifully, barely twisting her wrist.
Tsukiko had to lunge forward to keep the rally alive. When she recovered, the world spun for half a second.
Focus. Don't show her you're panicking.
She clawed back the point with a desperate spinning net shot. The crowd roared. But Hana simply nodded across the net, as if acknowledging a homework assignment turned in slightly better than expected.
By the time the scoreboard showed 18–18, Tsukiko's shirt clung to her back. Her breath came sharp. She forced herself not to look at Hana. She didn't need the reminder of how calm the other girl still was.
19–19.
20–20.
22–22.
23–23.
Each rally was a knife fight disguised as badminton.
Tsukiko's legs were shivering, but she didn't let herself waver. She refused to be the first one whose resolve cracked. She attacked relentlessly, jumping whenever her feet allowed it, dragging Hana from corner to corner.
But Hana finally stole the set with a deceptive push at 24–23, catching Tsukiko leaning the wrong way. By the time Tsukiko scrambled to reach it, the shuttle bounced twice.
25–23. Kuremi.
Tsukiko inhaled, slow and deep. She didn't allow frustration to rise. Last year she'd crumbled here. Last year she'd blamed herself before the second set even began. Not today.
She walked to her towel, wiped her face clean, drank exactly three sips of water, and repeated one mantra silently.
I am not the same player anymore.
They switched sides.
The second set started faster than the first. Hana wasn't giving her time to adjust. Tsukiko recognized the tactic: press hard early, break the opponent mentally before they re-stabilize. It had worked on countless players.
Not her.
She met the pace with equal aggression. At 9–9, she unleashed a body smash that actually forced Hana to take half a step back. A tiny victory, but a victory.
Then Hana responded by firing a slice drop that kissed the tape with such delicate cruelty Tsukiko almost laughed.
Alright then. If that's how you want it…
Both of them raised the intensity.
Tsukiko's thoughts sharpened into very precise shapes. She favors backhand defense. She shifts early on cross shots. She masks her clears with her elbow. Push her to the deep forehand. Keep the rallies long. Break her rhythm.
Her body burned, but her mind felt icy clear.
15–15.
17–17.
20–20. Again.
The sound in the arena swelled. Even players who'd finished their matches drifted closer to watch.
21–21.
24–24.
28–28.
Tsukiko's lungs screeched with every inhale. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her grip felt slippery, her shoulder trembling after every smash.
But she wasn't giving up. Not this time.
33–33.
The rallies had become so long that the umpire glanced at the scoreboard twice, almost incredulous.
Tsukiko crouched low for serve receive, forcing her legs to stop trembling. She would not allow her knees to buckle. She wouldn't look weak. Hana served with the same smooth rhythm as always.
Tsukiko flicked the shuttle back deep. Hana sent it high. Tsukiko leapt for a steep smash. Hana defended. Tsukiko lunged forward. Hana net-killed. Tsukiko reflex-blocked. The shuttle rose. Hana pounced again.
And that was the moment Tsukiko's foot slipped half a centimeter. Barely anything. But just enough.
Hana drove the shuttle into the empty space.
35–33.
Match over.
For a moment, Tsukiko didn't breathe. The world thinned into a long, wavering silence around her. She didn't collapse. She didn't scream. She didn't even drop her racket. She stood straight, shoulders heaving, chest burning, eyes locked on the floor.
She walked to the net, bowed stiffly, and forced herself to say, "Good game."
Hana gave a tired smile. "You've gotten stronger, Tsukiko-san."
The words were well-meaning, but they twisted painfully in Tsukiko's stomach. Praise felt like salt. She didn't want consolation. She wanted the win she had pushed her body to breaking for.
When she stepped off court, her vision blurred slightly. Her thighs were shaking so badly she went straight into cooldown stretches without thinking. Anything to keep her body from collapsing in front of everyone.
But inside her head, the storm began.
Not again.
Not her again.
How many times am I going to fall short?
She wrapped her towel around her neck, squeezing the fabric so tightly her knuckles whitened. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rewind time and redo every step, every misread, every inch she'd lost.
But another voice rose quietly inside her, steadier than the rest.
You stretched her farther than last year. You nearly broke her. You were not the weaker player today. You were the one who pushed her to a 35–33 hell-tier score.
She let that sink in, even if her heart hated the idea of taking comfort in "almost."
You are not done. You still have doubles. You still have mixed. Your tournament isn't over.
Her breathing finally slowed.
Up in the stands, Yuto watched her like she was some mythical creature hit by lightning but still standing. His hands were frozen on the railing, knuckles white.
He had watched the entire thing without moving. The intensity of that match wasn't something he had ever imagined. He knew Tsukiko was good. Everyone knew that. But this… this was the level of someone carrying a school on her shoulders.
He couldn't understand how she was still standing.
His chest felt tight in a weird way. Not admiration exactly. Something heavier. Almost guilt.
He'd lost his match earlier with so many mistakes. Meanwhile she had fought like her life depended on it and still came up short by inches. Watching her walk off court with her jaw set like steel made his heart do an uncomfortable twist.
She really hates losing… no, hate isn't even the word. She breathes this sport.
And suddenly Yuto understood why she had looked so furious the other day when she thought he was taking things lightly. Why she had glared at him, insulted him, snapped at him.
To someone like her, badminton wasn't a game. It wasn't a hobby. It wasn't a pastime.
It was identity.
He swallowed, throat tight. He had never respected anyone this intensely and this suddenly in his entire life.
Tsukiko, unaware of the entire emotional disaster happening in Yuto's brain, finally sat down near the wall and closed her eyes.
No tears. No breakdown.
Just deep, simmering determination.
Next time, I'm not losing. Not by two points. Not by one. Not to her. Not to anyone.
Her heartbeat steadied.
Her tournament wasn't over. And she wasn't done either.