Game 6 – Yamato's Serve
On the court, Yamato's confident smile caught the attention of the spectators.
"Did Yamato figure out a way to win?"
"Unlikely… It's already 5-0. Coming back from six games down is nearly impossible!"
"..."
Yoru remained expressionless, unfazed by Yamato's bold declaration.
"Even if you understand the principle behind this move, habits aren't so easily broken."
Yamato Yuudai bounced the ball with his racket before launching a powerful serve!
BAM—!
The ball crossed the net, rebounded, and was instantly returned by Yoru.
Yamato swiftly adjusted his footing, his eyes locked onto Yoru.
But something was strange.
After returning the ball, Yoru simply walked to the center of the baseline and stood there, barely moving.
A flicker of confusion passed through Yamato's mind, but he pushed it aside. Right now, scoring was all that mattered.
The true purpose of the "Misalignment Shot" is to exploit habits.
BAM—!
The ball was sent back to the midcourt.
"What's this? Just another ordinary return, barely any spin!" someone in the crowd muttered.
But to Yoru, it was different.
The ball flew toward the right, its trajectory slightly high—nothing unusual at first glance. Yet his sharp instincts detected something off about its path.
This is a Misalignment Shot.
What he saw was an upper trajectory, but that was just his brain's habitual interpretation.
Compared to Yamato's previous attempts, this one had a sharper angle and greater deception—proof that, as Yamato had claimed, the Misalignment Shot grew stronger the longer the match went on.
But it still wasn't enough to stop Yoru.
He just didn't feel like chasing it.
SWOOSH—!
The ball landed, bounced, and flew straight toward the out-of-bounds line.
"Huh? Why isn't he moving?!"
Just as the crowd thought this was another easy point for Yamato, they noticed Yoru standing completely still, letting the ball sail out.
"Giving up?"
Yamato frowned. His instincts told him Yoru wasn't the type to surrender easily—so why wasn't he reacting?
Even if his perception was distorted, he should at least try to move.
"Is he… throwing the game?" Kaedechi muttered hesitantly.
Silence fell over the spectators.
The ball was already flying out—soon, it would hit the fence. At this distance, Yoru wouldn't make it in time.
"What's this kid doing?" Ryuzaki Sumire wondered.
But then—
The next moment left everyone's jaws on the floor, their eyes wide with shock.
A swirling, lightning-wreathed vortex erupted around Yoru, its edges perfectly intercepting the ball before it could go out.
The vortex became an inescapable prison for the tennis ball.
Tezuka Zone.
Even Ralph Reinhardt couldn't break through Yoru's Zone—let alone Yamato's return.
The moment the vortex formed, the ball was helplessly dragged back to Yoru, landing right in his ideal strike zone.
"A one-shot Zone… Only useful for crushing weak opponents."
Yoru mused silently.
A true Zone required gradual setup—reading the opponent's returns and layering subtle spins to control the rally.
What he had just done was brute force: overwhelming spin and precision to forcibly alter the ball's path. It only worked against players with far inferior stats.
"The… Zone…?"
Yamato stood frozen, completely stunned.
There was a saying in professional tennis:
"Those who can't use the Zone aren't necessarily weak… but those who can are always strong."
Mastering the Zone demanded exceptional match IQ, ball sense, mental fortitude—everything.
Among middle schoolers, only Utan Hiroshige had a technique resembling the Zone, and even his was limited to half the court.
Yoru's version? A pinpoint vortex centered entirely around himself.
BAM—!
Yamato's momentary lapse gave Yoru the opening he needed.
The ball rocketed past him, landing cleanly out of bounds.
"15-0, Yoru!"
Ryuzaki sighed. "So it really is the Zone… Eiji wasn't lying. This kid really is stronger than he was at that age."
Once the Zone appeared, Yamato's Misalignment Shot became a joke. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape its pull.
The next three points were nothing but a scoring exhibition for Yoru.
BAM—!
30-0!
BAM—!
40-0!
BAM—!
6-0!
A shutout.
The match was over.
The Zone rendered Yamato's resistance meaningless.
"Incredible… Absolutely incredible."
Yamato took a deep breath, his shoulders trembling—not from exhaustion, but excitement.
With a player like this, Seigaku might finally break through to the Kanto Championships…
No—maybe even Nationals!
"Coach," Yoru turned to Ryuzaki on the referee's stand. "Any other regulars left?"
"You little brat." She smirked. "No. Starting today, you're the captain of Seigaku's tennis club."
"He… He actually did it. He became the captain!"
"Has Seigaku ever had a first-year captain before?"
"Forget captain—they've never even had a first-year regular!"
"Even the ones who made it as first-years only did so near the end of the school year!"
"But I'm convinced. He took down five regulars in under an hour. Even as a first-year, I respect that."
"Same here!"
"Captain!"
"Captain!"
One by one, the club members began chanting—not out of obligation, but genuine admiration.
Japan was a society that revered strength, and Yoru's one-hour domination had left an indelible mark on them.
They called him "Captain" with complete sincerity.
"A first-year captain…"
The freshmen stared at Yoru in awe.
In a culture so deeply rooted in hierarchy, the upperclassmen's acceptance of this was staggering.
"Maybe… he really can bring change to Seigaku."
Kawasaki Junsai watched Yoru with mixed emotions before finally sighing in relief.
He had never been fit to be captain—he'd only gotten the position due to seniority.
Now that the burden had passed to someone truly capable, he felt lighter than ever.
"Line up!" Ryuzaki barked.
The club members quickly assembled, even the freshmen falling silent.
"From today onward, Yoru is your captain!" she announced firmly.
This was a crucial step in her reforms. She knew Yoru had vision—her role was simply to secure his position.
The rest was up to him.
"CAPTAIN!" the team shouted in unison.
Ryuzaki turned to Yoru. "Say a few words."
He nodded, scanning the crowd before opening his mouth—
[Ding!...]
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