Thwack!
The impact echoed from the sideline as the ball ricocheted out of bounds, smacking against the chain-link fence.
"That's... a near-ace drive."
Tezuka's eyes narrowed.
Yoru's execution was flawless—superior in angle, placement, speed, and power control compared to his own.
"Yoru scores, 15-0!"
A premonition struck Tezuka: This match might shatter everything I thought I knew about middle school tennis.
"This kid..."
On the sidelines, German coach Harro Adler frowned. Though not a head instructor at the Elite Academy, his observational skills were razor-sharp. In just a few exchanges, Yoru had displayed prowess rivaling their top talents.
A smirk crept onto Adler's face. Decision made.
---
Bang!
Yoru served again—another near-ace, this time faster, sharper, deadlier.
Yet Schneider, with his pro-level defensive instincts, read it perfectly. His racket intercepted with clinical precision.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The rally escalated into a blistering exchange, neither yielding an inch. The ball barely touched the ground.
"Damn, that fatso's agile! His sheer size expands his defensive range!" Kirihara muttered, unnerved.
Had he been on court, maintaining this pace would've been feasible—but Yoru's returns weren't just fast; they carried brutal weight. Schneider had already switched from one-handed blocks to two-handed counters.
"This sensation..."
From the umpire's chair, Tezuka recognized it instantly.
So did Schneider.
With a grunt, the German twisted mid-swing, redirecting the ball cross-court—
—only for the ball to curve mid-air, veering straight toward Yoru's waiting racket.
Zone.
Schneider's stomach dropped.
Adler's jaw tightened. Another Zone user? In this backwater?
Crack!
As Yoru's return landed, the Zone fully manifested. Against a defensive wall like Schneider, it was the ultimate counter: Let him exhaust himself while I conserve energy.
"To think... you've mastered Zone too."
Schneider's jowls quivered. He'd already adjusted his assessment of Yoru upward—yet still underestimated him. Zone hard-countered his attrition-based playstyle. In doubles, he could rely on a partner. In singles? Disaster.
Thwack!
He returned, only to freeze mid-follow-through.
A milky-white aura now wreathed Yoru's arm.
"...Pinnacle of Hard Work?!"
Germany's analysts had dissected Nanjiroh's Three Doors of Muga. Schneider knew this technique intimately.
Yoru smirked. "Sorry—I prefer opening with a royal flush."
Against a turtle like Schneider? Time to go all out.
BOOM!
The next strike detonated like a cannon.
Doubled power. Doubled spin. Combined with Yoru's 8-tier Five Dimensions, the ball became a golden streak, obliterating Schneider's defensive formation.
"Yoru scores, 30-0!"
Tezuka's breath hitched.
Same combo—Zone + Pinnacle—yet Yoru's version dwarfed his own. With an 8-tier Zone and superior stats, the gap was ludicrous.
"Still lacking finishing moves."
Yoru scowled. Against typical 7-star opponents, raw stats sufficed. But Schneider's "Iron Fortress Defense" and "Umbrella Counter" demanded efficiency.
Not that he couldn't win through attrition—but where was the fun in that?
"A wasteland like this... breeding such monsters?"
Adler's earlier confidence wavered.
"Buchou's... stronger than before?" Kirihara paled.
The gap hadn't narrowed. Yoru hadn't been holding back in their match—he'd been playing with his food.
---
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Yoru bounced the ball, cold eyes locked onto Schneider. "Stop hiding your tricks. Best-of-one leaves no time for games, 'pro.'"
The last word stung.
Schneider stayed silent. Excuses were worthless now.
Facing Yoru felt like facing Borg—the pressure, the inevitability. No point holding back.
His eyelids slid shut.
BANG!
A serve ripped forth. Even a basic flat strike, amplified by Pinnacle, carried destructive force.
The ball landed, kicked—
"Point!" Yamato blurted.
It was flying out! Schneider hadn't moved!
Then—
Whoosh.
Schneider's eyes snapped open.
A colossal aura erupted, his silhouette expanding grotesquely in the spectators' vision.
"You've gotta be kidding—!"
Yamato and Kirihara recoiled. Even Tezuka's composure cracked. The match had spiraled into the realm of absurdity.
"Tch."
Yoru yawned.
The phantom enlargement was underwhelming—nowhere near Schneider's World Cup-level "Goliath Form", which could blot out half the court.
Swish!
The "giant" took two strides, covering impossible ground to intercept.
To Yoru, though? Just enhanced footwork.
Thwack!
The return came—
—only to be swallowed by a whirlpool materializing the instant it crossed the net.
Tezuka's pupils shrank.
"How?! He formed Zone... right after serving?!"
---