"Mr. Yoru, our tennis training center is a subsidiary of the Elite Club, specializing in nurturing young talents before they reach middle school."
"Those who excel are sent to the Elite Club for advanced training after elementary school. Those who don't make the cut continue their education here until middle school graduation."
Along the way, the principal's assistant, Amos, guided Yoru through the tennis training center.
It had to be said—Germany's tennis environment was far superior to that of the U.S. or Japan. The facilities were top-notch, complete with an abundance of assistant coaches.
In Japan, only the U-17 training camp could offer such luxury.
"I'd like to see the tennis courts."
After touring the facilities, Yoru was more interested in assessing Germany's foundational tennis training.
"My apologies for the oversight. Right this way~"
Amos gestured politely.
About ten minutes later, the crisp, rhythmic sound of bouncing tennis balls echoed in the distance.
The training center was massive—unexpectedly so. It was roughly twice the size of Seigaku's campus.
Strictly speaking, Germany wasn't even as large as Japan. Yet, they'd managed to secure such a huge plot of land in Berlin—impressive.
---
The court layout resembled the U-17 training camp from the original series.
A central path divided rows of courts on either side.
Unlike Japan, where chain-link fences separated each court, the German facility only had walls at the front and back, creating an open, premium environment.
Placing Seigaku's tennis club here would be like comparing a luxury condo to a pigsty.
"So this is Germany's foundational training..."
Yoru was impressed.
Every court buzzed with active players. According to the system's assessment, most fell within the 3 to 4-star range, with only the youngest kids at 1 or 2 stars.
A rare few even reached 5 stars.
Even without top-tier players, this group could easily crush 90% of Japan's middle schoolers.
"Interesting."
Yoru smirked, suddenly pushing Amos aside and sidestepping himself.
"Huh? What's—"
Before Amos could finish, a golden streak shot between them.
---
A group of middle-schoolers in training uniforms huddled together, watching Yoru with curiosity.
An Asian face stood out here—especially one accompanied by the principal's assistant.
"Hey, check it out—an Asian guy!"
"He's carrying a racket bag. Here to play?"
"Doubt he's enrolling. At his height, he's probably already in middle school. Who'd join a training center at that age?"
"Look at his clueless expression."
"Kinda hot though. First time I've found an Asian face attractive~"
"Let's mess with him!"
"Hopkins, don't start trouble! If Amos is with him, he's gotta be someone important!"
"Scared? Then scram. I'm bored anyway!"
The leader, Hopkins, pulled out a tennis ball with a vicious grin.
BANG!
A "Blast Serve" rocketed toward Yoru.
"Whoa, Hopkins! That's overkill!"
"Relax~ Accidents happen on the court, right?"
Hopkins sneered, his scarred face twisting.
A childhood accident had left him permanently scarred—and hating anyone with a pretty face.
As the ball hurtled toward Yoru, Hopkins' grin widened—until Yoru sidestepped effortlessly, pulling Amos with him.
THUD!
The ball smashed into a tree, leaving deep marks.
Amos' face darkened. "HOPKINS!"
He turned to Yoru, apologetic. " Yoru, I'm so sorry!"
"No need."
(Men couldn't scare him anyway.)
Yoru eyed Hopkins—5-star middle schooler.
"Your training program is impressive. But the hygiene needs work. Don't leave trash lying around."
Amos coughed awkwardly. "Those are our middle-school trainees. At this age, if they're not scouted by the Elite Club... well, they've got no future."
Even I can't control them.
"Hey, punk! What'd you just say?!"
Hopkins stormed over, his gang in tow.
Yoru's indifferent expression only fueled his rage.
"If you weren't picked, you're trash. Simple."
"You think Amos can protect you?"
Hopkins loomed over Yoru, his 180cm frame casting a shadow.
"Even the principal can't save you now. Pick up that ball, kneel, and maybe I'll let this slide."
His lackeys closed in.
Amos paled. "Hopkins, stop! He's the principal's guest!"
"So what? I graduate soon. You—choice time. Go fetch or—"
THUD.
Mid-sentence, Hopkins collapsed to his knees, trembling violently.
His breathing turned ragged, pupils dilating as he flailed like a drowning man.
"W-What did you do?!"
The others froze in fear.
Yoru hadn't even moved.
"Yoru...!" Amos whispered urgently as Hopkins' face turned purple.
"Trash."
A snap of Yoru's fingers, and Hopkins crumpled.
"Ten Sense Manipulation."
Against opponents with mental stats two tiers below his, Yoru could instantly trap them in a fabricated reality—far more terrifying than Mouri's mental pressure.
"Wh... Where am I?!"
Hopkins scrambled back, drenched in cold sweat.
"Boss, you okay?!"
His gang hesitated, unsure if he'd lost his mind.
"I-I was... drowning..." Hopkins gasped.
Yoru crouched before him.
"Hey, trash."
"Ghk—!"
Hopkins flinched, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Here's your chance at revenge. Warm me up—I haven't played today."
"N-No! I'll die—!"
"I won't use that again. Play, or I'll send you back. Closing your eyes won't help."
"...Fine! I'll play!"
---