"Here it comes~"
Snap!
With a swift flick of his racket, Yoru sent a blistering flat serve screaming across the court.
Even without spin, the sheer speed—amplified by his maxed-out Five Stats—made it lethal.
QP, ever the tactician, read the trajectory instantly. His feet pivoted, body lunging—
"This shot… will miss."
Yoru smirked, already walking to the opposite side without watching the return.
QP swung.
Yet the moment his racket neared the ball, a wrongness slithered down his spine.
Tap.
Contact.
His left hand—empty—had moved instead of his right.
The ball whizzed past him, bouncing harmlessly behind.
"15–0, Yoru leads."
Reiter's brow furrowed. Since when does QP make rookie mistakes?
"What…?"
QP stared at his non-dominant hand, grip tightening on the racket. The sensation was alien, as if his right hand didn't exist.
He reset, stance defensive—but unease festered.
Boom!
Yoru's second serve was laughably slow, a ball even elementary kids could return.
Yet QP swung left-handed again.
"30–0."
Murmurs erupted.
"Is QP trying to lose?"
"Why's he swinging air?!"
Reiter's gaze sharpened. One fluke? Possible. Two? Impossible for a machine like QP.
"It's happening again…" Amos whispered, throat dry.
The bruised middle-schoolers nearby shrank back, memories of drowning hallucinations fresh.
Reiter wheeled. "Explain."
Amos spilled the earlier incident—Hopkins' terror, the oceanic delusion.
"Sensory manipulation…?" Reiter's mind flashed to a certain icy woman.
Yoru's voice cut through the noise:
"Relax. I just swapped your hands' senses."
Silence.
Then—chaos.
"Bullshit! How?!"
"But… QP did swing wrong twice!"
QP flexed his hands, coldly analytical. "It's not just touch. My vision defaults to my left as my racket hand now."
"Oh?" Yoru's eyes gleamed. He noticed.
"Correct. Mere touch-swapping's useless against experts—or ambidextrous players. So I overrode everything."
Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. Even instinct.
Every sense now screamed: "YOUR LEFT HOLDS THE RACKET."
QP's jaw clenched. "…Monstrous."
No escape. Even knowing the trick, his body rebelled.
---
"Game, Yoru. 2–0."
"3–0."
"5–0."
QP gasped, drenched in sweat.
He hadn't been this helpless since Borg crushed him as a child.
Five games of mental warfare.
He'd adapted—barely—but his returns were pathetic, easily smashed back.
"A beast." QP's hands trembled.
Yoru was equally impressed. "A freak."
QP had rewired muscle memory mid-match. In a best-of-three, he'd have broken free.
"You could've adjusted gently…" Yoru twirled his racket. "But thanks to our bond, my mental stats spiked."
Ten Sense Manipulation's full power: Instant domination over those two tiers weaker in mental strength.
"Congrats. You'll be my workhorse now."
He smirked.
"Let's deepen the lesson."
---