The taxi slowed as it reached the edge of the city. Beyond the mist, a towering steel gate rose against the morning sky. Aarav sat in silence, clutching the handle of his old duffel bag.
Above the gate, golden letters gleamed:
"Kanzaki National Institute of Sports Excellence."
> "This is where it begins."
Inside the campus, the world moved differently. Sprinters sliced through the track, tennis balls cracked, archery arrows sang through the air.
And then there were the badminton players. Their silence wasn't empty—it was heavy. Every sound of a shuttle hitting strings carried intention and weight.
"Oi! You the transfer kid from Nepal?"
Aarav turned. A tall boy with messy blonde hair leaned on the court fence.
"Yeah. Aarav Khatri."
The boy clicked his tongue.
"Thought you'd be taller."
> "Good. Let them underestimate me."
Court #3. The floor gleamed under the lights, smelling of varnished wood and determination.
Coach Fukuda stood with arms crossed.
"You're late."
"I was early. I just watched for ten minutes."
"You'll play now. No introductions. No warm-up."
"With who?" Aarav asked.
A tall boy stepped out, silver eyes cold.
Kenta Yamada – National Rank #9
"You score one point, you stay. Zero… you go home."
Aarav gripped his brother's old racket tighter.
"Bhai… I'll make every feather count."
The first serve flew. A white blur cut through the air. Aarav moved on instinct. The shuttle met strings with a sharp snap.
Three seconds. That's all it took.
Kenta's smash slammed into the court like a gunshot.
"Too slow," Kenta said coldly.
Aarav steadied his breath. His heart burned, but not with fear—with fire.
Page 8
The second serve.
Feather by feather.
The world faded away. No Japan. No academy. No crowd. Only him, the rack
et, and the white blur.
> "This is it… the Red Court begins."