Switching the heavens for the sun, swapping pillars under the beam—deceptions and sleights of hand!

As the sun dipped low in the western sky, Sadaharu Inui crouched with a special little spade, digging up insects. Yet, with his furtive movements, he looked less like a diligent collector and more like a suspicious character burying a corpse. After two hours of toil, Inui finally ceased his efforts. In his hand wriggled a massive grub, still slick with moist earth. Watching it squirm, he lifted his face; his glasses flashed with a harsh white light, and beneath the crimson glow of dusk, his features slowly unfurled into a sinister yet enigmatic smile. That sly, calculating expression was enough to send chills down anyone’s spine.

“Oh? Quite rich in protein… tastes a bit like chicken, crunchy too,” he mused, stroking his chin, his eyes suddenly gentle and kind as he let out a soft chuckle.

The next morning arrived.

“Everyone, there are only eleven days left until the Tokyo Metropolitan Tournament. To help you all improve your skills, I’ve devised a new training regimen,” Renji Yanagi announced, rolling over a white tactics board mounted on small wheels.

“In general, we’ll have match exercises with restricted hitting zones. Based on your playing styles, you’ll be divided accordingly. For example, we have baseline counterpunchers—like Shibayama and Fuji, who excel at rallying from the baseline and waiting for their chance. Then there are baseline attackers; though they operate from the baseline, unlike the counterpunchers, they use explosive power to launch strong assaults—like Renji and Matsubara.”

At that moment, Sadaharu Inui appeared out of nowhere, assisting Yanagi with further analysis. “There’s also the volleyer, a player who makes use of agility, physical prowess, and reflexes to dominate the net, such as Akutsu and Shishido.”

“And finally, the all-rounder—those with outstanding overall athletic ability, flexible enough to adapt to any situation. Take Tezuka, for instance.”

Inui tapped the white tactics board, then grouped the baseline attackers and volleyers together for practice. As Matsubara glanced at Fuji’s gentle smile, he couldn’t help but laugh quietly to himself.

It seemed Inui hadn’t quite figured out Fuji’s true style. In fact, Fuji should be categorized alongside Tezuka as an all-rounder. The difference, however, was that Fuji’s playstyle depended entirely on his mood—just as in the original story, when Fuji got serious, he’d charge the net. For him, being an all-rounder was simply a matter of choice. During the regional preliminaries, Fuji not only took responsibility at the net but also utilized various offensive techniques. By that logic, putting him with the volleyers made more sense.

As for Akutsu, he wasn’t truly a net specialist; his athletic gifts allowed him to respond quickly to net shots, but he was just as formidable near the baseline. Regardless of which group he joined, Akutsu would never be a counterpuncher. Like Nanjiro Echizen, his dictionary contained only one word: relentless offense.

Matsubara himself had no idea what criteria Inui used to assign the groups, but being labeled a baseline attacker wasn’t far off. His so-called secret techniques were never about inflicting massive damage at the net.

“The baseline attackers will serve against the volleyers. If you can’t break through the defenders’ resistance within five rallies, you lose—and vice versa.”

“So all we have to do is withstand five shots without conceding a point, and we win, right?” Shishido asked.

“Correct. Also, only the baseline attackers serving can hit within the singles court, while you, as the receiving volleyers, must restrict your returns to half the singles court,” Inui explained.

“That’s… a real challenge…” Shishido muttered, eyeing the tactics board, where only three squares on the court diagram were shaded in.

“The goal is to sharpen your volleying accuracy. Both you, Shishido, and Akutsu, are fast at the net, but your contact points must become even more precise and ruthless,” Yanagi intoned.

“For the all-rounder, the serving area is the entire half-court, but the counterpunchers’ receiving zone excludes the doubles alleys. Fuji, Shibayama, you’ll have to rely on your eyes and anticipation to judge whether Tezuka’s serve lands inside or outside the singles lines. One wrong judgment means failure, and your return must land within the opponent’s doubles alley to count. Otherwise, you lose as well.”

Suddenly, Inui’s face softened into a benevolent smile. “Of course, none of this is the true highlight of the coming days. If any of the four groups make a mistake or lose their match, you’ll have to drink my special Inui Juice.”

With a flourish, Inui produced a glass of deep green liquid, even darker than his last infamous vegetable juice. If not for the sunlight, it would have appeared nearly blackish green.

Shishido and Akutsu, upon seeing the glass in Inui’s hand, simultaneously broke out in cold sweat, their faces turning ashen as if they’d just tasted something rotten.

“This is terrifying…” Matsubara shivered, his mind flooded with the memory of rippling green water—a classic case of post-traumatic Inui Juice syndrome, even though he had yet to actually taste it.

As the image faded, Inui’s devilish grin replayed in his mind like a haunting melody, the kind that lingers even in one’s dreams. Such a captivating yet nightmarish smile—Matsubara decided he’d rather let someone else endure it.

Years from now, perhaps when university exams or work had pushed tennis to the far corners of their memories, none of them would forget the terror of being at the mercy of Inui Juice. That was the birthplace of nightmares; Inui and his concoction would forever stand as the greatest victors.

Fuji, noticing everyone’s panic at the sight of the special drink, covered his mouth to hide a chuckle. Truth be told, he far preferred watching others suffer through it than drinking it himself.

“All right, practice begins now!” Tezuka, confident that he’d never have to touch Inui Juice himself, called out sternly.

“By the way, Yanagi, why are you joining the drills this time? Weren’t you and Inui alternating?” Matsubara asked, glancing at Yanagi, who was his partner for the session.

“No, Inui and I are taking turns. I’ll practice with you in the morning, and Inui will take over in the afternoon,” Yanagi explained.

The first match began: Yanagi versus Shishido. Yanagi took the initiative, and with the return zone limited to his half of the court, Shishido, who was adept at net play but less skilled at ball control, found himself quickly at a disadvantage. Yanagi’s shots were powerful and fast, and Shishido was soon on the defensive.

“As expected of a data tennis player… He’s completely shut down my high-speed half-volley…” Shishido was really struggling—not just because of the restricted court, but because each of Yanagi’s shots landed with unerring accuracy in the hardest spots for him to reach or return. The absence of the doubles alleys didn’t weaken Yanagi’s attacks; if anything, they seemed even more threatening.

“The final point—let’s settle it here.” Yanagi, counting the fifth shot, unleashed a lightning-quick slice. Shishido didn’t stand a chance; Yanagi took the point cleanly.

“Shishido’s high-speed half-volley was useless…” the unofficial players remarked in shock, seeing the match end in less than a minute.

“Damn it…” Shishido was frustrated; he’d barely had a chance to fight before losing. It was humiliating.

“Shhhh…” As Shishido hung his head, a looming shadow fell over him. Inui, holding a glass brimming with his special juice, approached. Shishido’s face fell, and Matsubara, standing nearby, silently mourned for him.

“Rest in peace, Ryo,” he whispered.

“Come to think of it, since the two of them are alternating, their chances of having to drink Inui Juice aren’t that high…” Matsubara realized that Inui must have grouped himself with the baseline attackers. But with Akutsu’s level, it would be challenging for him to hold off Inui or Yanagi for five shots…

“Wait, why didn’t I think of this before?” A metaphorical lightbulb lit up above Matsubara’s head. As Tezuka and Shibayama’s match began, Matsubara closed his eyes for a moment, then snapped them open. A spiral of gray energy radiated from his face—a split-second phenomenon akin to a mutant’s super speed.

To the others, he appeared to move as normal, but within this suspended moment, everyone else was frozen. Matsubara strolled nonchalantly over to Inui, took a furtive sniff of the deep green liquid, and immediately clamped his hand over his mouth and nose, doubling over with a fit of gagging and dry heaves.

“This is even worse than the last vegetable juice…” He wiped his tears and nose, then sauntered to the edge of the court.

Stopping before Akutsu, whose expression was as cold and stony as Tezuka’s but even more intimidating, Matsubara mischievously pretended to lick his palms before giving Akutsu a bolder, more flamboyant hairstyle.

After his little prank, Matsubara’s gaze shifted to the plastic crate of backup Inui Juice, then to the box of everyone’s water bottles. A faint, intriguing smile played at his lips.

The story continues…