Prince of Tennis: The Emperor's Eye

Chapter 48: Chapter 48: Fuji’s Debut

Sakaki Tarō looked sternly at the two players in front of him with their heads bowed. He didn’t scold them, but his tone was low and serious.

”Gakuto, your physical training must be prioritized immediately. Even if Inui Sadaharu hadn’t baited you this time, your stamina still isn’t up to standard for a competitive player.”

Upon hearing that, Mukahi lowered his head even further. He had no excuse. He had always hated physical training the most, but these past few matches had taught him a harsh lesson.

”Oshitari, you didn’t do too badly overall, but your observation skills were lacking. You failed to recognize the opponent’s trap in time. Of course, the biggest problem was my own tactical decision. We all underestimated this player named Inui Sadaharu. Go get some rest. That’s all.” Sakaki waved his hand, dismissing them to the player bench.

Meanwhile, over at the Seigaku bench, Inui waved enthusiastically toward Mitsuya from a distance. Mitsuya simply smiled and nodded. It seemed Inui still wasn’t as composed as he would become in the future.

The Doubles 1 match started quickly. Hyōtei sent out their third-year duo, Honjū and Kurokawa. As for Seigaku, there was no other choice—it had to be Oishi and Kikumaru.

But this time, their luck wasn’t great. While both sides were evenly matched in tennis ability, Oishi and Kikumaru were clearly lacking in chemistry and experience. Kikumaru’s acrobatic play style was quite similar to Mukahi’s, though Mukahi emphasized aerial leaps while Kikumaru relied more on agility.

Hyōtei’s third-years were already used to this style of play, so Kikumaru’s offense didn’t pose much threat. Still, Oishi showed impressive court-control talent in this match. Unfortunately, as a first-year, his composure wasn’t yet steady. Lured by the opponents’ veteran tricks, he made many unforced errors.

In the end, Seigaku lost the Doubles 1 match 6-2, without much suspense. This left Oishi and Kikumaru even more frustrated. Ever since the semifinals, they had suffered two complete defeats in a row.

With the doubles complete, the team score was tied 1-1. The singles matches would decide the victor. But Akashi didn’t even need to watch to know the final result—Seigaku was destined to lose. Among Seigaku’s singles lineup, only Fuji was a reliable option. Hyōtei still had capable players like Shishido Ryō and Akutagawa Jirō, not to mention Atobe himself.

With Tezuka absent and neither Momoshiro Takeshi nor Kaidō Kaoru part of the lineup yet, Seigaku’s only competent singles players were Fuji and Inui. Yamato had already pushed himself into the hospital just trying to help out in doubles.

Hyōtei sent Shishido Ryō for Singles 3, and Seigaku responded with Fuji Shūsuke. It was clear that Ryūzaki-sensei had originally hoped to secure the match in the first three rounds—but now that strategy had failed.

Akashi looked at Shishido Ryō, who had his signature ponytail, and couldn’t help but chuckle. ’He’s in for a rough time,’ he thought. With the training plan Akashi had given Fuji, even he wasn’t sure how far Fuji’s strength had gone—but one thing was certain: Shishido Ryō wasn’t ready to handle it. Honestly, he felt a little bad for the guy.

In the original timeline, Shishido had arrogantly mocked Fudōmine and got schooled by Tachibana Kippei, which led to him getting kicked off the first-string lineup. He even shaved his head in desperation to prove his determination, eventually regaining Sakaki and Atobe’s trust—but at the cost of losing his spot in singles matches.

Now, as a first-year, he was already facing a version of Fuji who had been honed to crave victory. Though they were both first-years, it felt like this match could end up even worse for Shishido than it did in the original story.

Luckily, this version of Shishido wasn’t as arrogant yet. He didn’t spout any bold trash talk before the match—but he still didn’t greet Fuji kindly either.

Fuji didn’t mind at all. He smiled with closed eyes through the entire pre-match ritual and coin toss. He ended up serving first. As the umpire announced the start of Singles 3, the match was officially underway.

Standing at the baseline, Fuji took a moment to steady his breathing. Deep down, he knew Seigaku had already lost this team match. The remaining players couldn’t take on Atobe. So he decided to go all out in this one—to at least leave a mark for Seigaku.

With that thought in mind, Fuji pulled out a tennis ball and gave it a counterclockwise spin before releasing it. The ball spun as it dropped. It was an underhand serve. Shishido Ryō looked visibly unimpressed—until the ball crossed the net, bounced, and suddenly shot off in a rapid, unpredictable direction. Just as he prepared to return it, the ball vanished before his eyes.

”This serve disappears, you know~” Fuji said with a smile.

”Ace! 15-0!”

”Wh-what... no way!” Shishido’s face was full of disbelief, unable to process what just happened.

Even Atobe furrowed his brow from the sideline, his sharp eyes fixed on Fuji. He couldn’t fully see that last shot—but he had caught a faint glimpse of its trace.

Ryūzaki-sensei looked just as shocked as Shishido. She had never seen Fuji use such a strange serve. He had never practiced it during club activities, and she hadn’t seen him use it in the internal selection matches either.

”Oh? That’s pretty interesting~ An underhand slice serve, huh? Add spin to the ball, then use that spin to change the contact point on the opponent’s racket. The ball veers away just before contact, making it look like it disappears,” Mitsuya mused with interest, analyzing Fuji’s serve.

”Nothing escapes your data, huh, Mitsuya-senpai~” Akashi said casually from the side. He had fully expected Fuji to develop the disappearing serve early. That move wasn’t hard at all—just a surprise tactic. With Fuji’s talent, pulling it off was effortless.

Of course, that only held true for players on the level of Akashi or Mitsuya. As for Shishido Ryō on the court, his skill level was still too far off. There was no way he could understand the mechanics of the serve. All he could do was get played around by Fuji over and over.

”Ace! 30-0!”

”Ace! 40-0!”

”Game! Seishun Academy! 1-0!”

Fuji secured his first service game with four consecutive disappearing serves. Shishido Ryō stood there looking dazed, as if the tennis he once knew had crumbled. ’What even is this? Is this really tennis?’

But the match wouldn’t stop for his confusion. After the umpire’s reminder, Shishido Ryō snapped back to focus. He stood at the baseline, tossed the ball high, and launched a serve. The serve was solid—it flew past the net and sped toward Fuji’s court.

But Fuji was already in position, calmly returning the ball. Shishido Ryō dashed toward the return. To his credit, his speed was impressive for his age—his footwork was undeniably strong. He swung before the bounce, going for a half volley.

Fuji saw the ball spinning with strong underspin. His smile grew. Raising his right hand, he prepared for the shot. As the ball approached, he gave it a downward slice with his racket. The ball crossed the net with heavy spin, barely bouncing before gliding smoothly out of bounds at a low trajectory.

”First Counter—Tsubame Gaeshi!”

”0-15!”

”That... that’s that move!” Shishido Ryō stared blankly as the ball slid out. He wasn’t that surprised—he had seen this shot just yesterday.

”Atobe! Isn’t that the serve Akashi used yesterday?” Oshitari asked, surprised.

”No. While the result looks similar, the principles are completely different. Fuji’s technique uses the spin from the opponent’s return and slices into it with strong cutback. Akashi’s was purely raw wrist strength. Totally different levels of difficulty.” Atobe’s explanation came with a sharp, focused look toward Fuji.

”Oh? A slice specifically targeting underspin? This is getting even more interesting~” Mitsuya’s curiosity was clearly piqued.

Akashi, on the other hand, thought to himself, ’That Tsubame Gaeshi already drops fast... If Fuji keeps developing, it could soon evolve into Hōō Gaeshi.’

Back on court, Shishido Ryō had no idea of the technique’s principle—nor the difference between Fuji’s Tsubame Gaeshi and Akashi’s Tannhauser Serve. All he could do was rely on footwork, rushing madly around the court, attacking with half volleys.

But the difference in strength was clear. Even without Tsubame Gaeshi, Fuji had no trouble scoring off him.

”0-30!”

”0-40!”

”Game! Seishun Academy! 2-0!”

The ball once again slid past Shishido Ryō’s feet. He lost his serve with no resistance. Next was Fuji’s serve again, and he still hadn’t figured out a way to counter the disappearing serve.

”Game! Seishun Academy! 3-0!”

Predictably, Fuji used the disappearing serve to win another game with ease. During the side change, Atobe explained the general mechanics of Fuji’s two tricks to Shishido Ryō. With his sharp vision, he had already figured it out after seeing them several times.

But even knowing the principle didn’t mean much. Shishido Ryō didn’t have the skill to counter them. The fourth game started, and he still had no answers to Fuji’s returns. Just as he was getting frustrated, Fuji hit a high lob.

Without thinking, Shishido Ryō rushed the net, leaping high and pouring all his frustration into a powerful smash—only to freeze in horror.

Fuji intercepted the descending ball in a familiar pose and used the force of the smash to send the ball bouncing high and straight down onto the baseline. Shishido had just landed.

”Second Counter—Higuma Otoshi!”

”0-15!”

”Isn’t that Oshitari’s move?” Shishido muttered, stunned.

”Fuji Shūsuke...?” Oshitari murmured on the sidelines. He hadn’t expected to see his technique copied by a peer—and seemingly executed even better.

”I didn’t expect Seigaku to have someone like you. I’ll remember your name—Fuji Shūsuke!” Atobe said seriously from the side.

Shishido Ryō refocused and resumed play. He understood how to avoid Higuma Otoshi—just don’t smash. But even so, nothing changed. He kept losing points.

”Game! Seishun Academy! 4-0!”

”Game! Seishun Academy! 5-0!”

”0-40!”

In the blink of an eye, the match reached match point. Shishido Ryō stood at the baseline, sweating profusely, face full of despair—but still served the ball.

After returning the serve, Fuji suddenly spoke:

”It’s getting windy~”