Prince of Tennis: The Emperor's Eye

Chapter 115: Chapter 115: Fuji’s Display for Ryōma

A strange scene unfolded on court—both players had their eyes closed, yet their strokes were fluid. One returned shots purely by instinct, while the other relied on memory and sharp intuition.

Originally, Fuji’s ”Closed Eye” had been developed in the original story after a head injury from Kirihara’s serve left him temporarily blind. Back then it was just a prototype, but by the National Tournament it had already become complete.

Now, Fuji had deliberately developed this technique to counter Yukimura’s Five-Sense Nullification. Since ”Closed Eye” didn’t rely on vision, hearing, or touch, it functioned primarily through an extremely refined sense of the ball—almost like a sixth sense.

The match continued with intense rallies, and the score climbed rapidly, surprising the Seigaku team on the sidelines.

”30-15!”

”30-30!”

”40-30!”

”Game! Seishun Academy! 2-0!”

Fuji ultimately took the game. He stood still as if thinking, then slowly opened his eyes.

”Mm... I think that’s enough testing. Time to get serious,” Fuji murmured softly.

The third game was Fuji’s service game. He launched a high-speed serve, and Jirō quickly moved to intercept it, returning a flat shot.

Fuji watched the ball approach, raised his racket vertically, and sliced down before it landed. The ball rolled across his racket face, increasing its spin, then flew over the net and dropped sharply, skimming across the ground and out of bounds.

”Hoo Gaeshi!”

”15-0!”

In the Hyōtei seats, Atobe narrowed his eyes in surprise.

”That wasn’t even a topspin ball... and he still pulled off Hoo Gaeshi? As expected of you, Fuji.”

Fuji served again, and Jirō dashed forward to return a diagonal shot. Fuji moved to the ball’s landing point and lightly deflected it, sending it high toward Jirō’s court.

In his sleep mode, Jirō followed his instincts and jumped at the net, delivering a fierce smash. The ball rocketed toward Fuji’s front court.

But Fuji was already there, slamming the ball back with a smash of his own. It shot past Jirō faster than he could react and flew out of bounds.

”One of the Wind Techniques—Aoi Fubuki!”

”30-0!”

This exchange made the difference between Jirō and Mōri’s sleep modes clear. Jirō played entirely by instinct, smashing without hesitation when faced with a lob. Mōri, however, used sleep mode more for charging up and focusing. Against someone like Fuji, who counters smashes effortlessly, Mōri wouldn’t use them at all in that state.

Next, Fuji served another high-speed ball, triggering a fast rally. When Jirō returned with a down-the-line shot, Fuji suddenly cut horizontally with his racket. The spectators were puzzled—except for Akashi, who smiled knowingly.

Fuji struck the ball using both sides of his racket to rapidly spin it before returning. Atobe furrowed his brow.

’Didn’t Jirō break that move earlier? But this one... it’s different.’

Jirō, running on instinct, again applied reverse spin and lobbed it. But as the ball rose, it fell sharply without even touching the net.

”Hecatoncheires no Monban!”

”40-0!”

”Captain’s shot was broken earlier... why did it work this time?” Ryōma asked, confused.

”Well... I’ve been with Fuji for a long time, but I’ve never been able to fully analyze his strength. Maybe this is the true power of Hecatoncheires no Monban,” Inui answered, brows furrowed.

Ryōma stared blankly at Fuji, placing himself in Jirō’s position. What if he were the one facing Fuji? The only answer he could come up with—total defeat.

”The spin on Fuji’s Hecatoncheires no Monban probably exceeds ten times that of my Zone. Adding even more reverse spin to counter it isn’t something you can just do,” Tezuka said with a serious expression.

”He’s amazing! I wanna play him too!” Kintarō said excitedly.

”Fuji really is a genius, huh~” Chitose added with admiration.

”Game! Seishun Academy! 3-0! Change courts!”

For the last point, Fuji once again used Hecatoncheires no Monban. Jirō had no answer for the intensified spin—he simply couldn’t return it with enough force.

Amusingly, since Jirō had truly fallen asleep, even after Fuji left the court, he stayed rooted to the same spot. Atobe had to order Kabaji to bring him back and wake him up.

Back at the Seigaku bench during the break, Fuji felt a breeze blow through and smiled slightly as he turned to Ryōma.

”Ryōma, you haven’t seen all of my counter techniques yet, have you?”

Ryōma blinked, then nodded seriously. It was true—he had no idea what kind of techniques his Captain had in store.

”Alright. Then you’d better watch carefully for the rest of the match.” Fuji opened his eyes and looked straight at Ryōma.

Without waiting for Ryōma’s response, Fuji calmly walked back onto the court. Jirō, now awake, glanced at the scoreboard and understood—even in sleep mode, he wasn’t Fuji’s match. He decided not to sleep again. At the very least, he wanted to understand how he was losing.

Jirō tossed up a tennis ball—it barely rose—and swung with his right hand, then charged forward to the net. Fuji reached the landing point and struck a backhand; the ball turned into a yellow blur as it flew toward Jirō.

Without stopping his stride, Jirō reached toward his feet and intercepted the ball. His wrist twisted deftly, sending the ball back to Fuji’s front court. By then, Jirō had already crossed the center line.

Fuji once again raised his racket vertically and sliced down on the oncoming ball. The racket added even more spin on top of the existing rotation.

”This is the first counter—Hoo Gaeshi,” Fuji announced.

Just after crossing the net, the ball dropped sharply. Jirō hadn’t yet reached the net and couldn’t intercept it in time. It landed, bounced slightly, and then skidded out of bounds.

Since he had been asleep earlier, Jirō hadn’t realized that Fuji could now execute Hoo Gaeshi without needing topspin. He could only watch helplessly as the ball flew out.

”0-15!”

Ryōma, watching from the sidelines, knew Fuji was showing off his signature moves for his benefit, so he paid close attention, eyes locked on the match.

”Whoa! Fuji, when did you start using Hoo Gaeshi without topspin?” Jirō asked in surprise.

”Everyone’s improving. I can’t afford to fall behind, right?” Fuji replied with a smile.

Jirō served again and rushed straight to the net. He rarely stayed back at the baseline—one of the reasons he was called the ”Magician at the Net.”

This time, Fuji didn’t use Hoo Gaeshi, knowing Jirō would be expecting it. Instead, he engaged Jirō in fierce rallies. After several intense exchanges, Fuji suddenly hit a fast, high lob.

Still caught in the heat of battle, Jirō didn’t hesitate—he jumped and smashed the ball. But the moment he struck it, he regretted it.

Sure enough, Fuji was already at the landing point. He turned his body and intercepted the ball midair with both hands gripping the racket. With a sharp upward swing, the ball soared past Jirō and landed right on the baseline.

”This is the second counter—Kirin Otoshi!”

”0-30!”

Atobe’s expression grew more annoyed on the sidelines. He knew Jirō wasn’t Fuji’s match, but Fuji was clearly using him as a tool to demonstrate moves to Echizen Ryōma.

Still, there wasn’t much Atobe could do. The truth was, Jirō’s strength still lagged behind Fuji’s. If their skills were on par, Fuji wouldn’t be able to pull off his counters so easily.

As Jirō served for the third time, Fuji noticed how cautious he was—each return minimized spin. But Fuji didn’t mind.

When Jirō hit a passing shot, Fuji felt a breeze on his cheek. He turned and sliced the ball backhand, adding fierce spin at the moment of contact. The ball zoomed toward Jirō.

As Jirō prepared to return it, the ball suddenly shot straight into the air. Startled, he turned and ran to the baseline. By the time he got there, the ball had dropped and was spinning wildly on the baseline.

He extended his racket to intercept from the left—but froze in shock as the ball suddenly darted to the right and flew out.

”This is the third counter—Hakuryu!”

”0-40!”

Jirō frowned, frustrated at misreading the direction, but didn’t get discouraged. He readied another serve. His personality was a lot like Kintarō’s—easygoing and cheerful. Seeing powerful techniques only made him more excited.

Though Jirō had reached the national level, he shared a critical flaw with Mōri—he lacked a decisive finishing technique. Atobe had been trying to help him with that, even considering asking Akashi for assistance, but never followed through.

Even though Jirō hadn’t won a single game, there was no disappointment on his face—just excitement. He served again and dashed forward.

Fuji instantly caught up to the ball and returned it, all while sensing the wind’s direction. Jirō launched an all-out assault from the net.

After a few exchanges, Fuji caught a shift in the wind. Seeing the incoming ball, he lifted his racket from low to high, flicking the ball sharply upward. It soared high into the sky.

Jirō looked up but couldn’t find the ball—only a burst of glittering images like fireworks. Then, realizing something, he turned his head just in time to see a ball plummet from the sky, strike the baseline, and fly out of bounds.

”This is the sixth counter—Hoshi Hanabi,” Fuji said, turning to Ryōma with a smile.

”Game! Seishun Academy! 4-0!”

Ryōma now had a clear understanding of his captain’s power—and his whole view of Japanese tennis had changed. He genuinely believed that whether it was Seigaku or Hyōtei, any team’s starting lineup could go to America and completely dominate the junior scene there.

What he didn’t know was that the truly talented and skilled players in America were already in U14 or U17 programs. The players Ryōma had faced in public tournaments were basically rejects—no match for him.

The fifth game was Fuji’s service game. In this round, he showed Ryōma a variety of combinations using his counter techniques. Even when Jirō managed to break through one, Fuji would immediately respond with the next and score.

Jirō was dazzled by Fuji’s endless stream of techniques, staying in high spirits the entire time with no sign of sleepiness. At this point, Fuji ranked just as highly in Jirō’s mind as Marui or Mōri.

”Game! Seishun Academy! 5-0!”

After taking the fifth game, Fuji’s demonstration for Ryōma was over. As for Void Tranquility—a purely defensive technique—Fuji didn’t show it since Jirō didn’t have any strong decisive moves.

In the sixth game, Fuji didn’t give Jirō much room to breathe and immediately used Hecatoncheires no Monban. Jirō was confident at first, thinking he could break it again, but the ball dropped before it even reached the net.

”0-15!”

Jirō froze. He remembered that before falling asleep he was close to breaking this move—so why couldn’t he even reach the net now? Clearly, he had no memory of what happened while he was asleep.

But that only reignited Jirō’s interest. Winning or losing no longer mattered. What he cared about now was how to break through Fuji’s endless techniques.

As he faced Hecatoncheires no Monban again, Jirō pushed his wrist to the limit, trying to apply reverse spin to break the move. But he failed every time. The spin Fuji now applied was terrifyingly intense.

”0-30!”

”0-40!”

”Game! 6-0! Match over! Winner: Seishun Academy!”

In the end, Jirō never found a way to counter Hecatoncheires no Monban. He wasn’t the type of player like Tezuka who specialized in spin; he couldn’t generate spin ten times greater than domain-level.

Even though he lost, Jirō still wore an excited expression. He even arranged with Fuji to play again sometime. Fuji smiled and agreed.

Atobe, watching Jirō’s attitude, was annoyed but kept it in. There was no point taking it out on Jirō. Instead, his eyes shifted toward Kabaji, who had just finished warming up.

On the other side, Fuji walked off the court and smiled at Ryōma in the player’s seat.

”So, Ryōma! Did you catch everything in that match?”

”Yeah! I saw it clearly. Captain, you’re really strong! Let’s have a match when we get back!” Ryōma said seriously.

”No problem. But the loser has to drink Inui’s latest special juice!” Fuji smiled slyly at him.

Without glancing back at Ryōma’s darkened expression, Fuji turned with a racket in hand and handed it to Kawamura Takashi, who had just finished warming up.

”Taka-san! The next match is yours. Here, your racket!”

”Burning! Don’t worry, Fuji! The win belongs to Seigaku!” Kawamura’s whole vibe changed dramatically once he took the racket.

”Next is the singles match: Seigaku’s Kawamura Takashi versus Hyōtei’s Kabaji Munehiro! Players, please enter the court!”

”Go on, Kabaji!” Atobe snapped his fingers.

”Ussu!” Kabaji replied dully, then walked onto the court with his racket.

After the players bowed at the net, Kawamura slung his racket over his right shoulder, raised his left hand, and called out to Kabaji:

”Come on, baby!”

But Kabaji just stared at him silently, making Kawamura a little awkward. Fortunately, the umpire stepped in to start the coin toss. Kabaji won serve.

”One-game match! Hyōtei Academy to serve!”

Kabaji stood on the baseline, looking a little dazed. But that was just because his pure-hearted nature blocked out all distractions. It didn’t mean he was dumb—though he wasn’t exactly sharp either.

He tossed the ball and focused all his strength in his right hand, unleashing a powerful serve. Kawamura rushed to the landing point, gripped his racket with both hands, and stepped forward.

”Great!” he shouted in excitement, feeling the impact.

The ball flew back at Kabaji even harder. Kabaji didn’t hesitate. He charged up and smashed it again. The two began an all-out power battle.

Although Kawamura had grown stronger thanks to training camp and U-17 development, Kabaji’s naturally powerful build meant his strength was not to be underestimated. Neither could score easily as they clashed.

After several rallies, Kabaji made a slip. Kawamura seized the chance and scored the first point.

”0-15!”

But on the very next play, Kabaji came back strong. They battled fiercely, trading shots. Kabaji gradually picked up on Kawamura’s movements and began to mimic his form, making his actions smoother.

”15-15!”

”15-30!”

”15-40!”

”30-40!”

”Game! Seishun Academy! 1-0!”

In the end, Kawamura had a slight edge and took the first game. But he wasn’t feeling relaxed—he knew Kabaji’s power was on par with his own, and physically, Kabaji was built better. If this kept up, he might be the one to wear out first.

Just then, Atobe snapped his fingers from the sidelines and called out to Kabaji:

”That should be enough. Go, Kabaji!”

”Ussu!” Kabaji responded, and his eyes lit up red. His whole aura shifted as he locked eyes with Kawamura.