"I lost, Yukimura!"
Renji walked off the court looking like he'd just personally murdered the team's dog. "If I'd caught on sooner, we would've taken that doubles match."
Yukimura just shook his head. "It's fine. One slip-up in doubles two doesn't mean shit. Relax and watch the rest."
To him, that loss was pocket change. Last practice match lit a fire under both schools—Ice Emperor included. That sneaky-ass breeze trick Ninotake pulled? Even Yukimura only clocked it mid-match. Guy had been sandbagging hard; the version everyone thought they knew was apparently on rookie mode.
Ishihara piped up, "Don't worry, Yukimura. We're not dropping the next one."
"King Rikkai's fourteen straight Kantō titles have zero holes!"
Fushimi was dripping sweat, fresh from warm-ups, racket already in hand, swagger dialed to eleven.
"After this tournament we're rewriting the training menu. Extra laps," Sanada deadpanned. Dude's the vice-captain and still treats mercy like a foreign language.
Rikkai doesn't tolerate losing. Period. That's why they're here.
"Roger that," Renji and Akiyama answered in unison. Even Akiyama knew—he and Miura wouldn't have fared better today. They got played just like Renji did.
On the other side of the net…
Kōtarō was basically a puddle. "We did everything we could. Rest is up to the seniors now."
River Valley thumped his chest. "We're smashing Rikkai's doubles."
"Take a breather, man," Gen nodded, sealing the promise.
Ninotake gave a small nod and helped Kōtarō limp toward the stands.
"Nice work, Ninotake," Atobe said, eyes actually gleaming with something that wasn't narcissism for once. "You're only gonna get scarier."
Ninotake shrugged. "I just did my job."
"Don't be humble after a win, dude!" Akutagawa rolled his eyes. Old Ninotake would've bragged until everyone's ears bled. Getting his ass handed to him by Renji in singles apparently fixed the ego leak. New version's quieter, cleaner, and that slice backhand? Chef's kiss.
Kamikawa, who'd been silent the whole time, finally spoke. "Gen-senpai and River Valley are still a hair off peak."
Tachibana shot him a look. "You think they're gonna lose?"
Those two had been grinding like madmen lately—sparring Ninotake/Kōtarō every single day. Yeah, Ninotake's cracked individually, but Gen and River Valley's sync is disgusting. On paper they're Ice Emperor's strongest doubles pair.
Kamikawa smiled like he already knew the obituary. "Their data's been in Rikkai's war room for months. They've improved, sure—but habits don't flip overnight. As long as their patterns stay the same, Renji already countered them before they even stepped on court."
And just like that, the match turned into a goddamn execution. Ishihara and Fushimi parked every single return exactly where Gen and River Valley hated it most. Errors stacked up faster than empty beer cans at a frat party.
They rallied mid-match, but the driver's seat was long gone.
Final smash from Fushimi—ball kisses the line.
"Game, Rikkai Ishihara-Fushimi, 6-4!"
Kikumaru whistled. "No way. Ice Emperor was dominating the middle and still got reversed."
"That's Rikkai's depth for you," Kawamura muttered.
Dry pushed up his glasses. "Fourteen straight Kantō titles isn't a participation trophy."
Ishihara collapsed on the court, sucking wind like a broken vacuum.
"Good work," Fushimi said, hauling him up.
"All for Rikkai," Ishihara wheezed, glaring across the net. "Close one, though."
"Yeah. But we still won."
They walked off like kings.
Over at Ice Emperor's bench…
"We lost, Coach," Gen bit out, teeth grinding.
River Valley stared at the ground waiting for the firing squad.
Coach Sakaki didn't yell. Just ice-cold autopsy.
"Gen—every time their backcourt shifted you had an opening to poach and you never took it. You picked the dumbest possible attack angle."
"Yes, Coach."
"River Valley, Mr. Steady, decided to sprint like a rookie and gassed out in the second half. Only second-rate players blow their tank before the end."
"I—"
Sakaki's stare shut him up faster than a slap.
"Questions?"
"…No, sir."
"Dismissed."
The two trudged back to the stands looking like they'd just been told Santa isn't real. If Ice Emperor loses the whole tournament because of them, they'll never live it down.
Court break. Empty practice court.
Kamikawa and Atobe stood across the net from each other, Tezuka moonlighting as ref.
"Try to read my weakness, Atobe," Kamikawa grinned like a psycho.
"As you wish."
"Ice World—activate!"
Hundreds of ice pillars speared up across Kamikawa's court the instant he wound up his swing.
Then—poof. Gone.
Atobe blinked. His return sailed like a drunk pigeon. Kamikawa casually backhanded it past him for a clean winner.
"What the hell was that?" Atobe snarled, staring at the ball rolling to his feet.
Kamikawa holstered his racket. "Your mental strength jumped a ton after Sanada, but it's still not enough to crush him. His Lightning can teleport anywhere on court the millisecond you think you've got him. And let's be real—your stamina can't keep Ice World up forever yet."
Atobe's face darkened, then curved into a smirk.
"Don't worry. You're definitely playing."
He glanced at Tezuka. "Sorry, Tezuka. Looks like singles one gets to sit this one out."
Tezuka actually smiled—rare as a unicorn. "You're betting on both of us winning."
"Obviously," Kamikawa laughed. "I'm not scared of Yukimura or the old captain's Mach serve. As long as my mental game doesn't fold, I'm walking away champion."
Tezuka nodded, then added, "Rikkai might swap their singles two lineup."
"I figured the second the roster wasn't locked," Kamikawa said. "Doesn't matter. Even if Atobe loses—"
"—I'll win the tiebreaker for you, Tezuka."
He clapped Tezuka on the shoulder like it was already over.
"Good."
Ref's voice boomed across the stadium:
"Next match: Singles Three—Ice Emperor Academy's Atobe Keigo versus Rikkai University Affiliate's Sanada Genichirou!"