After delivering his technical explanation, Coach Banji's eyes remained fixed on the luminous figure of Tezuka, their intensity growing with each passing moment. The old coach felt a familiar stirring in his chest—the same sensation he'd experienced only once before, decades ago, when witnessing truly exceptional talent.
Finally, he had discovered a player comparable to the legendary Echizen Nanjiro.
The comparison wasn't made lightly. Sumire Ryuzaki had built her entire reputation on having coached that singular genius, parlaying that connection into decades of job security despite consistently mediocre results with Seishun Academy. It reminded Banji of certain NBA coaches who rode the coattails of superstar players—taking credit for achievements that were primarily the result of individual brilliance rather than coaching acumen.
Banji had always been the superior tactician, leading Yamabuki to national tournaments year after year with methodical precision. Yet he lacked the crowning achievements that would cement his legacy: a national championship and a student who reached professional levels. Ryuzaki's single stroke of luck in encountering Nanjiro had overshadowed Banji's consistent excellence for far too long.
Now, thanks to Ryuzaki's shocking lack of vision in suppressing Tezuka's development, that oversight might finally become Banji's opportunity. Both the national title and the professional protégé he'd long sought seemed tantalizingly within reach.
But first, there was this match to conclude.
On the court, Tezuka had become an unstoppable force. The combination of his perfected technique and supernatural enhancement created a gap that seemed impossible to bridge. Even when Fuji deployed his latest innovation—the Star Sparks, a technique he'd developed during their intensive training—it proved insufficient against Tezuka's overwhelming assault.
The score climbed relentlessly: 5-1. One more game, and Tezuka would complete his domination.
"Hah... hah... hah..."
Fuji doubled over, hands braced against his knees as he struggled to draw breath. The sustained intensity of returning Tezuka's enhanced shots had pushed him beyond all reasonable limits. Every muscle in his body screamed for relief, and his vision was beginning to blur from exhaustion.
"Seventh game, match point," Coach Banji announced with professional neutrality. "Tezuka to serve."
Though his heart went out to the struggling player, Banji maintained proper officiating standards. He wouldn't compromise the match's integrity by providing unauthorized rest periods, no matter how much Fuji might need them.
"Can he even continue?" Oishi whispered, genuine concern etched across his features. Throughout their friendship, he had never seen Fuji in such a desperate state—not even during their most punishing training sessions.
The gentle breeze that usually characterized Fuji's demeanor had been stripped away by the hurricane force of Tezuka's attack, leaving only raw determination and failing flesh.
Everyone from Yamabuki watched with growing anxiety as their teammate swayed on unsteady legs. Tezuka's power was simply beyond ordinary human limits—so overwhelming that even a acknowledged genius like Fuji seemed helpless before it.
The circumstances made Tezuka's dominance even more remarkable. His left hand injury had cost him nearly a year of development time, and even Tom's miraculous healing had required weeks of careful treatment. In practical terms, Tezuka had enjoyed only two weeks of actual intensive training before reaching what appeared to be his current plateau.
Yet those two weeks had produced something approaching tennis perfection.
"Don't hold back, Fuji," Tezuka called across the net, his voice carrying no mockery—only the respect due a worthy opponent. Without further ceremony, he launched another Zero-Shiki serve.
Fuji willed his legs to move, to carry him toward the net for one more desperate attempt at returning the impossible serve. But his body had reached its absolute limits. Despite his fierce determination, his limbs felt like they'd been filled with molten lead.
"Move... move... MOVE!" Fuji roared, the sound tearing from his throat with primal intensity.
His legs finally responded, but too late. The ball had already struck the court and begun its characteristic backward roll. No amount of willpower could overcome the laws of physics and human endurance.
Fuji slammed his fist against his unresponsive thigh, fury and frustration boiling over at his body's betrayal.
"Fuji..." Kawamura started to approach, clearly intending to convince his teammate to concede before serious injury occurred.
"Serve again, Tezuka!" Fuji snarled, his usual gentle demeanor completely absent. The polite genius had vanished, replaced by something wild and desperate—a competitor who would rather collapse than surrender.
Tezuka studied his opponent's transformed face for a moment, then silently prepared another serve. If Fuji wanted to continue this trial by ordeal, he would honor that choice.
The Zero-Shiki serve blazed across the net once more.
"AHHHHH!" Fuji's battle cry echoed across the ship as he summoned reserves of strength from depths he didn't know existed. His legs responded just enough to carry him forward, racket extended in a last-ditch effort to make contact.
The tip of his racket brushed the rolling ball—so close, tantalizingly close—but not quite enough to lift it over the net.
"Point to Tezuka, 30-0," Coach Banji announced.
Fuji collapsed to the court surface, his strength finally and completely spent. The match appeared to be over.
"Fuji!"
"Are you alright?!"
The Yamabuki team rushed toward the court, ready to help their fallen teammate to safety.
"I guess it's finally over," Conan said quietly, though his voice carried genuine regret. "Fuji gave everything he had, but some gaps just can't be bridged through willpower alone."
Just as the first teammates reached the court boundary, Fuji's fingers twitched against the surface. Then his hand moved, followed by his arm, and finally his entire body began to stir.
With nothing but pure determination and an obsession that bordered on the supernatural, Fuji Shusuke rose from what should have been decisive defeat.
"Fuji..."
"You magnificent bastard..."
The assembled crowd watched in awed silence as their exhausted hero struggled to his feet, swaying like a tree in a windstorm but somehow remaining upright.
"I'm fine, Coach," Fuji managed, his voice hoarse but steady. "The match continues."
"Are you absolutely certain?" Coach Banji asked, his experienced eye cataloguing the signs of dangerous overexertion.
"Completely certain."
"Very well. The match continues. All non-participants must clear the court area immediately!"
Though their hearts remained with Fuji, the Yamabuki team reluctantly withdrew to the sidelines. This was Fuji's journey to complete—his personal battle against the limits of human possibility.
For a competitor, there was no more honorable place to fall than in the arena itself.
Recognizing the magnitude of what he was witnessing, Tezuka refrained from immediate service. He allowed Fuji precious moments to gather whatever strength remained, a gesture of respect between warriors.
Fuji used the reprieve to close his eyes and surrender conscious control to his body's instincts. In this moment beyond exhaustion and rational thought, perhaps deeper wisdom would emerge.
"The third ball," Tezuka announced quietly, his enhanced perception providing perfect clarity about the rally's conclusion. "That's when this point will end."
The serve came. Fuji somehow reached the net and managed a return. Tezuka responded. Fuji answered again, his movements guided by something beyond conscious thought.
Two balls exchanged. The third was coming.
Everyone held their breath—teammates, observers, even the usually composed Gustave—as Tezuka prepared the decisive shot that his supernatural prediction guaranteed would end the point.
The racket connected with devastating precision, sending the ball toward a spot Fuji couldn't possibly reach in his current condition.
Yet somehow, impossibly, the racket was there to meet it.
Eyes still closed, operating on pure instinct and the indefinable sense that separates true genius from mere talent, Fuji made the return.
Tezuka stood frozen in shock. His enhanced prediction had been broken for the first time, shattered by an opponent who had transcended the normal boundaries of human limitation.
"Point to Fuji, 30-15!" Coach Banji's voice carried unusual emotion as he witnessed something genuinely unprecedented.
"I call this technique the Mind's Eye, Tezuka," Fuji said softly, finally opening his natural eyes to meet his opponent's gaze.
"Congratulations, Fuji," Tezuka replied with genuine warmth. "You've achieved something remarkable."
The match continued for several more points, but the outcome was never truly in doubt. Fuji's breakthrough had been brilliant, but his body could sustain such transcendence only briefly. When Tezuka secured the final point, the score read 6-1 in his favor.
Yet no one present considered it a crushing defeat. In breaking through the Limit of Brilliance even once, Fuji had proven his worthiness to stand among the truly elite. He had lost to the constraints of human endurance, not to any lack of skill or spirit.