The same alley court, the same neon haze, the same jeering crowd. Ren stood at the baseline, heart thundering. His tape-wrapped hands ached, but his grip was firm.
Across the net, the same mid-ranked pair smirked at him.
"Back for more punishment, Messiah?" one sneered.
The other cracked his knuckles. "This time, we'll make it six-love again."
Ren exhaled slowly. No. Not this time.
The first rally was brutal. A low drive to his backhand. Instinct screamed to panic, but Ren forced his feet wider, knees bent. The HUD flickered—faint cone, shoulder dot.
Crosscourt... now!
He lunged, racket angled sharp. The ball caromed off the glass, skipping back into play. His partner, more confident now, closed the net and punched the volley. Point.
The crowd murmured.
"Fluke," the opponent spat, but Ren's chest flared with heat. I read it. I really read it.
The scoreline still tilted against them—2–6, then 3–6. Ren's reactions were clumsy, stamina bleeding with every sprint. But it wasn't the massacre of last time.
He called shots. He caught angles. He even stole a rally on a reflex volley that cracked off his strings like lightning.
The alley erupted—half in disbelief, half in laughter.
"Messiah actually returned one!" someone shouted.
Ayaka's camera drone whirred, capturing every second. She leaned against the fence, grin sharp.
"Better, rookie," she said, voice dripping amusement. "You're starting to look less like roadkill."
Ren's cheeks burned, but he managed a nod. Better. Just a little.
The match ended 4–6. Another loss. But not despair. Not humiliation.
As Ren slumped to the bench, his HUD blinked:
[EXP + Small Boost]
The numbers rose just a fraction, but enough to glimmer.
Ayaka's voice carried as she walked away. "Smile for the feed, Hopeless Messiah. This clip's already on the wall."
Ren looked up at the glowing city beyond the chain-link. They still mock me... but they're watching now.