The air in the arena was a living thing, tense, electrified by the silence of a thousand souls holding their breath. A boy of just ten years old, Kenji Yoshida felt like he was in the eye of a hurricane, but it wasn't the wind that paralyzed him; it was the burden he carried on his small shoulders. His parents. Busy, they were going to be late because of work, they promised they would cross the city just to see him lift the trophy and when he raised it, they would run to him and hug him, but they hadn't arrived yet. He had to win.
It had to be enough for his parents to see him lift the trophy when they arrived.
Facing him, the Genius with green eyes and white hair smiled with a calm that seemed obscene to Kenji, something that infuriated him. That look from the genius practically told him: your effort is worthless, this tournament is mine.
—Match point! Last set! —the amplified voice of the referee echoed like a final judgment.
The ball ascended. Time fractured. Kenji's heart pounded in his temples, deaf to the clamor. In an instant, his eye ignited: for a brief moment Zero Vision manifested, faceting his pupil. He saw... He saw the only crack, the golden thread through the impenetrable defense. The route of the smash. The Vision was a gift, the promise of a prodigy's talent.
He attacked. The strike with all his might—that was a declaration of war, a great explosion of power and topspin. But even so, the Genius only had to slightly move his wrist. The defense was minimalist, cold. Kenji's ball, with all his hope, crossed the net and crashed into the upper corner of the table. It was in. But the final bounce fell outside the line by the thickness of a fine hair.
He failed.
The roar of the crowd celebrating the Genius's victory was instantaneous, but it didn't reach Kenji. His mind, in shock, his hope and effort were destroyed in an instant; a deathly silence had taken over. Only one truth existed, etched onto his soul with acid: I wasn't enough.
As the Genius collected the handshake and went for the trophy, a figure approached Kenji: his coach. The man was a shadow, his face distraught, a face with tears.
—Kenji, son... —the man's voice was a whisper that shattered Kenji's silence like glass—. Your parents... they were on their way here, to see you play. They were delayed by traffic on the highway... I don't know how to tell you, but your parents... They had an accident, they were about to arrive to see you play, however. Both of them...
Kenji's heart didn't break; it dissolved. The sporting failure merged with the absolute tragedy. His childish mind made the final, brutal, and definitive equation: If only I hadn't insisted that they come to see me, they would be alive. If only I hadn't been so selfish, all to see this match which I failed. If only I were a Genius, if only I were less selfish... I killed them with my selfishness.
The guilt became physical. A crushing pressure. The air around his childish body was saturated with a cold aura visible only to him: the Shattered Glass Wall, a cage of gray static that his own mind built to contain the pain. Table tennis wasn't a sport; it was the tool that caused his parents' death trying to see him. He hated it. He would never touch a racket again. Never.
Ring! The alarm clock rang with the urgency of a fire alarm.
Kenji Yoshida woke up in his small university room, screaming internally. Nine years later.
The terror was so palpable that he could taste metal on his tongue. He got up, and the Shattered Glass Wall aura clung to him like a shroud.
He had lost all physical ability. The prodigy he once was lay buried under the weight of his guilt.
He slowly approached the closet. There, wrapped in opaque plastic, was the Forbidden Racket.
A relic of blood.
His hand visibly trembled as it rose. He just wanted to look at it, to confirm its confinement. But as he got closer, the static intensified. His mind, in a self-defense reflex, cut the signal. The world became blurry, silent. The racket was a portal to the memory. The panic paralyzed him, forcing him to fall to his knees.
The dull sound of a hand hitting his door pulled him out of the attack.
—Kenji, you idiot! Move! The Empress is waiting for us! —the impatient and loud voice of Kazuo Kudo resonated from the other side.
Kenji crawled back to his bed, breathing desperately. He had to avoid effort, avoid the club, and above all, prevent anyone from forcing him to touch the object he hated so much.