Under the puzzled gazes of Nanjirō and Ryōga, the two faced off in another match.
When Nanjirō saw Yoru countering Ryōga's "stolen" techniques with his own replication ability, his jaw nearly dropped. Meanwhile, Ryōga wondered if he had fallen into another illusion.
Unfortunately, the method still didn't work.
Yoru's replication only allowed him to temporarily mimic Ryōga's playstyle, but Ryōga's own style remained unchanged—completely unaffected.
At this, Yoru could only sigh helplessly.
It seemed Ryōga's innate flaw was even harder to fix than he had imagined.
Still, he had a theory:
Once he mastered consciousness control through Ten'i Muhō (Divine Dominion of the Ten Courts), he might finally have a solution for Ryōga's problem.
Life gradually returned to normal.
Time flew by.
Thanks to his skill and maturity, Yoru earned Ryōga's genuine respect, becoming the true big brother of the two young swordsmen.
Five years passed in the blink of an eye.
Now twelve years old, Yoru hadn't caused much of a butterfly effect. Ryōga's custody was still taken away—just like in the original story. Half a year after they met, Ryōga was taken by his aunt.
The plot unfolded as it was meant to.
Aside from Yoru's presence, nothing seemed to have changed.
The only noticeable difference was Ryoma's strength—he had already reached a level close to his Kantō Tournament (East Japan Championship) form in the original series.
Morning.
Nanjirō summoned Yoru to his study.
Inside, the man sat in his usual perverted pose, flipping through an adult magazine.
With Ryūzaki Rinko (his wife) not having joined him in the U.S., Nanjirō had grown even bolder—not even bothering to hide his habits around Yoru.
Yoru sighed. "Old man, how's your body holding up with all this reading?"
By now, Nanjirō fully embodied the creepy middle-aged man look from the original series—nothing like the legendary tennis pro he once was.
Nanjirō picked his nose lazily. "Eh, Rinko's not here. It's not like I'm cheating or anything."
Logical, but still weird.
Yoru rolled his eyes. "Why'd you call me here?"
Getting serious (sort of), Nanjirō set the magazine aside and straightened up. "You're starting middle school next term. Four options: China, the U.S., Spain, or Japan."
"Japan."
Yoru answered without hesitation.
The Prince of Tennis storyline began in Japan—and that had always been part of his plan. Even if Nanjirō hadn't asked, Yoru would've found a way to enroll in a Japanese middle school.
Ryoma's growth had already hit a plateau.
Without the plot kicking in, he wouldn't improve much further. Might as well go have some fun in Japan.
"Oh?"
Nanjirō raised an eyebrow. "Thought you'd pick China. Planning to register as a pro there?"
(Note: In the PoT universe, becoming a pro requires U17 recognition + a national tennis association's endorsement. Players can't register independently.)
Yoru shook his head. "No."
Though this world had no history of war, his past-life memories and national pride remained.
He would never become a pro under Japan's endorsement or represent them internationally.
That was non-negotiable.
Nanjirō scratched his stubble, confused. "Then why Japan? Spain, the U.S.—even China's got a better tennis scene."
As a Japanese himself, Nanjirō had zero faith in Japan's coaching system.
Yoru shrugged. "The players there are weaker. Less chance of me getting bullied."
Nanjirō nearly choked. "Who the hell could bully you at this point?!"
Over the past five years, Yoru's growth had exceeded even his expectations.
By the time Nanjirō considered finding rivals to humble him, Yoru had already outclassed everyone in his age group—even those three to four years older.
After Yoru effortlessly crushed a U17 talent Nanjirō had imported from Spain, the old man gave up.
Sure, he could still beat Yoru—but as his mentor, it wouldn't mean anything.
The only thing left was to wait…
Wait for Yoru to finally lose and experience real defeat.
Not that Nanjirō held much hope.
Yoru's talent was monstrous—surpassing even his prime and possibly every prodigy in tennis history.
"I'll arrange your enrollment," Nanjirō said. "You leave for Japan this week."
"No rush," Yoru replied. "I'll go after Ryoma finishes the U.S. Junior Tournament."
This was Ryoma's first year competing in the U.S. Junior Singles—the same tournament where he'd later earn his "Prince of Tennis" title after four consecutive wins.
Nanjirō scoffed. "Winning that thing's meaningless. You've competed—you know how it is."
Yoru nodded. "True."
Honestly?
The U.S. had basketball, but its tennis scene was weak. Over the years, Yoru had barely faced anyone worth his time—let alone someone who could push him.
Well, except one guy who tied ropes around his forehead like a lunatic.
"Winner: Echizen Ryoma! Advances to the U.S. Junior Tennis Championship semifinals (12-and-under division)!"
The referee's whistle blew.
The scoreboard displayed a flawless 6-0.
Adjusting his cap, Ryoma muttered, "Big Bro was right. This tournament's boring. Should've entered the 14-and-under division."
As he packed his racket bag, murmurs spread through the crowd:
"Isn't that kid, Echizen Ryoma, only nine?"
"Nine and already crushing the 12U division? Insane!"
"Pfft, remember that 'Nan' kid two years ago? Back-to-back 6-0 wins, matches all under ten minutes."
"Damn, where do these freaks come from?!"
Ignoring the chatter, Ryoma gave a quick post-match interview before hailing a cab home.
Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up to a sprawling estate.
"Yo, kid! You live here?!" The Black driver gaped at the mansion. Rich people take cabs now?
Ryoma just nodded, paid, and left.
(Rule #1 in the U.S.: Never flaunt wealth around certain folks.)
Stepping inside, he called out: "I'm home."
Nanjirō glanced up from his magazine. "How was the match?"
"Boring."
Ryoma sighed, then looked around. "Where's Big Bro?"
"Backyard court. He's waiting for you."