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Chapter 1: Two Years Later
The dim, yellow light flickered across the ceiling, emitting a faint, overwhelmed buzzing sound as it cast mottled shadows onto the floor. As far as the eye could see, the ground was littered with overturned belongings and shattered glass. The air was thick with the pungent stench of alcohol and the faint, metallic scent of rust.
A cheap paring knife sliced through the suffocating stillness. It was an extremely sharp glint of cold steel, thrust forward with resolute force.
Yet, it never reached its destination. A hand reached out from the side without any warning, without any hesitation, and without trying to grab the wrist holding the knife—it directly and bluntly grasped the sharp blade.
The sound of flesh being cut seemed exceptionally quiet in this space. Crimson blood abruptly blossomed, dripping through fingers and smashing onto the filthy floor.
It was impossible to see whose face it was. The scene abruptly stopped at this frozen, bloody moment, leaving only that pain, spreading from the very marrow, echoing silently in the darkness.
Two years later, in the summer, the sound of cicadas was so loud it seemed capable of melting the entire city.
At the school gates of Nishi High, Taiyo Ishigami was shouting at the top of his lungs, vigorously waving rough club flyers at every passing freshman. Two years had passed, and his thick Kansai dialect hadn't changed a bit; the end of his sentences still habitually drifted upward, revealing his good-natured enthusiasm. Rintaro Futsu stood beside him, helping to straighten out the recruitment posters ruffled by the wind. Rintaro's posture was much straighter than it had been in middle school; his movements lacked their former cautious unease, and his whole being seemed to stretch out like summer leaves. Standing together, the two of them remained the warmest undertone among this group of people.
In a commercial street in another district, Itsuki Ameno was walking side-by-side with three new teammates from his high school tennis club. He carried a heavy tennis bag, yet his steps were remarkably light. Passing by a bustling crepe shop, he burst out laughing, his smile bright under the sunlight. That thin summer team uniform clung to his back, and the old scar that once made him avoid others and change clothes only in the storage room was now safely hidden beneath the summer glow, along with his straightened spine.
Further away, on a tennis court, Tsubasa Soga frowned, forcefully hitting a heavy drive. The boy who had once fiercely broken ties with his father over his so-called soccer talent had, upon entering high school, ultimately held tightly to a soft tennis racket.
In this time-washed group portrait, only Shingo Takenouchi was absent from any court. Rumor had it that he enlisted and joined the Self-Defense Forces. The boy who had once always used exaggerated cheering methods to make everyone laugh when they were losing had ultimately chosen a path far from everyday life, leaving only a faint trace of melancholy in the lines whenever everyone occasionally mentioned him.
As for Nao Tsukinose, he was currently squatting in a narrow back alley. He was surrounded by a few bored thugs with dyed hair. Nao leaned against the wall, faint bruises from fighting visible on his arms, his eyes as dull as a stagnant pool of water. Just then, on the main road outside the alley, a few middle schoolers carrying soft tennis bags ran past chatting and laughing, their rackets clinking sharply in the net bags. Nao's shoulders trembled slightly, and a cluster of extremely bright light suddenly flashed in the depths of his eyes. But that light stayed for only a brief second before extinguishing back into the silent shadows, like a meteor plummeting into the abyss.
As evening approached, a damp breeze blew past the rusted iron fence by the river.
Maki, Arashi Oji, Yuta Asuka, and Kanako Mitsue were all at the same high school, and this grassy slope by the river had become the regular hangout spot for the four of them after school. Maki and Arashi were not only classmates in high school, but also soft tennis doubles partners. Yuta still preferred to be called "Yu", and Kanako's art style had gone through growing pains over the past two years, finally blooming into a style she truly loved.
During their casual chat, someone naturally brought the topic around to Toma Shinjo.
"I heard he's still all alone in his school's tennis club," Yuta said softly, his tone tinged with unmistakable worry. "People say his demands on a partner are too harsh; he changed them one after another, and he couldn't get along with anyone. Now everyone avoids him a bit."
As these words fell, the air by the river seemed to freeze.
The water slapped against the moss-covered stones. No one pointed out the real reason why he changed partners until no one would play with him. The incident from that night two years ago, the scar on the back of that hand—it was like an invisible taboo that lay across everyone's hearts.
Maki leaned against the mottled iron fence, his gaze fixed on the shimmering river surface, his expression unusually serious. Oji stood next to him with his hands in his pockets, remaining silent and offering no opinion. Yuta and Kanako stood not far away, looking anxiously at Maki's tense profile.
After a long time, Maki finally spoke. His voice was very soft, yet carried an almost coldly stiff quality: "Let it go."
He didn't turn around, simply dropping the second half of the sentence in a low voice: "That guy definitely doesn't want to see me."
This was nothing but a clumsy disguise.
After they dispersed that evening, Maki walked home alone. He thought that by saying those words out loud, he could forcefully sever the longing in his heart. But throughout the whole night, lying in his dark room, he tossed and turned. The worried looks from Yuta and Kanako, and the phrase "changed partners until no one would play with him," were infinitely magnified in the silent night.
He closed his eyes, and his thoughts uncontrollably plummeted back to that summer night two years ago.
That day, Maki returned home to be greeted by a floor covered in mess and his mother being rushed to the hospital by Shou. His reason completely collapsed in that instant. Only one thought remained in his mind. Without a word, he left that shattered home and walked toward the apartment where his biological father, Kenji Kyobate, lived alone. Passing a deserted convenience store, he walked in and bought the cheapest fruit-paring knife.
On the other side of the city, on that very same night, Toma had just learned of his mother's decision to divorce. His chest felt so suffocatingly tight he thought he would go crazy; the one person he wanted to see and talk to the most was Maki, but he couldn't get through on the phone. Toma simply sprinted all the way to Maki's house, pushed open the door, and saw Shou cleaning up the mess on the floor. Upon learning that Maki had gone alone to "demand an explanation" from his father, alarm bells rang in Toma's head. He forced the address out of Shou and dashed toward the location.
When Toma burst through that door, Maki was raising that convenience-store knife, thrusting it toward Kenji.
Without any thought, Toma lunged forward and grabbed that cold steel with his bare hands. The blade cut through flesh, and blood blossomed before Maki's eyes, startlingly hot. Maki's hand lost its strength, and the knife clattered to the floor. That fatal blow never landed.
Everything that followed wrapped up like a nightmare. Kenji was taken away by a restraining order and old assault charges, and Shou and a lawyer helped deal with the aftermath. Maki's home finally welcomed peace.
But the seeds of a rift were planted deep that night.
The scar on the back of Toma's hand silently affected his grip in the days that followed. That subtle sense of resistance, the swallowed phrase "I took a knife for you," and another equally unspeakable phrase, "I can't play like I used to," twisted together into a suffocating net that bound him tightly. He developed an alienation toward Maki that even he couldn't explain.
And Maki was crushed by a heavy sense of guilt. It was his hands that pushed Toma to that point; it was his knife that left Toma's hand with a permanent scar. He didn't dare touch that wound, let alone approach Toma.
They never had any explosive arguments. At the crossroads of entering high school, the two merely turned their backs in a tacit, silent agreement. Like two stars that had briefly intersected, they silently scattered into their respective orbits.
Maki, lying in bed, suddenly opened his eyes.
He suddenly realized that Toma hadn't changed partners in high school because he couldn't find anyone he got along with. Subconsciously, he had always been searching for the right person, for a synergy they once had. And that position had once belonged to him.
"That guy definitely doesn't want to see me"—Toma had never said those words. Maki had said them himself.
He had disguised his own fear of facing him as a decision made on Toma's behalf, comfortably giving himself an excuse not to approach. This cowardice of deciding for someone else and then running away was exactly the kind of escapism he once despised the most. He owed Toma that scar; the silence of these two years was him letting go first.
Maki suddenly sat up from his bed.
He wasn't sure if he would have the door slammed in his face or be completely despised if he went over now. But he knew clearly that he never wanted to make decisions for Toma again.
The next afternoon, following the address he had inquired about, Maki arrived outside Toma's high school.
The dismissal bell rang, and students in uniforms surged out of the school gates like a tide. Maki stood motionless at the edge of the bustling crowd, his eyes fixed tightly on the gate.
After a long while, Toma walked out alone, carrying his tennis bag. His head was down, still sporting that solitary, unapproachable demeanor. After taking a few steps, as if sensing something, he subconsciously turned his head.
Across the bobbing heads, Toma instantly saw Maki standing there.
Maki wasn't smiling; his brow was slightly furrowed, and he was looking at him with a serious expression.
The air froze the moment their eyes met.
Toma paused for only two short seconds. Then, a layer of frost covered his cold face, and his voice was completely devoid of warmth: "What are you doing here."
Maki wasn't repelled by the cold shoulder. He took a deep breath and walked forward against that rejecting gaze. His expression was so resolute it seemed ready to cross out the two years of blank space, as forceful as when Toma had grabbed him without explanation outside the school gates back then.
"Play tennis with me again," Maki said, enunciating every word as he looked into his eyes.
Toma froze for a moment, then let out a harsh, cold laugh.
"Are you kidding me." His eyes revealed an almost defensive sharpness, his tone resolute, "We ended a long time ago!"
With that, he turned around without hesitation, ready to merge into the departing crowd.
Maki didn't say another word. He quickly stepped forward and grabbed Toma's hand—the very right hand bearing the ugly knife scar on its back.
Through the fabric and skin, Maki seemed to feel the temperature of that scar. He lowered his head slightly, his voice suppressed very low, yet carrying an unignorable weight: "I'm sorry."
Toma's body stiffened at this apology. His wrist twitched subconsciously. But he quickly reacted, forcefully and fiercely throwing off Maki's hand. He didn't say another word, striding away without looking back.
Maki stood in place, watching that stubborn silhouette gradually recede.
He saw it very clearly: hidden within Toma's resistant posture was a barely concealed wavering. That seed wrapped in two years of coldness had quietly cracked open during that brief contact.
But Maki didn't feel relieved. In that instant, he had felt Toma's pain with utmost clarity. Not just the indelible scar on the back of his hand, but the thick, impenetrable wall Toma had built around himself.
Now, Maki had a smiling mother at home, Shou's care, and the shadow of that abusive, extorting man was gone; his days were getting better. But this peace only served to more cruelly contrast the wound he had personally left on Toma, which was still festering and bleeding.
He knew Toma's current situation. After his parents divorced, Toma lived with his father, but the man was never home, leaving Toma alone to rot in an empty house. The coldness from his mother's side remained the same, and only Ryoma, studying at a university far away, occasionally returned, but even he couldn't pull him out of the mire.
Toma had completely closed himself off.
Maki stood outside the gradually emptying school gates, the sunlight stretching his shadow. He clearly realized that the wall was too high and too thick. Relying solely on his own strength, even if he broke his arm reaching out, he could no longer reach Toma.
He had to ask for help.
At dusk, Maki found a number in his phone's contacts that he hadn't dialed in a long time. The moment the call connected, he listened to the familiar voice on the other end and took a deep breath.
"Ryoma, it's me. I want to ask you for a favor."
Chapter 2: The Origin of the Invitational
The dial tone echoed starkly in the quiet room.
Maki held his phone, his gaze resting on the deep blue night sky outside the window. He rarely called Ryoma on his own initiative, but on this night where he couldn't find a way out no matter what, Ryoma became his only hope. In his memory, the youth who would patiently hold his wrist under the sun, teaching him bit by bit how to hit a slice shot, felt like yesterday. Maki was still small back then, and Ryoma would always kneel on one knee by the court, gently telling him, "If you mess up the shot, you can always try again."
Now, they were both facing a situation where they didn't know how to "try again."
The call connected.
"Hello? Maki?" Ryoma's voice came through the receiver, deep and carrying a hint of surprise, with the faint sound of flipping pages in his college dorm in the background.
"Ryoma, it's me." Maki took a deep breath and didn't beat around the bush, getting straight to the point: "I went... to the school gates to find Toma today."
The other end fell into a brief silence. Maki could hear the other party's softened breathing.
"I asked him to keep playing with me, but he refused." Maki's throat felt a bit tight, and he spoke each word very slowly. "He said it was over between us a long time ago. Ryoma, what... what has he become now? I know that I alone can't pull him back anymore."
Ryoma sighed softly. That sigh wrapped a long-standing fatigue and helplessness. "Maki, I'm already very grateful that you went to find him." Ryoma's voice revealed a deep sense of powerlessness. "These past two years, he completely locked himself away. After our parents divorced, he went with our father, but he's often the only one in that house. I watched him sink day by day, not even willing to touch a tennis racket. The hurdle in his heart is deeper than I imagined."
Maki silently clenched his fists.
"Give him some time, Maki." Ryoma paused on the other end, his tone gradually becoming firm. "Leave this to me. Just blocking the door isn't enough. I'll think of a way—a way that can make him return to the court."
After hanging up the phone, Maki sat in his chair and let out a long breath that had been stifled in his chest.
Even though Ryoma told him to wait, the next day after school, Maki's footsteps still involuntarily led him to Toma's high school.
The summer sun was still harsh, and the air reeked of asphalt. Carrying his tennis bag, Maki once again stood under the shade of the tree from yesterday. When Toma walked out of the school gate and saw Maki still planted there stubbornly like a wooden stake, his brow instantly furrowed tightly.
Toma didn't speak; he just coldly quickened his pace, as if the person standing before him was a lump of transparent air, brushing past Maki without stopping.
Maki didn't reach out to block him, nor did he voice a plea for him to stay. He just stood there quietly, watching that solitary back walk further and further away.
On the third day, Maki was still standing there. On the fourth day, it was the same.
Every afternoon at the exact same time, like a wound-up pendulum, Maki appeared on the corner Toma had to pass. No matter how cold the look Toma shot back at him was, or how he quickened his pace as if escaping, Maki remained unmoved.
Standing in the glaring sunlight, a faint, self-deprecating smile occasionally tugged at the corner of Maki's mouth. He suddenly thought of himself two years ago. Back then, having just transferred, his mind was entirely consumed with making money and doing chores; he had zero interest in any clubs. It was Toma, stubborn as an ox just like he was now, who blocked his way home two days in a row, forcefully dragging him into that soft tennis club that was on the verge of disbanding.
Back then, it was Toma who chased after him desperately. And now, it was his turn to chase Toma.
Maki closed his eyes, listening to the noisy cicadas in the trees. As long as Toma didn't speak, he would keep standing here. He was going to use this clumsiest and most unreasonable method to tell Toma—you didn't let me go back then, and now, I will absolutely not let you go either.
Meanwhile, Ryoma took a trip back to his father's house.
Pushing the door open, the house was deathly quiet. In the unlit living room, Toma sat alone on the sofa, playing with a fossil in his hands. In the corner, the soft tennis racket Toma once treasured was already covered in dust.
Seeing his brother's lifeless profile, like a piece of dead wood, Ryoma's heart felt as if it had been viciously twisted.
He was far too familiar with this look of being stripped of all hope. Five years ago, when he was a highly anticipated professional player, an irreversible injury accident occurred due to his coach's impatience and excessive training pressure. The self who had sweated on the court, dreaming of a professional career, had his wings utterly broken that day.
He spent five whole years licking that wound, and he knew better than anyone how agonizing it was to have something he deeply loved forcibly ripped out of his life.
He wouldn't allow this pain to repeat itself in Toma.
Looking at the dusty racket, an idea that had been brewing all night fully formed in Ryoma's mind. He knew Toma's pride was extremely strong; if they made a big fuss and organized an event solely for him, Toma would definitely resist like a hedgehog. He needed a logical reason, one that Toma couldn't refuse.
Not just Toma, but also the group of kids who were forced to scatter to different high schools back then. Each of them perhaps needed a grand excuse to return to the sunlight.
"A match," Ryoma silently mouthed in the darkness.
An open invitational tournament with no school restrictions, no grade limits, where anyone could participate. Most importantly, free pairing. No constraints from a school team, no identity limits—as long as you wanted to, you could stand on the court with anyone.
This wasn't just a way to pull Toma back; it was a grand summons for everyone.
Chapter 3: The Summons
Sakurai-sensei acted faster than Ryoma had imagined.
That dusty old contact book was opened again. One by one, numbers that had been silent for two years were dialed. On the phone, Sakurai, using his slightly timid yet exceptionally gentle voice, informed every name that had once sweated in the Shijonan Middle School tennis club about this barrier-free open invitational.
The news spread like a spark ignited in dry summer grass, quickly carried by the evening breeze to every corner of the city.
And some reunions came even sooner than the phone calls.
It was a sweltering summer night. Shingo Takenouchi took advantage of a short leave from the Self-Defense Forces to visit home. Dressed in civilian clothes and carrying snacks he bought for his cousin An, he was walking down a dimly lit back alley in a commercial district. Suddenly, the dull thuds of kicking and punching, along with faint curses, came from deep within the alley.
Someone else might have taken a detour, but not Shingo. Without hesitation, he charged into the alley, let out a loud shout, and, relying on the combat skills and aura he had developed in the SDF, easily scared off the few posturing thugs in a matter of seconds.
"Hey, are you okay?" Shingo stepped forward, extending a hand to the youth curled up on the ground, covered in dirt.
The boy looked up. Under the dim yellow light of the streetlamp, Shingo froze completely.
"Nao...?"
The Nao Tsukinose who had always been a bit neurotic on the court, yet full of reliance on everyone else, was now sitting miserably by a dumpster. The corner of his mouth was busted, and his eyes darted away like a frightened stray cat. Upon realizing it was Shingo, Nao's shoulders shook violently, and tears fell without warning onto the filthy concrete.
They sat down on a bench outside the alley. Shingo handed him an icy cola. Nao iced his busted lip, keeping his head down as he haltingly poured out everything that had happened over the past two years.
It turned out that after that summer, a complete collapse had occurred in Nao's home. Unable to endure the oppressive family atmosphere any longer, his father chose to divorce. The abandoned mother projected all her control freak tendencies onto Nao with increased severity. That almost terrifying sense of suffocation finally caused Nao to break down completely one day. He smashed his room and ran away from home. By then, the tennis club had scattered due to graduation. He lost all his support, floating aimlessly like duckweed, wasting his days with street thugs.
"But... I think about it every day." Nao buried his face in his palms, his voice choking uncontrollably. "I want to go back to that time so badly. I want to play tennis. I want to be with you guys..."
Shingo patted him on the shoulder; that hand was broader and stronger than it was two years ago.
"I joined the Self-Defense Forces." Shingo tilted his head back, looking at the sparse stars in the night sky, his voice calm and frank. "At first, I just wanted to be a stronger brother in An's heart, someone who could protect her. Later, I also didn't want to be a burden on my uncle and aunt's life anymore. I don't regret choosing this path."
Nao lifted his red, swollen eyes to look at him. The youth who was always the first to step up and liven the mood when they were losing had now grown into a man who could shelter others from the storm.
"Nao," Shingo turned his head, looking at him seriously. "If you want to play tennis, then come back. Sakurai-sensei is organizing an open invitational. No school limits, anyone can join."
A remarkably bright light instantly flashed in Nao's eyes. But that light was covered by heavy inferiority and hesitation the very next second. He looked at his hands, covered in scars and grime, and shook his head tremblingly. He didn't know if he, as he was now, still had the right to stand on the sunlit court again.
Shingo didn't push him. He just wrote the time and place of the invitational on a piece of paper and stuffed it into Nao's pocket. "I'll be waiting for you at the court," he said with a smile.
Meanwhile, preparations for the invitational were in full swing.
Kanako Mitsue had been asked to help create promotional materials for the event. This was exactly her specialty. Over the past two years, Kanako had gone through an extremely painful transitional period. She used to force herself to draw borderline suggestive art like "Zettai Ryouiki" to please fans on the internet. But when she tried drawing what she truly wanted to draw, she suffered a loss of fans and received hateful comments. Coupled with the bullying she had endured at school, she once considered giving up her drawing pen.
But now, everything was different.
Kanako sat in front of her drawing tablet, her computer screen displaying frames of continuous motion line art. She discovered she had an extremely keen ability to capture muscle tension and dynamic lines in human movement. Playing on the screen was a short animation she made. A faceless youth leapt high and swung a racket, the tennis ball carving a sharp arc through the air.
Every frame was full of tension; it was a power truly her own, breaking free from all attempts to please and all constraints. In the bottom right corner of this promotional animation, for the first time, she didn't use those fake internet handles. Instead, she solemnly signed her real name: Kanako Mitsue.
Yuta Asuka was sitting on the sofa next to her, helping sort through registration forms. "The angle of this turn is drawn so well," Yuta praised softly.
"Of course it is," Kanako accepted the compliment without reservation, though the corners of her mouth couldn't help but turn up.
Yuta smiled and lowered his head to continue sorting the forms. Two years later, Yuta was still the same gentle, sensitive Yuta. He hadn't deliberately gone out to announce anything to the world, nor was he forced to choose a black-and-white gender label. After long periods of communication and struggle with his family, he now simply lived naturally.
"Just call me Yu." When new classmates helping out didn't know what to call him, he just smiled gently and frankly. Among this group of friends, he no longer needed any label to define himself.
As news of the invitational spread, the scattered sparks were ignited one by one.
In the hallway of Nishi High, Taiyo Ishigami, holding the text message from Sakurai-sensei, got so excited that his Kansai dialect pitched upwards as he threw his arms around Rintaro Futsu. Rintaro looked at the screen, took a deep breath, his eyes filled with a smile he couldn't hide.
At a crossroads in the commercial district, Itsuki Ameno stopped walking, finished reading the message on his phone, and turned to his new teammates: "Sorry, guys. This weekend, I have a very important appointment."
In an indoor court at some high school, the moment Tsubasa Soga received the message, he subconsciously gripped his racket tightly. The veins on the back of his hand bulged slightly, and the corners of his mouth curved into a fiercely competitive smile.
And the center of all this clamor remained that corner outside the school gate.
The evening sun stretched the shadows long. Maki still stood there, rooted like a statue.
When Toma walked out carrying his tennis bag, he didn't even look at Maki. Walking past him, he coldly dropped a sentence: "I already told you, I'm not playing."
Maki didn't argue, nor did he chase after him. He just quietly watched Toma's back.
Because he knew clearly that the seed of the invitational, through the hands of Ryoma and Sakurai-sensei, had already fallen securely into the long-dried-out field of Toma's heart. Now, he only needed to wait patiently—wait for a summer rain to let it break through the soil.
Chapter 4: The Court of Reunion
On the day of the invitational, the sky was an immaculate, cloudless blue, with large, puffy white clouds hanging low over the courts.
It was the public tennis facility near Shijonan Middle School. Early that morning, the crisp sound of rackets hitting yellow-green balls, accompanied by the squeak of sneakers against the ground, filled the venue for the first time in ages.
This reunion after two years carried a hint of initial awkwardness, but that quickly melted away in the boiling heat of the matches. Everyone had brought their new high school teammates, returning here with an entirely new stance.
Once the matches kicked off, the growth each person had achieved over the past two years was laid bare for all to see.
Itsuki Ameno was no longer the kid who would easily lose his temper when backed into a corner. Facing a point deficit, he held the baseline with immense composure. Every return carried a resilient force, as if that not-so-tall frame had finally grown a spine capable of weathering any storm.
Tsubasa Soga’s playstyle was as sharp as ever, perhaps even more ferocious. But anyone who knew the game could tell that while his brow was still furrowed with every swing, his eyes no longer harbored that forced, cornered hostility. He wasn't playing for anyone else, and certainly not for that so-called "soccer family." He was swinging the racket for himself.
On the sidelines, however, Taiyo Ishigami stood all alone under the awning.
His new teammate hadn't shown up due to a sudden bout of gastroenteritis. Now, in this doubles tournament, he was the only one without a partner. His usually mild and friendly Kansai dialect carried a rare, unmistakable hint of disappointment.
"Taiyo, don't just stand around here," Shingo walked over, using the break between matches to gather everyone around. His expression was a bit heavy as he told them exactly what had happened the other night when he ran into Nao in the back alley.
Hearing that Nao had run away from home due to family issues and had even gotten mixed up with street thugs, everyone fell silent. Taiyo's fingers gripped his racket handle tightly, his eyes turning a little red. He had always known Nao's mother was strict, but he never expected Nao to have gone through such a world-shattering breakdown these past two years.
Maki, standing at the edge of the group, listened to Shingo's words, turned around without a word, and headed toward the vending machines outside the court.
"Maki, where are you going?" someone asked from behind.
"To buy water," Maki replied without looking back.
The vending machines were located behind a row of hedges just outside the facility. Maki dropped some coins in, and an icy bottle of water tumbled out with a heavy thud. He bent down to pick it up, and the moment he looked up, his gaze shot through the green wire mesh fence and stopped dead.
In the shadows outside the fence, under a camphor tree in the corner, stood a figure wearing a baseball cap pulled down extremely low. The person was like a cat hiding in the dark, staring intensely, almost greedily, through the chain-link fence at the bouncing tennis balls inside and those familiar faces.
It was Nao Tsukinose.
He had come after all, but crushed by his massive inferiority complex, he only dared to hide in the furthest shadows and peek in like a ghost afraid of the light.
Without a second of hesitation, and without even putting down his water bottle, Maki strode around the fence and walked straight toward that tree.
Sensing someone approaching, Nao flinched and tried to turn and run. But before he could even take a step, a hand clamped down on his wrist like an iron vise.
"Ma... Maki..." Nao stammered, frantically pulling down the brim of his hat, his voice trembling. "Let me go, I'm not here to... I was just passing by..."
"Passing by my ass," Maki cut him off coldly, leaving absolutely no room for argument.
Maki didn't ask him how miserable the past two years had been, nor did he give him any excuse to back out. He simply gripped Nao's wrist and forcibly dragged the boy out of the shadows and straight through the gates of the sunlit court.
When Nao stumbled into everyone's view, Taiyo, who had been stressing out, spotted him instantly.
Taiyo dropped his racket and practically tripped over his own feet running over to throw his arms around Nao. The usually soft-spoken Taiyo, who rarely even raised his voice, used every ounce of his strength to hold onto Nao's shoulders in a vice-like grip.
"Nao... you idiot!" Taiyo's Kansai dialect was thick with tears. "I don't have a partner, go change your clothes and get on the court right now!"
Itsuki, Rintaro, Tsubasa, and Shingo—everyone crowded around. There were no weird looks, no pitying sympathy, just the most direct scolding and the warmest urging.
Nao stood there blankly, wrapped in Taiyo's embrace. He looked at these familiar, warm faces surrounding him, and the grievances and fears he had suppressed for two whole years finally broke through the dam in an instant. He hugged Taiyo back tightly and cried out loud.
When Nao put on a borrowed uniform, gripped the racket Shingo shoved into his hands, and stood on the baseline side-by-side with Taiyo, he looked up.
In those eyes that had once been so dim and lifeless, a dazzling light finally flared up again. And this time, that light would never go out.
As Nao and Taiyo’s match began, Maki quietly retreated to a bench on the side of the court.
Someone was sitting there.
Toma Shinjo hadn't changed into a uniform. He was just wearing a plain T-shirt, sitting there with his head down, staring at a dusty racket in his hands that had been hastily wiped clean. He had come, just as Ryoma predicted. He had no way of refusing a gathering called in the name of everyone. But he was just sitting there, unregistered and unwilling to take the court.
Maki walked over and sat down beside him.
All around them were deafening cheers and the sound of balls being hit, but the air around this bench was so quiet it felt almost solid.
"What are you doing here." This time, the sentence was no longer the cold dismissal at the school gate, but a genuine question.
Maki turned his head to look at Toma. He didn't wait in silence like he had the past few days; instead, he chose the most direct confession.
"That day, I pushed open the door to my house, saw my mom being rushed to the hospital, and the place completely trashed." Maki's voice was calm, but beneath that calm lay a torrential flood that had been suppressed for far too long. "All I had in my head was murder. I bought a knife, walked to that man's apartment, and I just wanted to end it all once and for all."
Toma's breath hitched slightly, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the racket.
"But you rushed in." Maki stared at Toma's right hand with its dark brown scar. "You didn't even think before you grabbed the blade. Your blood hit the floor, and it woke me up."
Maki took a deep breath, his eyes turning slightly red from sheer effort. "Toma, I owe you this scar. For the past two years, I didn't dare look for you, didn't dare face you, because the moment I saw you, the moment I saw this scar, I'd remember... that I ruined you with my own hands."
The paper-thin wall that had stood between them for two years was finally, brutally torn down.
Toma whipped his head around, jaw clenched tight, violent emotions churning in his eyes. "You think I was hiding from you just because of this scar?"
Toma's voice trembled with a raspy edge. "I was terrified... I was terrified of losing you!"
He looked at Maki, the defenses in his eyes finally fading bit by bit, revealing his most vulnerable core. "After the wound healed, I realized I could never hit the same shots again. I was scared... I was scared that if I wasn't the Toma who could fight beside you on the court anymore, you wouldn't need me. I was a worthless piece of junk no one wanted. My mother didn't want me, and if you didn't want me either... I wouldn't even know how to keep living."
Two equally proud, yet equally terrified boys, at this very moment, finally saw the deepest wounds in each other's hearts.
It wasn't out of hatred, but because they were too afraid of losing each other, that they chose to push the other away with hedgehog-like coldness.
Maki stood up. He reached out and grabbed Toma's right hand—the one slick with cold sweat, the one with the scar.
"If you think you can't play like you used to," Maki stared dead into his eyes, his tone laced with an undeniable, unyielding certainty, "then we start over. Use this hand, and try again."
He pulled Toma up from the bench, his gaze burning bright. "Sign up for the open doubles. With me."
Toma looked into Maki's clear, unwavering eyes, exactly the same as they were two years ago. In that instant, he suddenly felt the massive boulder that had been pressing down on his chest for two years miraculously shatter.
He didn't pull his hand away this time. He squeezed Maki's hand back tightly and let out a long breath.
"Alright," he said through gritted teeth. "Let's go sign up."
When Maki and Toma, both in their uniforms, stepped onto that clay court together once more, the entire venue seemed to fall silent for a moment.
Two years of emptiness couldn't be completely smoothed over with just a few words of reconciliation.
In the first two rounds, they played exceptionally awkwardly. Toma's touch really wasn't what it used to be; the subtle resistance in his grip caused him to make frequent errors, and Maki, trying to accommodate him, played too cautiously. They were like a pair of poorly fitted gears, grinding together with a harsh noise, barely scraping through the preliminaries on pure foundational skill alone.
But this was the truest form of reunion. No miraculous, instant recovery, just gritted teeth and perseverance after every mistake.
Until the semi-finals.
"Hey, Toma," Maki suddenly spoke up during a change of ends. "Where did that stubborn temper of yours go? The one where you'd go all out even if you messed up?"
Toma froze for a second, then shot him a fierce glare. "I'm just trying to match your slow-ass pace!"
"Fine then." Maki smiled, the brightest, most genuine smile he had worn in two years. "We stop matching. You play however feels best for you, and leave the rest to me."
The gears finally clicked into perfect alignment with a crisp sound of the racket hitting the ball.
Maki's razor-sharp tactical insight and Toma's reckless, explosive power were completely reawakened from the depths of their muscle memory. They stopped thinking about the scar, stopped thinking about the two years they lost. In every moment of running, jumping, and swinging, the synergy carved into their very bones came rushing out like a burst dam.
They fought their way straight to the finals.
And standing across the net in the finals was Arashi Oji from Misaki Academy, along with his old partner, Shinjiro Sunaga.
"I always said you'd definitely come back, Maki." Oji rested his racket on his shoulder, looking at the duo across the net with a wild grin. "Since you guys reformed, I had no choice but to drag my old partner out for a spin. Don't think we'll go easy on you just because it's the finals."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," Maki and Toma stood side by side, tapping their rackets together in mid-air in perfect unison.
It was an incredibly intense tug-of-war.
No one cared what the trophy for this open invitational actually was. Every smash, every save, was these boys fiercely declaring war on the shadows of their past.
When Maki feinted at the net and Toma leaped high from the baseline, using that scarred right hand to viciously spike the final shot—the tennis ball slamming into the opponent's blind spot like a cannonball—the final whistle of the match finally blew.
They won. It was a nail-biter, but utterly exhilarating.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Amidst the roaring cheers of the entire venue, Maki turned to look at Toma, who was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving heavily. Toma looked back at him, and the corners of his mouth finally couldn't help but curve upwards, revealing his first cloudless smile in two years.
The scar on the back of his hand was still there; perhaps it would never fade.
But they were whole again.
Chapter 5: The Truth Revealed
The setting sun sliced long, slanted shadows through the chain-link fence of the tennis court.
The crowd slowly dispersed. Maki, having won the tournament, was dragged off by Shingo and Taiyo to buy sodas. Behind the stands at the edge of the court, only Ryoma, Toma, and Rintaro Futsu—who had been asked to stay behind by Ryoma—remained.
The evening breeze blew away the heat of the day, leaving the air thick with the quiet tranquility of the dust settling.
Ryoma leaned against the mottled wall, looking at the two boys in front of him who were of similar height and even shared a subtle resemblance in their expressions. He let out a long breath. The secret that had weighed on his heart for over a decade was finally ready to see the light of day.
"I asked you two to stay behind today because there's something I have to tell you." Ryoma's voice was low, yet echoed with unusual clarity in the empty margins of the court.
He looked at Toma, then at the somewhat bewildered Rintaro.
"Rintaro," Ryoma began slowly, each word carrying immense weight, "you and Toma are actually twins. You... are brothers born to the same mother."
Rintaro's pupils contracted sharply, while Toma stood frozen, as if struck by lightning.
Ryoma's voice was like a key, slowly turning the lock on the gate of memories that had been sealed for years in this quiet summer evening. Along with his narrative, the dark and heavy fragments of the past flashed before their eyes like film strips.
The first scene froze in a cramped, stuffy mediation room.
The table was piled high with documents. Their father in his youth frowned, his tone full of impatience and evasion. He refused to bear the heavy burden of raising two infants and forcefully demanded that one be given away. Their young mother sat pale on the side; faced with the crushing weight of life and a marriage on the brink of collapse, she finally wept and signed the consent form.
"According to the regulations of Special Adoption, as long as both parents agree, once the adoption is established, the child's legal ties with the biological parents will be completely severed." The clerk across the table explained the routine legalities in a low voice while sorting the files. "We will handle the records confidentially, listing the reason as 'biological mother is young, unmarried, and unable to raise the child' to meet the adoption criteria of guardianship difficulties."
And so, one of those twins was carried out that door, bound for a wealthy and kind family in Tokyo's 23 wards. That child became Rintaro Futsu.
The second scene was the home after the adoption.
The already crumbling family didn't become any easier after giving away a child. On the contrary, the guilt of abandoning their own flesh and blood and the growing resentment corroded the marriage like poison. Their father came home less and less, while the arguments grew louder and louder, until finally, the man slammed the door and never returned.
The third scene was the mother watching Toma grow up day by day.
The young Toma had the exact same short temper and stubborn eyes as his father. Every time his mother looked at him, it was like looking into a cruel mirror reflecting the man who had ruined her life and that doomed marriage.
Hatred and coldness grew inch by inch, day after day, under that gaze.
"She didn't not want to be your mother," Ryoma looked at Toma, his voice tinged with deep sorrow. "She just hated that part of her life too much. The older you got, the more you looked like the man who walked out on us. She twisted all her hatred for him, her resentment over that failed marriage, and her endless guilt over giving Rintaro away, and took it all out on you."
Distance bred a sick sort of idealization. The given-away Rintaro became the flawless, wronged phantom in her heart—she would even secretly look up Rintaro's matches and watch him from afar. Meanwhile, Toma, who stayed by her side and constantly struck a nerve, became her living scapegoat.
Ryoma finished his story.
The last sliver of the setting sun sank below the horizon, and the sky turned a deep, dark blue.
Rintaro kept his head down, silent for a long time. In truth, he had known he was adopted since the fifth grade, and he had even felt deeply inferior because of that fake reason, "biological mother young and unable to raise him." But now, after hearing this cruel yet absurd truth, an unprecedented calm washed over him.
He looked up at Ryoma, and then at his twin brother, Toma, standing across from him.
"I don't hate her," Rintaro said softly, yet with a gentle sense of release. "Under those circumstances, she made her choice. And I'm also very glad... that I met my dad and mom now. They gave me a wonderfully warm home, and a fat cat named 'Otome'. I am... doing really well right now."
He accepted his origins and this blood tie, but he still firmly chose the family that truly loved and raised him.
Standing to the side, Toma leaned against the wall as if all the strength had been drained from his body.
For the past ten years, his mother's icy words—"I never wanted to be your mother," "I despise you"—had acted like rusty, blunt knives, cutting countless bloody gashes into his heart. He always thought he wasn't good enough, thought he was born a monster unworthy of love, which was why he pushed everyone away.
But now, he finally understood.
His mother didn't hate "Toma Shinjo" the person; she hated the shadow that ruined her life. Her coldness had a clear origin—it was nothing more than a woman thoroughly crushed by life, helplessly lashing out in despair.
So he wasn't born unworthy of love after all.
The dead knot that had tightly choked his neck and kept him from breathing finally shattered in that moment. The heavy self-loathing that had crushed him for a dozen years scattered in the wind. At the same time, following this cruel joke of fate, he suddenly found himself with a brother exactly his age.
Toma let out a long breath, raising his scarred right hand to press hard against his eyes. No one saw the faint glimmer of tears between his fingers; they only heard a low, hoarse intake of breath, like a thousand-pound weight had finally been lifted off him.
Ryoma looked at his two younger brothers. Back then, when his mother was abandoning Rintaro and inflicting cold violence on Toma, he was too young to do anything. Later, when he threw down the fierce promise at home—"I will protect those two no matter what"—he swore an oath in his heart.
Now, seeing Rintaro at peace, and Toma finally letting go of his burden, Ryoma knew his oath had finally come to rest.
Not far away, Sakurai-sensei stood quietly waiting for them by the gates of the tennis court.
Ryoma turned his head, exchanging a distant glance with Sakurai-sensei through the twilight. The accident that nearly destroyed two people five years ago, that dead knot of a broken professional dream and endless guilt, completely vanished into thin air along with this glance in this grand salvation of the kids.
Chapter 6: Team Bonding
The summer breeze blew across the water, bringing with it the slightly cool, fishy scent of waterweeds unique to late summer.
On the grassy slope by the river, the aroma of grilled meat mixed with the smoky smell of burning charcoal spread wildly through the air. Two years ago, after that practice match, they had gathered around a charcoal fire right here, eating the exact same slightly charred grilled meat.
Time seemed to have drawn a massive circle here, taking all the pieces that had scattered to the ends of the earth and piecing them back together, flawlessly whole.
"Hey, hey! I've had my eye on that piece of meat for a long time, Tsubasa, don't you steal it!" Shingo's exaggerated yelling overpowered the sound of the flowing river. Holding a pair of tongs, he was arguing red in the face with Tsubasa Soga over the last piece of bone-in short rib on the grill.
"You didn't write your name on it, whoever grabs it gets it!" Tsubasa mercilessly flipped the meat onto his paper plate, complaining it was overcooked while stuffing it into his mouth.
Next to them, Taiyo Ishigami was laughing so hard he couldn't stand straight, strings of Kansai dialect popping out like spilled beans. Itsuki Ameno and Rintaro Futsu stood side by side at the grill; Itsuki expertly flipped the vegetables while Rintaro passed the seasonings, their teamwork as flawless as it was on the court.
On a grassy slope a bit further away from the smoke of the grill, Maki and Toma sat side by side.
They didn't speak. The breeze blew through their slightly sweat-dampened bangs, and Maki handed over a newly opened can of icy soda. Toma took it naturally, tilting his head back for a drink. The condensation on the can slipped down his knuckles, flowing over the dark brown scar on the back of his hand, refracting tiny glimmers in the sunlight.
No one looked at the scar anymore, and no one mentioned the suffocating blank space of the past two years.
Everything that needed to be said had been smashed into the red clay of the court with that final, fierce smash.
"Next time," Toma put down the soda, staring at the sparkling river, his voice regaining its familiar, slightly arrogant sharpness, "I definitely won't let Arashi score a single point off my serve."
Maki chuckled, leaning back on the grass with his hands supporting him. "Sure. Assuming your racket grip doesn't mess up."
"Shut up, my grip is fine!" Toma immediately retorted, his eyes filled with a vibrant energy that hadn't been there in a long time.
Not far away, Yuta Asuka and Kanako Mitsue were sitting on a picnic blanket, helping cut up a watermelon.
Yuta watched the two people bickering on the grass slope, a gentle, thoroughly relieved smile blooming on his face.
"They're finally back to normal," Yuta said softly.
Kanako took a bite of watermelon, her eyes curving into crescents. "Yeah. It's like... everything has finally fallen back into place."
She took out a sketchbook, uncapped her pen, and with swift, smooth strokes, began sketching the scene before her. There was no need to deliberately cater to anyone, and no need to worry about what others would say. She just wanted to draw these teenagers, exactly as they were under this summer sky.
Ryoma and Sakurai-sensei stood under a tree a little further away, each holding a can of beer.
Looking at the energetic, lively boys, Sakurai-sensei let out a long sigh, as if exhaling the last bit of gloom from the past five years. "It's really nice to see them together like this."
"Yeah." Ryoma clinked his can against Sakurai's. "It is."
The sun gradually began its descent in the west, casting a warm, golden hue across the entire riverbank.
Nao Tsukinose had somehow managed to steal a piece of meat from under Shingo's nose and was now happily chewing on it while dodging Shingo's pursuit. Taiyo was still trying to keep the peace with his good-natured Kansai dialect, while Itsuki and Tsubasa somehow started arguing about soccer versus tennis all over again.
Maki sat up, looking at the chaotic yet incredibly warm scene, feeling a sense of peace he had never experienced before.
He had a home now, he had friends, and the person who was most important to him was sitting right next to him.
"Toma," Maki suddenly called out.
"What?" Toma turned to look at him.
Maki didn't say anything. He just raised his soda can and bumped it lightly against Toma's.
A crisp clink echoed softly.
The summer of their youth, having passed through a long, dark, and winding tunnel, finally broke out of the cocoon in this moment, welcoming a brilliantly radiant, cloudless sky.
The cicadas in the trees chirped loudly, playing the final, unending coda to this summer.
And their story would continue to be written on that court bathed in sunlight.