Three days without rest. That was what Rai had been through since he was admitted—half-forcibly—by all the club members. Every morning, before dawn touched the roof of the gym, he was already on the back court. His feet moved on the ground that had begun to harden due to the excessive sunlight. His breath was labored, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and his knees began to lose their balance.
But Ayaka did not slacken her program one bit.
"Your steps are five centimeters too narrow!" Ayaka shouted from the side of the court.
Rai shifted his right foot. Three shuttlecocks were thrown at him at once. He blocked one, failed at the other two. The last shuttlecock hit the side of the racket and was thrown wildly to the side.
"I've been practicing for two hours!" Rai shouted.
"I could practice for ten hours without protest when I was your age," Ayaka replied coldly.
Rai gritted his teeth. His left hand began to tremble. Heat spread from his shoulders to his ankles. His legs felt like stone, and every breath felt like inhaling hot air from a motorcycle exhaust.
Ayaka showed no mercy.
"Let's start from step one. Focus not on the shot, but on the breath."
She walked into the middle of the court and stood right behind the net.
"Listen. Pull as you jump. Exhale as you come down. Pull as you prepare. Exhale as you hit."
Rai closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them. He nodded.
"Let's go."
They started again.
And again.
And again.
In between the drills, Ayaka sometimes didn't speak. She just stood on the sidelines, hands in her pockets, watching Rai's every movement like a potter watching his unsoftened clay.
Rai knew he could stop. He could give up. He could back down and go back to his normal life. But every time the image of his first-day smash crossed his mind, something inside him seemed to reject him. The smash was like a mirror—reflecting the self he hated, but also the self he hoped he could defeat.
That afternoon, when the school bell rang, Tama appeared in class with two bottles of isotonic drinks and a friendly smile.
"You look like you've been hit by a truck, bro," he said, handing him a drink.
Rai accepted it without saying thank you.
"What do you know about being hit by a truck?"
"I take the six o'clock public transportation every day. My mentality is already immune," Tama said, sitting annoyingly in the seat in front of Rai. "Hey, I heard you've never joined our practice, huh?"
Rai nodded, taking a sip of his drink.
"Come along this afternoon. Ayaka-san also gave me the green light. Besides, so the club kids won't just see you smash, but also… well, you know you're human."
Rai gave him a lazy look. "I don't like group practice."
"Group practice isn't about compatibility. This is a team. We can lose because one person plays selfishly."
Rai was about to reply, but held back. The word "team" made something inside him tighten.
That afternoon's club practice was held in the main hall. The place was bigger, brighter, and—strangely for Rai—more crowded than he had imagined. Several students joked during warm-ups, some played shadow drills with partners. Rackets hit shuttlecocks with a rhythmic sound: tak! tak! tak!
When Rai entered, the atmosphere dimmed a little. Everyone turned. There were nods, there were half-hearted smiles, but it was clear that his presence carried a burden that not everyone was ready to bear.
Tama called, "Bro! Over here! Let's start together, let's go."
Rai walked to the middle of the court. But after only ten minutes of pair drills, he felt his rhythm was messed up. His partner was too slow, the team's movements were out of sync. Another player commented on his pace: "You're too fast, Rai. We're practicing formations, not racing."
Rai held himself back. But after fifteen minutes, he couldn't do it anymore.
"What's the point of practicing if everyone's this slow?" he said loudly.
Someone snapped, "You're the one who's too fast. We're practicing for a team tournament, not a singles match."
"That's why we never win, I guess. Because everyone is busy guarding the formation, not guarding the ball."
Silence.
Tama stood between them. "Eh, eh, bro… relax. We're here to synchronize. If you want to spar like crazy, you can have your session with Ayaka later."
"I don't need this," Rai said. He tossed his racket aside. "I play to win. Not to compete."
He walked off the court, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched.
Ayaka sat on the sidelines. She didn't stop Rai from leaving. But when practice was over, she followed him to the storage room behind the hall, where Rai sat on the dusty carpet, staring at the ceiling.
"Do you know what you're fighting?" Ayaka asked.
"I'm fighting a slow system," Rai replied coldly.
"Wrong."
Ayaka crouched down in front of him.
"You're not fighting the team. Not your last name. Not the people who gossip about your father. You're fighting yourself. The version of you who wants to win quickly without thinking. The one who wants everyone to understand you without you opening your mouth. The one who wants to speed up, but never looks at who you're passing."
Rai stared at her, brow furrowed.
Ayaka pointed at Rai's chest.
"On the field, you're not a single player. You're a reflection of everything you've learned. You can have power. But if your rhythm doesn't match the others—not the ball—you'll fall by yourself."
She stood up.
"Starting tomorrow, we'll practice rhythm. Movement and breathing. Not for the team. But for yourself. So you can hear the rhythm before you hit it all."
That night, Rai stood alone in the back field. He didn't hit the ball. Just stand. Racket in hand, eyes closed.
He took a breath.
Blowing.
Baby steps.
Slow swing.
Loose shoulders.
The sound of shoes hitting the ground. The wind touches the skin. Breath follows movement, not the other way around.
And for the first time since he held the racket—Rai heard that sound.
Rhythm.