Peeeeep!
The sharp whistle echoed through the gym. Silence fell, broken only by the thud of sneakers against polished wood.
Aarav adjusted his grip on the racket. His bandaged wrist ached faintly, but his gaze was locked on the opponent standing across the net.
This was no friendly rally anymore. This was war — the beginning of the qualifiers.
The board had flashed the name: Takumi Ishida.
Tall, sharp eyes, already in perfect stance. He was known as the "wall" of Class 2-B, famous for returning every shot no matter the speed.
Daiki, from a distance, muttered, "Tough first round…" but smirked. He knew Aarav lived for battles like these.
The serve flew. Aarav lunged forward instantly — a slicing drop shot.
Tap. The shuttle kissed the net, dropping just past it.
"1–0."
Whispers rose in the crowd. Quick. Ruthless. Aarav had drawn first blood.
But Takumi's eyes sharpened. He answered with a barrage of smashes, forcing Aarav to chase corner to corner. Each return rattled his wrist, but Aarav refused to flinch.
The score climbed. 2–2. 3–3. 4–4.
Every rally stretched the air thin. The gym wasn't just watching anymore — they were holding their breath.
Match point. Aarav's breath came heavy, chest heaving. His wrist screamed.
But in his mind, he heard his brother's voice — calm, unshaken:
"Pain is proof you're alive. But victory… that's proof you endured."
Takumi smashed — the fastest yet.
Aarav's feet moved before thought. He leapt, twisting mid-air — a mirrored echo of the move that had ended his warm-up battle with Daiki.
WHAM!
The shuttle tore down the line.
Silence. Then the referee's call:
"Game, Set — Winner, Aarav!"
The crowd erupted. Some cheered, some muttered, but all eyes were on the boy with the Nepal flag stitched to his jersey.
Daiki grinned from the sidelines. "Good. Don't slow down now."
From the stands, the basketball girl's gaze lingered, unreadable.
Aarav clenched his fist. Round one was his. But this was only the beginning.
The quali
fiers had just begun — and so had his war.