Chapter 15

The top-notch private room at Tsukimidai Ryotei is brightly lit, and the air is filled with the aroma of high-quality ingredients and the lively noise of young people.

The long table was filled with exquisite kaiseki cuisine that looked like works of art. The main players of the Hyotei tennis club, the backbone of the photography club and the core members of the fan club, about twenty or thirty people, filled the huge space.

I huddled in the corner by the window, my long, inky hair shimmering softly under the warm yellow light. In front of me was an exquisite lacquer plate filled with tuna belly, thinly sliced ​​sea bream, and charcoal-grilled black throat.

"As expected of the Atobe family..." I sipped the iced non-alcoholic plum wine, and the sweet and slightly sour taste diluted the richness of the food.

However, the chopsticks precisely bypassed all the pearly sashimi and grilled fish covered in sauce, picking up only the glossy tamagoyaki and perfectly grilled wagyu beef next to them.

The fishy smell of fish is a taste that I have never been able to appreciate.

The atmosphere grew increasingly heated as the empty sake bottles and drink cups filled the air. Someone suddenly stood up and shouted, "Let's play Truth or Dare!", which immediately attracted a lot of responses.

I silently complained in my heart——

It is a timeless staple at student gatherings, old-fashioned and yet inevitable.

Under the cheering of the crowd and the gentle smile of Yuushi Ozaki, I was helplessly drawn into the vortex of the game.

An empty wine bottle spun rapidly on a long table covered with a gorgeous tablecloth, and the bottle mouth passed across the young and excited faces with everyone's breathless anticipation.

Finally, with a kind of desperate precision, it stopped right in front of me.

"Oh my god!!" The sudden burst of cheers almost blew the roof off.

"Kiriyama-senpai! Truth or Dare?" A girl with twin ponytails from the fan club excitedly waved the lottery tube.

"...The truth." I closed my eyes resignedly.

A big risk? The possibility of having Keigo Atobe do a funny dance or kissing Karasuchi is far higher than zero, so it's safer to choose an option that is theoretically controllable.

The girl with twin ponytails immediately pulled out a slip of paper from the lottery box, unfolded it, and her eyes instantly lit up like searchlights. She read out loudly in a shrill, gossipy voice that everyone in the room could hear:

"Excuse me——what kind of boy do you like?!!!"

“Wow——!!!” The atmosphere in the box was instantly ignited to its peak, with whistles, table clapping, and booing sounds coming one after another.

Everyone's eyes were focused on me with undisguised curiosity and mischief.

Even Keigo Atobe, who was sitting in the main seat, maintaining an imperial demeanor and sipping tea slowly, paused imperceptibly with his fingers holding the teacup. A slight ripple passed through the depths of his pupils, and then they returned to their depth, but his gaze swept over vaguely.

Mukaihi Taketo excitedly patted Oshitari's shoulder: "Listen quickly!"

Although Shishido Ryo still had his arms crossed, his cool expression cracked a little as if he was watching a show.

Oshitari pushed his glasses up, the light behind the lenses was full of playful anticipation, and a smile of "finally here" played on the corner of his mouth.

The air seemed frozen, yet filled with a searing tension. Those gazes were as real as substance, filled with the excitement of prying into secrets.

I sat in a corner by the window, the auspicious cloud pattern on my crimson dress shimmering in the light. Faced with the overwhelming, naked, adolescent enthusiasm for gossip, I felt strangely calm.

What kind of boy do you like?

The question itself carries a superficial presupposition.

It’s like judging a dish by only focusing on whether it’s sweet enough, while ignoring the original flavor of the ingredients and the soul that the chef has poured into it.

I met those burning gazes calmly. My voice wasn't loud, but it clearly penetrated the noisy background noise, with a calmness that was almost like stating a fact:

"Control."

The clamor in the box seemed to have been paused, and it instantly quieted down. Even Atobe's hand, holding the teacup, stopped at his lips. Oshitari paused in pushing up his glasses, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then gave way to a deeper interest.

"Control?" Taketo Mukai blinked his big eyes, looking confused, "What do you mean? Control everything like Atobe?" He subconsciously looked at the main seat.

I didn't answer directly, but just looked beyond the noisy crowd, as if penetrating the exquisite window lattices of Yuejiantai and falling on a broader dimension of power and will.

"Someone who has perfect control over their body." My voice remained steady, as if stating an obvious truth, "whether it's the precise force in every movement, or the subtle control under extreme conditions."

"Strength is controlled by the heart, and will is the most consistent throughout. The body is not a burden, but the most trustworthy partner and the most faithful extension of the will."

I paused, my fingertips unconsciously stroking the cold wall of the cup. "This sense of control, achieved by tempering the 'self' to the extreme and achieving a high degree of unity between body and mind, has an indescribable appeal in itself."

After the words fell, the box fell into a strange silence.

The girls in the fan club looked at each other, seemingly not quite understanding this overly "hardcore" answer, and the excited gossip lights on their faces turned into confusion.

Mukaito scratched his head, clearly overwhelmed by the thought. Shishido Ryo raised an eyebrow, seemingly finding the answer intriguing. Hiyoshi Wakaba's eyes lit up, and he subconsciously straightened his back. This answer undoubtedly struck at his core identity as a successor to Kobudo.

The corners of Oshitari's mouth curled up slowly, a smile of understanding and profound meaning. Behind his glasses, his eyes swept over the silent figure in the main seat with interest.

Atobe remained seated throughout, his slender fingers still gripping the delicate bone china teacup. However, beneath his drooping lashes, a tiny spark seemed to suddenly ignite deep within his pupils, only to be quickly obscured by the deep night.

The lines of his thin lips, pressed tightly together beneath the rim of the cup, seemed to soften a little. He slowly placed the cup back on the table, and the porcelain clinked together, making a crisp but barely audible sound.

"Huh? That's it?" The girl with twin ponytails seemed very dissatisfied with this "unromantic" answer, and asked persistently, "Then... then does someone like Atobe-sama, who controls the overall situation on the court, count?" Her question once again drew the focus to Atobe.

Everyone's eyes were focused once again, full of anticipation for the show.

Atobe didn't move, didn't even look up at the girl who asked the question. He simply tilted his head slightly, his eyes like a deep sea whirlpool, carrying a heavy, invisible pressure, and fell precisely on me.

There was inquiry and scrutiny in his eyes, as well as a tension that he himself was unaware of, as if waiting for the final decision.

The air seemed to freeze.

I looked into those eyes, which reflected the bright lights of the box and my quiet figure.

There was no blushing or heartbeat, no embarrassment. I simply tilted my head slightly, and the corners of my lips curled up in a very faint, purely appreciative arc, as if I were evaluating a wonderful performance:

"Well, Atobe-san's tennis skills are indeed brilliant in terms of 'control'."

There's no ambiguity or flattery. It's just an objective, even somewhat academic, affirmation based on "standards."

Atobe's pupils seemed to shrink slightly. Then, he turned sharply, picked up the cup of tea that had long since cooled before him, and took a long sip. There was a subtle haste in his movements, as if he was trying to hide something.

When he put down the teacup, he habitually raised his hand to stroke his forehead, and his fingertips seemed to brush against the barely perceptible red above his earlobe that had not yet completely faded.

"Hmph." A light hum of unclear meaning escaped from his nose. His gorgeous voice carried his usual arrogance, but seemed to lack the usual sharpness. "You still have some vision."

Finally, Oshitari couldn't help but chuckle, and the sound was particularly clear in the brief silence. He picked up the wine glass, faced the air, and silently made a "cheers" with his mouth.

The controversy surrounding the truth seems to have been quietly covered by a more subtle and indescribable atmosphere in this "dazzling" evaluation.

The game wheel continued to spin, and the noise rose again, but some invisible ripples had already quietly spread in the deep pool called "Ice Emperor".

I picked up the chopsticks again, picked up a piece of grilled eel with all the skin removed, and chewed it slowly.

Outside the window, the night view of Tokyo is full of lights, and inside the window, there is the noise of young people and the aroma of delicious food.

My mind, however, seemed to drift even further—Sanada Genichirō's mountain-like steady footwork, Atobe Keigo's astonishing control in a desperate confrontation, Hiyoshi Wakaba's fierce form as he mastered the art of overthrowing his superiors. These images crisscrossed my mind.

Control is the realm that martial arts pursue, and isn’t it also a powerful attraction?

This answer may not be romantic enough, but it is extremely true.