Chapter 14
P.E. should never have felt like a battlefield.
It was supposed to be sweat, whistles, lazy stretches, students pretending to care about team scores, and Kōenji somehow finding a way to turn basic physical education into a personal beauty ritual.
Naturally, Kōenji was supposed to represent Class D in the deciding tennis match.
Also naturally, he refused.
He lay stretched across a bench near the open court, sunglasses on, towel folded beneath his head, one arm resting behind his neck like he was posing for a luxury resort poster instead of ignoring a class event.
"I must decline," Kōenji said, voice dripping with leisure. "The sun and I are currently engaged in a conversation of mutual admiration. Interrupting such harmony would be barbaric."
Sudo stared at him. "You're just sunbathing."
Kōenji smiled without opening his eyes. "An ordinary man sunbathes. I commune with brilliance."
Ike grabbed his own hair. "We're dead."
Yamauchi looked toward the other side of the court, where Ren Aikawa was casually spinning his racket. "That guy's a tennis monster."
Ren heard that.
Of course he did.
The Star Athlete of Crown Hearts walked forward with the relaxed confidence of someone who had spent years being told the court belonged to him.
He wore his P.E. uniform like a sponsor might appear at any moment.
His racket turned once in his hand, smooth and practiced, and the students around Class B looked at him like victory had already picked a seat.
Ren Aikawa had the record to justify the arrogance.
Two consecutive high school competitive tennis championship titles since his freshman year. Tournament scouts had mentioned him. School blogs worshiped him. Even students who hated Crown Hearts admitted Ren's athletic talent was not decorative.
He smiled at Class D.
"So," Ren said, voice light. "No one wants to play?"
Sudo clicked his tongue. "I'm not a tennis guy."
"Hirata?" Ike asked desperately.
Hirata gave a helpless smile. "Soccer is more my field."
Ren's smile widened.
Then his eyes slid toward Kikyo.
That alone made Kiyotaka glance over.
Kikyo stood with her usual gentle expression, surrounded by Kokoro, Nene, Kayano, and Mei-Yu. She looked angelic enough to be trusted by strangers and poisonous enough underneath for Kiyotaka to feel the shape of her disgust before she spoke.
Ren tapped his racket against his shoulder.
"Let's make it interesting. If I win, Kikyo goes on a date with me."
The court quieted.
Kikyo's smile did not crack, but the sweetness in it sharpened.
'Disgusting. You really think girls are trophies with uniforms.'
Kei, standing near Maya and Chiaki, went pale before Ren even looked at her.
Then he did.
"If I lose, the winner gets a date with Kei."
The words dropped cleanly into the air.
A bet.
A girl offered like a prize.
Again.
Kei's fingers curled against her palms.
This was not the first time Ren had done something like this.
He always wrapped it in confidence afterward.
He always said he knew he wouldn't lose, so she had nothing to worry about.
He always made the humiliation sound like proof of his ability, and Kei always found herself swallowing the hurt because being near Ren still meant protection, status, and the illusion of safety.
'It's fine. He won't lose. He always wins. That's why he says things like this.'
The thought felt like eating glass.
Honami's expression cooled. She had seen Ren's attitude before, and like many things connected to Crown Hearts, most people excused it because it came with popularity.
Maya hugged the repaired penguin plush she had brought for emotional support, her eyes darkening with remembered anger toward Haruto.
Kikyo's gaze stayed on Ren with a smile that looked polite enough for a funeral.
Kiyotaka watched Kei.
That was the deciding point.
Not Ren's arrogance. Not Kikyo being dragged into it. Not the crowd gathering because Crown Hearts drama had the gravitational pull of a collapsed star.
It was Kei looking like she had already accepted that being treated this way was normal.
Kiyotaka stood.
The court noticed him before he spoke.
He walked toward the rackets, picked one up, and turned it once in his hand. His grip was wrong at first, too neutral, too experimental, but he held it with the calm curiosity of someone weighing a tool rather than preparing for a sport.
Honami pouted immediately. "Kiyotaka-kun..."
Kikyo's eyes flicked toward him, and for one warm, dangerous second, she thought he had stepped up for her.
Maya hugged the penguin tighter. "He's playing?"
Kei lifted her head.
Kiyotaka looked at Ren.
"I'll play."
Ren blinked, then laughed. "You?"
"Yes."
"You know this is tennis, right? Not an alley brawl. Not a chair durability test."
Some Class B students chuckled.
Kiyotaka's smile stayed faint.
"I also didn't give permission for you to use Kikyo in your bet."
Kikyo's cheeks warmed before she could stop them.
Then Kiyotaka glanced at her and winked.
The angel mask suffered structural damage.
"Kiyotaka-kun..." Kikyo whispered, furious at herself for blushing.
Honami's eyes darkened like a candle had been pinched out.
Maya puffed her cheeks. "He winked..."
Chiaki leaned toward Kei and murmured, "His timing is criminal."
Kei didn't answer.
Kiyotaka turned back to Ren.
"And Kei decides who she spends time with. If you lose, you apologize publicly to both of them for treating them like prizes."
Ren's smile thinned.
"And if I win?"
"You win the match."
"That's it?"
"That's all you're qualified to receive."
The insult was delivered so politely that it took two seconds for everyone to realize how sharp it was.
Ren's jaw tightened. "Fine. I'll enjoy teaching you the difference between being athletic and being talented."
Students from the other courts drifted closer.
Class A and Class C had been on the opposite side for their own mixed P.E.
activities, but the words "Ren Aikawa" and "Ayanokōji Kiyotaka" traveled faster than the teacher's whistle.
Phones appeared near the fence. Students whispered.
Even a small group of sports journalists near the far end of the court, originally scheduled to interview Ren for the upcoming high school championships, paused their packing.
One of them was older, with silver at his temples and the kind of eyes that had watched thousands of matches and learned to distrust easy winners.
A younger journalist beside him nodded toward Ren. "Lucky timing. We might get footage of him playing before the interview."
The veteran's eyes moved to Kiyotaka instead.
"Who is the other one?"
"No idea. Late-enrollment student, I think."
The veteran watched Kiyotaka rotate the racket again.
"He doesn't look like a tennis player."
The younger journalist chuckled. "Then this won't last long."
The older man did not laugh.
"Maybe."
At first, the match was exactly what Ren promised.
A lesson.
Ren served, and the ball tore across the court with professional violence. It hit the service box and kicked outward before Kiyotaka fully adjusted. His return came late and flew wide.
Point.
Ren smiled. "Too fast?"
Kiyotaka glanced at the bounce mark.
"Fast enough."
The next serve came harder.
Ace.
Then came a rally where Kiyotaka managed to return twice before Ren dragged him wide with a sharp angle and finished with a clean forehand into open court.
Class B cheered.
Crown Hearts supporters relaxed.
The sports journalists began filming casually, probably already deciding this would make Ren look impressive.
Ren's tennis was not empty hype. His footwork was quick, his balance clean, and his serve had the weight of someone who had lived on courts since childhood. He changed pace well, mixed topspin with flatter drives, and used his confidence like an extra limb.
Kiyotaka, meanwhile, looked wrong.
He missed balls he should have reached. His backhand shape shifted from one point to the next. His footwork adjusted too late, then too early. His forehand sometimes came flat, sometimes over-spun, sometimes sliced awkwardly into the net.
To the crowd, he looked overwhelmed.
To Kiyotaka, each miss became a page.
'Serve speed. Rotation after bounce. Preferred angle when ahead. Shoulder opens early on the cross-court forehand. Drop shot comes after two deep balls. Backhand weaker under high spin. Pride increases risk after public praise.'
He remembered books.
Not lessons.
Not coaching.
The White Room had once placed old sports analysis texts in front of him as part of physical pattern study.
Tennis was one of many subjects, a chapter among hundreds.
Old diagrams. Tournament photos. Names in captions that meant nothing to him at the time.
Players frozen mid-swing, bodies turned into geometry.
He had not cared about their fame.
He had only stored the movement.
'One used early contact against serve. Another stretched defense without losing balance. One weaponized spin. One used slice to change rhythm. One controlled the net with angles rather than force.'
He did not remember them as heroes.
He remembered them as shapes.
Ren won game after game.
The score moved toward match point.
Ike gripped the fence. "Ayanokōji's getting destroyed..."
Yamauchi swallowed. "This is bad. This is really bad."
Sudo grimaced. "Ren's not bluffing. That guy's legit."
Hirata's brow furrowed. "Ayanokōji-kun keeps changing his form."
Kei stared at Kiyotaka. Her heart was tight, and not only because Ren was winning.
"He's not angry," she whispered.
Chiaki glanced at her. "What?"
Kei's eyes did not leave the court. "He's losing, but he's not angry."
Kikyo heard from nearby and smiled faintly.
'Because he's not fighting yet.'
Maya clutched her penguin plush so tightly its crooked eye nearly vanished into her shirt.
Honami's face had gone still with worry. "Kiyotaka-kun..."
Ren bounced the ball at match point.
He looked across the net with a champion's grin.
"You did better than expected. That's not a compliment, by the way."
Kiyotaka stood at the baseline, breathing evenly.
For the first time, his smile faded.
Not into anger.
Not into fear.
His face became empty, smooth, and unreadable. The playful mask slipped away completely, leaving eyes so still they almost looked dead. His posture settled. His hands quieted. His breathing became invisible.
The court changed.
The veteran journalist noticed before anyone else.
He straightened.
The younger journalist whispered, "What is it?"
The veteran's voice lowered. "He just entered the zone."
Across the court, Ren's grin faltered.
Kiyotaka looked different now.
Not flashy. Not inspired.
Unemotional.
Dead-eyed.
Beautifully cold.
The kind of calm that did not belong in a student match. The kind that made movement feel decided before it happened.
Kiyotaka adjusted his grip.
'So that's how tennis works.'
Ren served.
This time, Kiyotaka moved before the ball fully crossed the net.
He stepped inside the baseline and struck the return early, stealing time from the serve before Ren could recover. The ball ripped down the line and landed clean.
Untouched.
Silence swallowed the court.
Then the veteran journalist breathed out, loud enough for nearby students to hear.
"That was Agassi."
Several students turned.
The younger journalist blinked. "Andre Agassi?"
"That return timing. Taking the ball early, standing inside the baseline, punishing the serve before the server can breathe. That was Agassi's signature cruelty."
Ren turned slowly toward the ball mark.
Kiyotaka stood still, eyes dead and focused.
Ren served again.
Harder.
Kiyotaka returned again, not as cleanly this time, but deep enough to start the rally.
Ren attacked Kiyotaka's backhand with a heavy cross-court shot.
Earlier, that had worked.
Now Kiyotaka slid into position with impossible balance, his body stretching while his racket stayed steady. The backhand came back deep, neutralizing the pressure like the attack had been politely declined.
The veteran's eyes widened further.
"Djokovic."
The students nearby murmured.
"That was Djokovic?"
"The stretch defense," the veteran said, voice gaining heat. "The backhand under pressure, the balance, the way he turns defense into another starting point. That's Novak Djokovic's architecture."
Ren hit harder.
Kiyotaka bent, rotated, and sent a heavy forehand back with vicious topspin. The ball jumped high after the bounce and attacked Ren's shoulder.
Ren swung late.
The ball flew long.
The crowd gasped.
The veteran nearly laughed. "Nadal."
The younger journalist stared at Kiyotaka like he had become a myth in real time. "Rafael Nadal?"
"That forehand climbed. Heavy spin, high bounce, brutal discomfort. He didn't just hit the ball. He made Ren fight its height."
Maya looked at Kikyo. "What are they saying?"
Kikyo's eyes were bright with fascination. "They're saying Kiyotaka-kun is playing like legends."
Honami's lips parted.
Kei's voice came out quiet. "But he doesn't even know them."
Kiyotaka heard none of it.
The names did not matter to him.
Only the shapes.
'Early contact for serve. Elastic defense for wide pressure. Heavy spin for high backhand. Low slice if he overcommits. Net angle if he rushes.'
Ren served again.
The rally grew longer.
Ren tried a flat forehand to regain control, but Kiyotaka sliced the reply low. The ball barely rose after bouncing, forcing Ren to bend and create pace from an uncomfortable position.
The veteran pointed at the court.
"Federer slice."
More students pressed toward the fence.
"Roger Federer used rhythm like a trap," the veteran said, no longer pretending this was only for the younger journalist. "A low slice like that makes power players generate everything themselves. It changes the conversation of the rally."
Ren scraped the ball back.
Kiyotaka stepped around and struck an inside-out forehand into the corner, elegant and surgical.
The veteran's voice sharpened.
"Federer again. Inside-out forehand. Clean, balanced, no panic."
Ren's face tightened.
He was hearing it now.
Agassi. Djokovic. Nadal. Federer.
Names he knew.
Names he worshiped.
Names printed across the history of the sport he had built his pride around.
He had watched their matches since he was a child.
He had paused videos to study Federer's footwork, copied Nadal's rituals as a freshman, worshiped Djokovic's returns, admired Sampras's serve, and dreamed of carrying Japanese high school tennis into a future where those names were no longer distant stars.
Now those ghosts were appearing across the net in the body of a boy who had looked like a beginner ten minutes ago.
Ren served again, trying to crush the thought.
Kiyotaka returned deep.
Ren rushed the net to finish with authority.
Kiyotaka moved forward too.
The exchange near the net came fast, sharp, almost too quick for the crowd to follow. Ren punched a volley toward the sideline.
Kiyotaka's racket appeared in front of the ball with soft hands, redirecting it into a short angle that died near the service box.
Ren lunged late.
Point.
The veteran slapped his notebook against his palm. "McEnroe."
The younger journalist looked almost dizzy. "Now John McEnroe?"
"That touch at the net. No wasted force, just angle, wrist, and humiliation."
Ryūen, watching from the Class C side with his arms crossed, laughed under his breath.
"Kukuku... he's using dead tennis gods as weapons."
Ishizaki grinned beside him. "Bro went from tutorial mode to boss raid."
Kondō shook his head. "That isn't how learning works."
Albert nodded once, solemnly disagreeing with the entire concept of normal learning.
The match slipped away from Ren one point at a time.
Not because Ren became weak.
That made it worse.
Ren was still brilliant. His serve still had teeth. His footwork remained sharp. His shot selection showed years of training, tournament pressure, and real talent.
But Kiyotaka had stopped playing against Ren's talent.
He was playing against Ren's structure.
Every serve pattern Ren trusted was read.
Every setup was answered. Every emotional adjustment became visible before the racket moved.
When Ren tried to overpower him, Kiyotaka became Nadal's spin and Djokovic's wall.
When Ren tried to stretch him, Kiyotaka became elastic defense and surgical redirection.
When Ren tried to break rhythm, Kiyotaka answered with Federer's slice and Agassi's early strike.
When Ren rushed forward, Kiyotaka became McEnroe's hands and Sampras's cold finishing instinct.
Ren's next serve was wide.
Kiyotaka read it, returned early, and stepped forward behind the shot.
Ren barely got the ball back.
Kiyotaka moved into position for an overhead.
The veteran's eyes flashed.
"Sampras."
The smash came down clean, explosive, and final.
The crowd erupted.
"That was Pete Sampras's kind of finish," the veteran said, voice trembling with excitement now. "No decoration. Serve-and-finish mentality, even without the serve."
Ren stared across the net.
For a moment, he saw Sampras in the shoulder line.
Then Kiyotaka shifted for the next rally, and Ren saw Borg's quiet baseline patience in the way he waited without giving away emotion.
Another rally.
Kiyotaka absorbed six shots without changing expression, his dead eyes tracking everything.
Ren tried to outlast him.
Impossible.
Kiyotaka sent the ball back with calm, cruel consistency until Ren overhit.
The veteran whispered, almost reverent, "Borg's ice. Bj?rn Borg's patience. Look at his face. No expression. No pulse showing."
Students turned toward Kiyotaka's face.
They saw it then.
The unemotional stare.
The dead-hot coolness.
The terrifying beauty of someone completely inside the zone.
Maya's cheeks warmed despite her worry. "He looks scary."
Honami's fingers gripped the fence. "He looks... far away."
Kikyo's smile faded into something softer and darker. "That's probably closer to him than the teasing."
Kei could not look away.
Ren had always looked bright when he played, loud with confidence, surrounded by applause.
Kiyotaka looked like silence had learned to swing a racket.
Chiaki stood beside Kei, voice quiet. "That's the face you trust?"
Kei swallowed.
"I don't know."
But she did not deny it.
Ren tried a drop shot.
Kiyotaka reached it and flicked it cross-court with delicate hands.
The veteran called out, "Edberg touch with McEnroe hands!"
The younger journalist barely kept up. "Stefan Edberg too?"
"Serve-and-volley instinct. Soft balance moving forward. But he's not copying one. He's combining them."
Ren chased, lifted the ball, and Kiyotaka answered with another heavy forehand that bent around the sideline.
The veteran's voice rose with the crowd.
"Nadal's banana shot!"
The ball curved back into court and landed inside the line.
Students screamed.
The teacher with the whistle had stopped trying to control anything.
A girl from Class A whispered, "Is this still P.E.?"
A boy from Class C answered, "No. This is a public execution with rackets."
Ryūen laughed. "Kukuku... accurate."
The sports journalists were fully absorbed now.
The younger one had abandoned the original Ren interview notes. His recorder was pointed at the veteran.
The veteran spoke like he was commentating a final.
"This is like watching the U.S. Open from a VIP seat, except every champion keeps changing bodies. One rally has Agassi's return pressure, the next has Djokovic's backhand, then Nadal's spin, then Federer's slice, then Sampras's overhead. I've never seen a student adapt like this."
A student near him asked, "Is Ayanokōji famous?"
The veteran didn't look away from the court.
"If he were, I would know."
Another student asked, "Could Ren still win?"
The veteran's face tightened.
"Ren is excellent."
"But?"
The older man watched Kiyotaka step into another return, eyes dead and precise.
"But that thing across the net is no longer playing like a high school student."
The student went quiet.
Ren heard some of it.
His hand tightened around the racket until his knuckles whitened.
He had spent his life on this sport. He knew the difference between lucky shots and true control. He knew when someone was guessing and when someone was reading.
Kiyotaka was reading him.
Worse, Kiyotaka was reading tennis itself.
Ren served, desperate to reclaim the match.
Kiyotaka's return came back low.
Ren drove a forehand deep.
Kiyotaka answered with a heavy topspin loop.
Ren stepped in and redirected with power.
Kiyotaka sliced.
Ren charged.
Kiyotaka lobbed.
The lob rose high, graceful and cruel, passing over Ren's reach.
The veteran murmured, "Murray's defensive patience there too. Maybe even Hewitt's stubborn retrieval in the footwork."
The younger journalist looked at him with disbelief. "How many legends are you going to name?"
"As many as he keeps showing me."
Ren sprinted back, barely reached the lob, and sent a weak reply.
Kiyotaka finished with a calm volley.
Point.
The score turned.
Ren's lead was gone.
Then Ren was behind.
Class D lost its mind.
Ike shook the fence. "He's winning! He's actually winning!"
Yamauchi looked like he might faint from joy. "Our guy became all tennis players!"
Sudo shouted, "Crush him, Ayanokōji!"
Hirata laughed in disbelief. "He really adapted."
Maya hugged the penguin to her chest. "Kiyotaka-kun is incredible..."
Honami pouted through her pride. "He worried me for nothing again."
Kikyo glanced at her. "You say that like you're the only one worried."
Honami looked at her.
Kikyo smiled sweetly.
For a second, their rivalry sparked even during the match.
Kei barely noticed.
Her eyes were on Kiyotaka.
Ren had bet her away like losing her was impossible because his talent protected him.
Kiyotaka had entered the court, lost quietly, learned silently, and then turned Ren's talent into a cage.
Kei's chest tightened.
'He did this because I looked sad.'
The thought was too dangerous to hold for long.
She held it anyway.
The final game arrived with Ren breathing hard and Kiyotaka looking untouched by emotion.
Ren bounced the ball, but the rhythm was wrong.
His pride was wounded.
His confidence had begun to bleed.
He served with everything left in him, a sharp flat strike aimed at Kiyotaka's body.
Kiyotaka adjusted.
Agassi's early timing returned.
The ball came back deep.
Ren attacked the backhand.
Djokovic's balance answered.
Ren tried to drag him wide.
Nadal's spin climbed back into the court.
Ren sliced low.
Federer's slice cut lower.
Ren rushed forward.
McEnroe's hands denied him.
The rally became a collision of styles that Ren recognized too clearly for comfort. It felt like playing against a library of ghosts, each page turning at the worst possible moment.
He saw Agassi when Kiyotaka stepped into the return.
He saw Djokovic when the backhand refused to break.
He saw Nadal when the ball kicked up violently.
He saw Federer when the slice stayed cruelly low.
He saw Sampras when Kiyotaka moved forward to finish.
He saw Borg in the face.
That dead, unshaken calm.
Ren struck harder, almost furious now.
Kiyotaka moved like the answer had already been written.
The last ball rose short.
Everyone expected power.
Kiyotaka stepped in, racket lifted.
Then, instead of smashing, he let the ball drop slightly and carved a soft drop shot over the net.
It landed just beyond the tape.
Ren lunged.
Too late.
The ball bounced twice.
The match ended.
For one breath, the world held still.
Then the court exploded.
Class D roared so loudly the teacher's whistle vanished under it. Ike and Yamauchi grabbed each other and shouted incoherently about "tennis monarchy" and "racket demon rights." Sudo pumped his fist. Hirata clapped with a stunned smile.
Class B stared.
Crown Hearts supporters looked like someone had unplugged their belief system and thrown it into a lake.
The veteran journalist lowered his notebook.
His voice carried through the noise because everyone near him wanted to hear what he would say next.
"That wasn't just a comeback."
The younger journalist swallowed. "Then what was it?"
The veteran watched Kiyotaka, who stood on the court with dead eyes slowly softening back toward his usual playful mask.
"That was the result you would get if every tennis Hall of Famer and legend were compressed into one body and told to solve a high school champion."
The students around him erupted into whispers.
"Every legend in one body?"
"He said Hall of Famers."
"Ren got beaten by a tennis museum?"
Ryūen laughed so hard he bent slightly at the waist. "Kukuku... a tennis museum. I'm stealing that."
Ren stood near the net, pale and furious.
Kiyotaka walked toward him.
His face had not fully returned yet. The emotionless zone still clung to his eyes, making him look colder than the victory around him.
Ren's voice shook. "What the hell are you?"
Kiyotaka stopped at the net.
For a moment, he seemed to consider the question honestly.
Then the playful smile returned.
"Someone who read a few tennis books."
Ren stared at him like that answer was more insulting than any taunt.
Kiyotaka looked toward Kei, then Kikyo.
"Apologize."
Ren's face tightened.
"You can't be serious."
"You made the bet publicly. Apologize publicly."
The crowd quieted enough to hear Ren's breathing.
The cameras were still on.
The journalists were watching.
Class B was watching.
Kei was watching.
Ren swallowed the shattered pieces of his pride.
"I'm sorry, Kei," he said, voice stiff. "I shouldn't have used you in a bet."
Kei's expression trembled, but she held herself steady.
Then Ren looked toward Kikyo.
"And Kushida. Sorry."
Kikyo smiled with perfect sweetness.
"Apology accepted."
Her eyes promised he would regret needing one.
Kiyotaka turned away.
That was the final humiliation.
He did not even stay to enjoy Ren's defeat.
As Kiyotaka walked off the court, the crowd parted.
Maya reached him first, nearly bouncing while clutching her penguin plush.
"Kiyotaka-kun, that was amazing!"
Honami arrived beside him with a pout so pretty it looked weaponized. "You made everyone worry before suddenly becoming unfair."
Kikyo smiled, still watching his face closely. "That expression of yours during the match was different."
Kiyotaka looked at her.
"Was it?"
Kei stepped closer more slowly than the others.
Her voice came out quieter.
"You looked like a different person."
Kiyotaka's gaze moved to her.
"Did I scare you?"
Kei looked away, cheeks faintly pink.
"No."
Chiaki raised an eyebrow.
Kei clicked her tongue. "Not much."
Kiyotaka's smile softened.
"You okay?"
Kei's fingers curled.
There it was again. The question without performance. The concern without making her feel weak.
"I'm fine," she said. Then, after a beat, she added, "Thanks."
Ike gasped loudly from behind her.
Yamauchi whispered, "She said thanks."
Sudo looked confused. "Is that rare?"
Chiaki smiled. "From Kei? Yes."
Kei turned red. "Shut up!"
Before the teasing could grow, the veteran journalist approached with the younger staff member trailing behind him like someone following a storm cloud with a pen.
"Excuse me," the older man said.
Kiyotaka turned.
The veteran looked him up and down, eyes still carrying disbelief.
"Ayanokōji Kiyotaka, correct?"
"Yes."
"Are you, by any chance, related to a professional tennis player?"
The nearby students went silent again.
Kiyotaka tilted his head slightly.
"No."
The journalist frowned. "Not the child of a former champion? No overseas training? No academy record?"
"No."
"You expect me to believe you learned that from a few books?"
Kiyotaka's playful smile returned completely now.
"I didn't know the books were famous."
The veteran stared at him.
The younger journalist whispered, "That's insane."
Kiyotaka glanced toward the court.
"I only remembered the movements."
The veteran's face shifted.
That answer, somehow, was worse.
Because he believed it.
He looked back at the court where Ren still stood, surrounded by silence instead of worship.
Then he looked at Kiyotaka again.
"I came here to interview a future champion," the journalist said slowly. "Instead, I watched someone turn a match point deficit into a private exhibition of tennis history."
Kiyotaka said nothing.
Honami looked proud enough to glow.
Maya hugged her penguin like it had personally helped win.
Kikyo's smile became darker and more fascinated.
Kei stared at Kiyotaka with something complicated in her eyes, as if the court had shown her a door she had not known existed.
The veteran finally lowered his pen.
"If you ever decide to play seriously, tennis will notice."
Kiyotaka smiled.
"I'll keep that in mind."
The journalist walked away still shaking his head, muttering something about Agassi's return and Borg's face.
Kiyotaka looked back at Kei.
"You don't need to forgive someone just because he expected to win."
Kei froze.
The words were soft, but they struck the place Ren's bet had bruised.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
"...I know."
This time, she sounded closer to believing it.
Across the court, Ren Aikawa stood in the ruins of his own certainty.
The Crown Hearts had their Star Athlete.
Class D had something stranger.
A boy who could lose almost an entire match, become empty at match point, and let the ghosts of legends move through him until the champion across the net looked like a student again.
Kiyotaka picked up his towel, his smile calm beneath the afternoon sun.
Project EDEN had not trained him to become a tennis player.
It had trained him to enter any world, read its rules, and make its brightest star realize the sky was not his.