At the street tennis court, silence hung heavy in the air.
Everyone else stood mute, thoroughly crushed by the brown-haired youth.
So when he sneered that tennis was easy, no one could argue back—they could only stew in frustration.
"Boring. Seriously boring! I'm done with this crap!"
The brown-haired youth grew more agitated. "That old man was full of lies! Tennis is way too simple!"
Not long ago, an old man claiming to be a coach from some tennis club—supposedly a decent one with a impressive track record—had watched the youth play a match.
He called him a rare athletic genius and invited him to join the club.
What was the name of that club again? The youth couldn't care less to remember. Something about a Yamabuki, maybe?
But the old man wouldn't quit pestering him, so he stuck with tennis a bit longer, hoping he might actually find some fun in it.
But, like every other sport, it was no challenge at all.
And no challenge meant no fun.
Just as the crowd simmered with resentment and the youth's irritation boiled over, a voice cut through the tension.
"I think tennis is pretty easy too. Why do they find it so hard?"
Finally, someone was challenging him?
Wait—what the hell?
Another guy saying tennis is easy?!
All the dejected players, along with the brown-haired youth, turned toward the voice.
A red-haired youth strolled toward them, a faint smirk on his lips. Paired with his ridiculously good looks, he left everyone gritting their teeth in envy.
Handsome.
Insanely handsome.
The brown-haired youth froze for a second, then scowled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Who the hell are you, butting into my conversation?"
As he spoke, he sized up the red-haired youth with a provocative glare.
Sure, he agreed with the guy's words, but something about him rubbed him the wrong way. Especially this redhead—he gave off a weird vibe.
But… red hair?
The brown-haired youth stared at the vibrant locks, lost in thought. Red was pretty eye-catching, wasn't it? Though he'd been wanting to dye his hair white for a while…
The red-haired youth, of course, was Rin Matsuoka.
"Me? I'm Rin Matsuoka," he said with a grin, flashing his shark-like teeth.
He gave the brown-haired youth a curious look.
For some reason, the guy felt familiar, but Rin was sure he'd never met him.
His memories of the Prince of Tennis world were a bit hazy, but he clearly recalled the key players from early on.
A brown-haired guy like this? He drew a blank.
"Huh? Rin Matsuoka? Wait, when did I ask who you were?"
The brown-haired youth, Jin Akutsu, snapped back instinctively, only to fall silent. He had asked, hadn't he?
That realization only made him angrier.
"Damn it, you—let's play a match!"
In his fit of rage, Akutsu completely forgot his earlier vow to never touch a tennis racket again.
"A match? Sure,"
Rin replied without hesitation.
He'd come to the street court to play, after all.
Why else would he bother trekking all the way from Hyotei?
-----------------
Meanwhile, at Yamabuki Junior High.
"No, I'm going now!"
Mikiya Banda took a sip of tea and made up his mind.
About a month ago, he'd met a youth.
Sure, the kid had a tough personality, but Banda was convinced he was a once-in-a-lifetime tennis prodigy—no, a monster prodigy!
At just twelve years old, after only six months of casual tennis in elementary school, he could pick up a racket again and effortlessly match the level of most first-year tennis geniuses.
An absolute athletic freak.
That's why Banda hadn't immediately extended an offer to the youth. He wanted to observe him more.
But before he could make a move, Rin Matsuoka had gone to Hyotei.
Banda was confident that this difficult kid was different—no one, not even Hyotei, could sway him to join their team if Banda couldn't.
Still, today, his right eyelid kept twitching for no reason.
So, Banda decided it was time to try persuading that troublesome youth one more time.
-----------------
Back at the street tennis court, Rin and Akutsu stood on opposite sides of the net.
A court official was keeping score.
In this tennis-obsessed world, even street courts were well-organized, with players able to register by name or number based on their arrival order.
After a quick coin toss, the official announced, "One set, six games! First game, Player 4347 serves!"
The first serve went to Akutsu, whose registration number was 4347.
At the baseline, Akutsu bounced the ball irritably, glaring at Rin.
He'd already sworn off tennis, ready to tell that old coach to stop bothering him.
Yet here he was, dragged into another match by some fluke.
"Fine, I'll crush him quick and be done with it,"
Akutsu muttered. He was sick of this pointless sport—no, of all sports.
"Hey, I'm serving!" he barked.
Whoosh—BOOM!
With barely a warning, Akutsu launched his serve. His knees bent, muscles tensed, and his sharp eyes locked onto the ball as he smashed it with full force. He didn't wait to see Rin's reaction, already lowering his racket.
His opponent was his age, and he'd gone all out.
This point was his. That was confidence—and fact.
The ball hit the court with a thunderous crack, its sheer power obvious to everyone.
"Hm?"
Rin glanced at Akutsu, mildly surprised. "Not bad."
In his estimation, the serve was decent.
But… that was all.
Thud.
The ball hit the ground.
Akutsu knew that sound well—same old, same old. Boring.
But then, his entire body went rigid.
"0-15!" the official called.
What?
Who got the point?!
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