The buzz inside the National League Entry Hall never quieted. Every corner shimmered with holo-screens replaying rallies—diving volleys, leaping smashes, slow-motion counter-blocks.
Ren followed Daigo's broad back through the crowd, Haru skipping beside him like a kid at a festival.
"Man, do you feel it?!" Haru spread his arms wide. "This place reeks of glory and protein shakes!"
"Reeks of idiots more like," Daigo muttered. "Keep your mouths shut unless you're called. Don't give them reasons to laugh at you."
Ren nodded quickly, clutching his cracked racket case tighter. But the stares came anyway. Scouts in sleek suits tapped notes on their tablets. Journalists whispered, then smirked. Some players looked him up and down—lingering on his taped hands and battered gear.
They're scanning me like I'm a glitch in the system.
Then, a holo-projector blinked above: Tachibana Ren — Substitute Messiah.
Stats flickered on the big screen, incomplete.
Serve: 7. Rally: 9. Reflex: 12. Stamina: 14. Mental: 10.
Murmurs rippled instantly.
"Average at best..."
"Reflex decent, but nothing else."
"No wonder he lost 0–6."
Ren froze. His chest squeezed as if glass shards pressed in. Why show that here? Why strip me down like this?
"Oi."
A familiar sharp voice cut the noise. Shizuka stood at the edge of the corridor, racket bag slung over her shoulder, navy top perfectly neat, black ponytail swaying. Her eyes flicked to the screen, then to him.
"You're broadcasting your weaknesses to the whole world. How careless can you get?"
Ren's mouth opened, then shut. "...It's not like I asked them to."
Shizuka exhaled through her nose. "Then stop looking like you've been exposed. Raise your head. Answer on the court."
Something in her tone steadied him—icy, but not cruel. The tremor in his hands eased, just a little.
Haru leaned in, whispering with a grin. "Bro, she defended you. That's practically a love confession."
Shizuka's ears twitched pink. "I did not—!"
She turned sharply, ponytail snapping. "Don't misunderstand. If you embarrass the academy, it embarrasses me too."
Daigo smirked faintly, smoke curling from his lips. "Good. Looks like someone here won't let you crawl."
Ren glanced once more at the glowing board, his name dwarfed by hundreds above it. His heart pounded. Fine. I'll answer on the court.
From across the hall, another presence stirred. A tall figure in a plain black tank leaned against the wall, arms folded—Chen Liang. His dark eyes didn't blink, didn't move, just locked onto Ren with the patience of a predator.
Ren felt the weight before he even realized who it was.
Why do I feel like I've already stepped onto his court... even before the match begins?