A wild, obnoxious shout echoed through the stadium.
Every spectator—including reporters—turned to look at the masked man flailing his arms in the stands.
"Who the hell is this disrespectful bastard?!"
Gedō Gaichūchi shot to his feet, yanking a baseball bat from his bag, ready to teach the guy a lesson.
"Sit down."
A calm, aged voice stopped him cold.
Despite being a delinquent, Gedō obeyed Banji's words without question.
Hearing that familiar tone, Coach Banji's eyes crinkled into their usual—"narrow-eyed smile" as he studied the figure. Then, he chuckled. "Still holding a grudge after all these years, huh?"
Memories surfaced—decades ago, a certain bratty teen had lost a match, then pedaled straight to Banji's house on his bike just to yell insults at his doorstep.
"Escort that spectator out!"
The head referee's voice boomed.
(Let's be real—Prince of Tennis refs might seem useless, but when shit goes down, they act.)
Two assistant refs stormed the stands, hoisting the masked man up to drag him out.
"NO! YAMEROOOO—DON'T DO THIS! I HAVEN'T SEEN YAMABUKI LOSE YET!"
"LET ME WATCH, YOU BASTARDS!!"
---
Seigaku's Bench
"Who is that guy? Does he have some vendetta against Yamabuki?"
"Dunno..."
Kawasaki and Yamato exchanged confused glances.
"Maybe a Seigaku fan? Or someone's relative?"
Cough—!
Yoru cleared his throat, abruptly turning away. "Focus on the match. Kaidō, you two—"
"YO RUUUUUU!"
A fresh wail cut through the air.
"HELP ME, YORU! YAMETE KUDASAIII—!"
Clatter.
Yoru's strategy board hit the ground.
After a beat, Kaidō muttered, "...Captain. He's calling your name."
"I changed my name yesterday."
---
Yamabuki's Bench
Kaho and Kaneda stepped off the court, shoulders slumped.
Before they could speak, Banji smiled warmly. "No need for regret. We've already secured our spot in the Kantō Tournament. Turn this loss into fuel—let it pave the way for future victories."
The duo's eyes shimmered with—"moved emotion".
Banji had always been this way—his words carried a nurturing wisdom.
"Go rest." He patted their backs before turning to the next pair. "Natsuo, Ichiro—give it your all in doubles. Win or lose, extract every lesson you can."
"YES, SIR!"
The second doubles team snapped to attention.
"Good. Gedō, take the coach's seat. I'll go greet an old friend."
"Old friend?"
Banji pointed at the masked heckler.
Gedō blinked. If they're friends, why'd he trash-talk us in public?
Without explaining, Banji shuffled toward the stands—then, with a sudden burst of agility, launched himself up the steps like a man half his age.
(For a guy who usually moved like a fragile elder, those thigh muscles worked scary well.)
By the time the refs were about to eject the masked man, Banji coughed weakly, reverting to his frail act. "My apologies—this is my dear friend. Just... joking around."
The assistants hesitated, but recognizing Yamabuki's coach, they released "Nanjiro" after a warning.
Banji sat beside him, sighing. "Most men your age have matured. Yet here you are, still acting like a child."
"Most men your age are dead. Why aren't you?"
The masked man fired back without mercy.
Banji's eye twitched. Why does that insult feel so familiar...?
After a pause, he asked, "Nanjiro, what's your relation to Seigaku's captain, Yoru?"
"My foster son. Pretty close to my level of handsome, right?"
(The "masked man" was, of course, Echizen Nanjiro—sneaking in to see if Yoru could crush Yamabuki for him.
But admitting he cared? Never. Hence the "brilliant disguise.")
"Foster son? No wonder he talks like you." Banji mumbled, then smirked. "Couldn't beat me yourself, so you raised a kid to do it?"
Nanjiro scoffed. "Don't insult my expectations. Beating your team's just a side quest. That kid's stronger than I was at his age."
"What?!"
Banji's slit eye snapped wide open.
Like Walter, he knew how monstrous young Nanjiro had been. In all his years coaching, he'd never seen another talent on that level.
Nanjiro grinned at his shock. "Face it, old man. From the moment you lost Doubles 2, this match was over."
"Oh?" Banji remained unshaken. "Explain."
"Aside from Yoru, there's that European kid—a 'masterpiece' from Germany's elite club. You know what that means."
Banji's stomach dropped.
If Nanjiro wasn't bluffing, Yamabuki's chances were grim.
---
THUD—!
While they talked, Doubles 1 had begun.
The boosted swing speed didn't just elevate Yamato's pair—it also transformed Kaidō and Inui's game.
Inui's serves now packed brutal force, while Kaidō's Boomerang Snake had become even faster and harder to intercept.
"1–0!"
"...3–1!"
"5–2!"
In just 30 minutes, Seigaku closed the match at 6–2.
"Hah... hah... We never stood a chance."
Yamabuki's pair wiped their sweat,—"wry smiles" on their faces.
They'd known they were sacrificial pawns—but this was embarrassing. Their two points felt like charity.
After the handshake, they trudged back.
"Sorry, Coach. We lost."
"Their doubles were strong. You did well." Gedō reassured them, then glanced at Banji—still deep in conversation—and decided not to interrupt.
He turned to the next player. "Dōmon, you're up against Kirihara. Data says he's fast. Stay sharp."
---