17 Chapter 17

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Because of the tournament, the tennis park was filled with youths all dressed in matching sportswear. When they spotted the group clad in earthy yellow, they all stopped, saluted with unwavering gaze, and watched as the figures strode away with purposeful steps.

Passerby A: “Wow, is that Seigaku? They look so formidable!”

Passerby B: “They walk like the wind—definitely strong!”

Passerby C: “I’m so envious!”

Hibuki Tsukikage’s eyes widened, finally grasping the reputation of Seigaku: “What’s all this fuss about? Anyone who plays tennis must know Seigaku, right?”

Kazuya Kirihara was immensely proud, but aware that others might be watching, he turned his head only slightly and lowered his voice: “Of course! Seigaku is the national champion, the undisputed ruler reigning supreme over all Kanto schools—teeheehee!”

Yagyu said, “Kazuya, don’t smile like some villain.”

“Oh,” Kirihara retorted sulkily and fell silent.

At the registration desk, Kirihara rummaged through his tennis bag and produced a crumpled match roster, as dry as pressed flowers, which he handed to the attendant sitting behind the table.

The attendant pinched the wrinkled paper, glanced up at the boys before her, then looked down again—and noticed several spelling mistakes.

Uh-oh…

The Seigaku boys were speechless.

They had never imagined embarrassment of this sort.

Feeling the attendant’s gaze, the youths restrained their urge to cover their faces, mustering all their strength to keep straight faces.

After completing the registration, Kirihara turned and saw his teammates’ icy expressions and their complex looks.

He glanced left and right, puzzled: “What’s wrong with you?”

Had something happened?

Yoshio Tamagawa said tactfully, “Kirihara, you should keep important things properly.”

The others nodded in unison.

Kirihara replied, “I did keep it safe.” His new game console was carefully stored in a separate small pouch, so even if the tennis bag dropped, it wouldn’t get damaged!

Tamagawa keenly sensed that Kirihara wasn’t on the same wavelength but didn’t quite know how to explain.

“Kazuki-kun, I think Tamagawa means your official documents,” Hibuki said bluntly. “Like that match roster just now.”

“Oh, oh,” Kirihara rubbed his nose awkwardly. “I get it.”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on him, he grew uneasy and couldn’t help but say, “Actually, this was an accident—I usually keep things very neat.”

Yagyu gave him a light glance and said, “So is the trash Sanada always finds in your bag an accident too?”

Kirihara instantly became honest, stammering, “I-I just forgot.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

Kirihara, embarrassed and annoyed, complained, “Yagyu-senpai, I’m the team captain and will be sitting in the coach’s seat later—don’t I have any pride?”

“Sorry, Kazuya,” Yagyu apologized without sincerity, “I just can’t stand anyone lying.”

Kirihara had no retort.

Hibuki looked curiously at the purple-haired boy: So this is Yagyu’s personality?

Because it was only the regional preliminaries, few spectators had come, but the tennis courts where Seigaku was playing were still the liveliest.

Truly the treatment of a star school.

The players lined up for the pre-match ceremony. Hibuki and several first-year helpers stayed outside, guarding everyone’s belongings.

There were no stands at this venue; the courts were enclosed by wire fences. Apart from players, referees, and coaching staff, no one else was allowed inside.

The match began. The first game featured Yoshio Tamagawa and another candidate in doubles. Tamagawa’s performance was dazzling.

He had completely shed the nervousness and timidity from the car ride, opening with an aggressively angled lob that immediately shook the opponent’s confidence.

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Hibuki noticed an orange-haired youth beside him with flushed cheeks, initially gasping for air but visibly relieved when Seigaku scored.

He recognized the boy.

“Urakawa, aren’t you worrying too much?” Even he could see the huge gap in skill between the two teams.

“It’s not that,” Shita Urakawa’s cheeks flushed even deeper. “Tamagawa-senpai’s high spinning lob isn’t fully perfected yet; its success rate is below twenty percent. Using it at the start is risky—it could hurt morale if it fails.”

“Besides, this is Tamagawa’s first official match,” Yagyu commented. “Very bold.”

Really?

Hibuki reevaluated the white-haired boy on court and concluded, “I didn’t realize Tamagawa had this other side.”

The match was one-sided, and Hibuki soon grew bored. His gaze drifted elsewhere, and he noticed something odd.

There, on the coaching bench, stood Kirihara Kazuya, wearing a yellow jacket, arms crossed, sporting a green sweatband that had appeared on his head at some point. The boy’s back was straight, expression stern, eyes tracking the yellow-green tennis ball.

At first glance, he looked intimidating, but those familiar with him could easily tell he was putting it on.

Hibuki asked, “Kirihara, who are you imitating?”

A gleam flashed across Yagyu’s glasses: “Probably Yukimura and Sanada.”

Fashion coach — Yukimura Seiichi;

Expression coach — Sanada Genichiro.

Hibuki felt a little speechless.

Indeed, Kirihara had prepared thoroughly—in every sense.

Seigaku’s matches went smoothly. Especially Kirihara, playing singles three, crushed his opponent with absolute skill, finishing in just over ten minutes without losing a single point.

During the match, he also kept his promise to Hibuki, refraining from his notoriously aggressive “knuckle serve.”

This surprised the opponent, who had heard of Kirihara’s fearsome reputation and had been nervous for a long time. Afterward, the boy scorned himself for believing such rumors.

After the match, they shook hands, and the opponent awkwardly apologized: “Sorry, Kirihara, I misunderstood you and was unfriendly.”

Kirihara was confused: Did that really happen?

He tried to recall, tried hard…but gave up.

Laughable—he didn’t remember at all.

Kirihara shrugged it off, “It’s okay.”

Then he suddenly asked, “Want some vegetable and fruit juice?”

“Huh?”

“Our special Seigaku blend—great for tennis players. We don’t need it today; do you want some?”

What? Seigaku’s special drink? Was that even allowed?

“Can we?”

Kirihara generously replied, “Why not?”

“No way!” Tamagawa’s eyes widened, his voice cracking.

“Tamagawa, don’t be so stingy,” Kirihara disapproved.

Tamagawa thought: No, I just don’t want you committing a crime!

But how could he say that under so many watchful eyes?

While he hesitated, Kirihara led his group away, pulling out several bottles of murky-colored vegetable and fruit juice from his bag and handing them to the opposing team's captain.

The color was ominous, to say the least.

The captain’s alarm bells rang loudly in his mind, but Kirihara’s sincere eyes dispelled the vague doubts forming in his heart.

Kirihara had forgiven past grievances—he shouldn’t mistrust him!

Under the uncertain gazes of Seigaku’s members, they bid farewell and left.

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Hibuki had no sympathy for the impending disaster and still found time to interview the involved parties: “Kirihara, did they offend you?”

Feeling he was doing a good deed and preventing waste, Kirihara immediately denied it: “No.”

“Then do you dislike them?”

Though unsure why Hibuki asked, he answered honestly: “Not really. Those guys aren’t strong, but they’re surprisingly decent.”

Hibuki said solemnly, “Then why did you harm them?”

Kirihara was startled: “I didn’t!”

“Kirihara Kazuya, I can see right through your little schemes!” Hibuki banged on an imaginary gavel. “Confess now!”

“Mercy, I’ll tell you!” Kirihara played along perfectly. “Didn’t you say the juice boosts physical health? I meant well!”

That was indeed his excuse for the nonsense he had told Atobe.

Hibuki praised him, “You’re quite something—here’s your reward!”

Kirihara flattered, “What will you reward me with?”

Hibuki casually pointed at a vending machine by the roadside: “A drink.”

“Yay, thanks, Hibuki-senpai!”

Yagyu and the others wore complicated expressions, as if watching a poor performance or witnessing demons at a celebration.

If they could, they would call the psychiatric hospital to have these two taken away.

They felt that if these two continued on this path, society might be in danger.

Hibuki turned back, coaxing like a scolding child: “Alright, alright, don’t be upset. Everyone has their quirks.”

“But only Kelp-san gets to pick two bottles.”

Kirihara naturally ignored the nickname and cheerfully said, “Really? That’s great!”

Everyone else: Too many issues, don’t even know what to say.

Forget it, better just drink the juice. Ah, real fruit juice tastes so good.

As a reliable senior, Yagyu warned his simple-minded junior, who was gulping down cold carbonated drinks: “Kazuya, don’t believe everything Hibuki says.”

Kirihara burped: “Glug glug hic—”

Yagyu stared: “…”

“Yagyu-senpai, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Kazuya, cut back on the soda—careful or it’ll corrode your brain.”

“Ah!” Kirihara was startled, crushing the can in panic; the fizzy liquid spilled, soaking his hand. “N-no way?!”

He suddenly understood: “No wonder I only scored nine on this English test!”

Yagyu: “…”

Everyone else: “…”

“Yagyu’s joking,” Hibuki sympathized. “I hope you’re joking too.”

Kirihara stiffened.

Yagyu: “Hmph.”

That day, some members of the tennis team at a certain school fell into a deep sleep in the park for several hours after unknowingly drinking mysterious beverages during the regional preliminaries.

On the very same day, a certain kelp-haired boy skilled in self-sabotage earned a senior’s disapproving glare and laid the groundwork for endless remedial lessons.