King of Tennis (POT)

The two players on the court exchanged no unnecessary words. After the coin toss to decide serve and sides, they retreated to their respective baselines.

"Huh."

On the Japanese team's side, Ōmachi raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Duke actually gave the No. 3 spot to Tokugawa?"

"Makes sense," Kaneshiro replied with a shake of his head. "He switched from French to Japanese nationality just to follow Byōdōin. After the last match, there was no reason for him to stay in U-17 anyway."

At that, Kajimoto and Fuwa couldn't help but sigh.

Duke's departure meant Japan had lost one of its top-tier players—a huge blow to their overall strength.

"Still, this match feels different," Mitsuya, the team's strategist, suddenly remarked, eyeing the multiple camera setups and staff around them. "The Koreans are going all out with the production!"

"Let me guess," Kaneshiro mused, resting his elbow on his left arm while stroking his chin. "They actually think they can win this exhibition match, don't they?"

"Heh." Kajimoto smirked. "They must've assumed that without Byōdōin, we'd be pushovers. Their head coach is seriously naïve."

After a moment's thought, the others quickly pieced it together—and the realization made them laugh.

True, Byōdōin wasn't here. But sitting in the coach's seat was someone even more terrifying than the Golden Tyrant himself.

"Just wishful thinking," Fuwa muttered coldly.

"Not entirely," Mitsuya countered with a smile. "According to Korea's current ranking, winning this match would secure their spot in the World Cup."

"Wait," Marui interjected, puzzled. "Mitsuya-senpai, what exactly is this exhibition match? And how are the team rankings calculated?"

He'd tried applying the pro tennis ranking system but quickly dismissed the idea—pro players competed individually in tournaments like Grand Slams and Masters, earning points based on placement.

But U-17 was a team event. And as far as he knew, outside of the World Cup, there weren't any similar competitions.

"Well," Mitsuya explained, "exhibition matches are held weekly, rotating randomly among the 128 registered U-17 nations."

"Points start accumulating from the first month after the World Cup ends. A doubles win earns 15 points, a singles win 10. A draw gives 1 point, and winning the entire exhibition match nets 100."

"One month before the World Cup begins, the top 32 teams based on total points qualify."

He chuckled. "So yeah, the seniors are right. The Korean coach probably saw Byōdōin's absence as his golden opportunity."

"Opportunity?!"

Marui and Hiroshi's lips twitched uncontrollably.

Then, almost reflexively, their eyes flicked toward the coach's bench—where Ishikawa sat.

If that was really Korea's plan… their coach was in for a rude awakening.

"Game set, best of three!"

The referee, perched on the high chair, announced after confirming both players were ready. "First set, Korea's Park Geon-soo to serve!"

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The crowd's attention locked onto the burly, black-haired young man as he rhythmically bounced the ball.

"Good."

Park clenched the ball in his hand, glaring across the net at Tokugawa. "Since this is a match to prove ourselves, I'll show you the power of Korea's U-17 strongest!"

Whoosh!

He tossed the ball high—then, with a violent snap of his racket, muscles bulging, he smashed it forward like a cannon blast.

Sssshhh—!

A fire-trailing bullet of a serve rocketed toward Tokugawa.

"There it is!"

A Korean player grinned. "Geon-soo's 'Missile Serve'!"

Park Geon-soo, 17, Korea's No. 3, was a powerhouse honed through rigorous training. His signature Missile Serve had once shattered an opponent's racket and arm in a match against a Southeast Asian player, cementing his reputation.

To the Koreans, Tokugawa—leaner, seemingly less physically imposing—stood no chance. Even if he blocked it, they expected his racket to fly from his grip.

Swish!

Yet, Tokugawa's expression remained unchanged. His left hand lifted the racket smoothly, meeting the ball the instant it rebounded—

Ping!

A crisp return.

"No way?!"

A Korean player gaped. "He just—he just returned Geon-soo's Missile Serve?!"

"Tch."

Park's eyes narrowed. "So you've got some skill. Let's see how much more you can take."

BANG!

His next swing was even fiercer—a Missile Drive, this time at 60% power.

"Geon-soo's getting serious," remarked a cool-faced blond on Korea's bench. The others nodded in agreement.

Kim Tae-woo, 17, Korea's No. 2—domestically the strongest player, paired with overseas returnee Lee Seung-bok as the nation's "Twin Stars."

He watched Tokugawa with interest. "How many of those can you handle?"

Ping!

Tokugawa returned it effortlessly.

"Good!"

Park grinned, not angry but exhilarated. He dashed forward, racket poised for another brutal strike—

CRACK!

This one was at 70% power.

"Not bad," Idate and Ban murmured approvingly from Japan's side. The sheer force behind Park's swings would've wrenched the racket from most players' hands.

Yet Tokugawa remained unfazed.

"Damn it!"

Korea's head coach, Park Dong-gun, scowled from his seat.

He'd expected an easy victory against this unknown Japanese player. But Park Geon-soo's relentless attacks weren't even shaking him.

Worse, Geon-soo was losing his cool, frustration mounting with each failed strike.

Bam! Crack! Bam! Crack!

The two traded blows at the baseline, Park's power escalating—yet Tokugawa stood firm.

"You bastard!"

Park's face darkened. With millions watching live, his inability to dominate was humiliating.

Gritting his teeth, he lunged forward, muscles swelling as he unleashed his ultimate technique—

"Sky Bow Missile!"

"Mr. Kim," the KBS2 host asked nervously, "you said Park Geon-soo's power was overwhelming. Why hasn't he broken through yet?"

Kim Gun-yoon, a former pro turned analyst, cleared his throat.

"Tennis tests more than just strength—technique, strategy, mental fortitude…"

Then, spotting Park's full-power strike, he brightened. "Ah! Here it comes! His strongest move, the Sky Bow Missile!"

"Park's grip strength is 80kg—he could crush an apple barehanded. This shot can pierce through chain-link fencing!"

"What?!"

The host and viewers gasped. A tennis ball breaking a fence? Unthinkable!

Yet on screen, the ball tore through the air like a comet, kicking up a dust storm in its wake.

The audience braced for impact—surely Tokugawa would be sent flying!

BOOM!

The collision sent a shockwave rippling outward, smoke engulfing Tokugawa.

But before the Koreans could cheer—

Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.

A multicolored spin shot zigzagged through the haze… then vanished.

"Wait—where'd the ball go?!"

Park frantically scanned the court—nothing.

Then…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of a bouncing ball came from behind him.

The crowd turned in unison.

There, just beyond the baseline, was the "missing" ball.

The referee, baffled, checked the high-speed replay—

"In! Tokugawa takes the point, 0-15!"

"Damn it all!"

Coach Park Dong-gun's face twisted in fury.

With live cameras broadcasting every angle, even a biased referee couldn't overturn the call.

The match wasn't over yet—but the script was unraveling fast.

And he had a sinking feeling it wouldn't end the way he'd planned.