Chapter Text
The sun beat down over the Melbourne stadium, casting a golden glow on the enthusiastic crowd. Flags waved like vibrant banners of hope, and chants echoed like thunder in the air. It was the U-17 World Cup Final, and all eyes were on Echizen Ryoma—the fifth and deciding player for Japan. Wearing his red and white jersey with “Japan” emblazoned on his arm, he was not just a participant; at seventeen, he was already a living legend.
Rumors of his return from the US, where he had honed his skills since winning a Grand Slam at fifteen, set the crowd ablaze. “He’s really here,” whispered one young fan, eyes wide with awe. In the stands, former teammates from Seigaku leaned forward in breathless anticipation—Inui, Momoshiro, Kaidoh, Fuji, Oishi, Eiji, and Takashi.
Horio, Katsuo, and Kachiro were also there, shouting encouragement, their voices cracking as they tried to outdo the roar of the crowd. A row back, Tomoka Osakada waved a handmade banner high above her head, nearly smacking the poor spectator behind her in the process. The bright pink poster board was impossible to miss—layered with glitter that shimmered under the stadium lights, outlined in neon green tape, and decorated with tiny tennis rackets drawn in silver marker. Puffy heart stickers framed the edges, and in the center, sparkling gold letters arched dramatically:
“GO! GO! RYOMA-SAMA!”
At the bottom, she had added smaller, hurriedly scribbled phrases in different colors:
“100% WIN RATE!”
“FOREVER NUMBER ONE!”
She had even glued on a small photo cutout of Ryoma mid-swing, surrounded by hand-drawn lightning bolts and stars, as if he were some kind of tennis superhero descending from the heavens.
Beside her sat Sakuno Ryuzaki, her fingers clasped tightly on her lap, the tension coiling quietly within her. At seventeen, she had grown taller and more composed, though the same gentle shyness still lingered in her movements. Her brown hair fell softly past her shoulders, framing her delicate face, and her warm brown eyes followed every motion on the court without blinking. She wore a light cardigan over a simple dress, her style modest and neat, just like her personality.
While Tomoka bounced excitedly, waving the banner with dramatic flair, Sakuno leaned forward slightly, her voice barely audible beneath the cheers. A faint blush colored her cheeks, but her gaze remained steady. She wasn’t as loud or bold as the others, yet the feeling in her chest was strong and certain. Even if her words were quiet, her support never wavered.
“Ryoma-sama! He’s even cooler now!” Tomoka exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement. Sakuno nodded, a small smile breaking through her anxious expression as she followed Ryoma’s graceful movements across the court. He looked different after five years—taller, more composed—but unmistakably still Ryoma she knew.
Tooyama Kintarou, the energetic player from the Japanese team, practically bounced in his seat. “Koshimae! Make sure you win!” he yelled, drawing a chuckle from the team captain.
Byoudouin Houou, the former captain turned assistant coach, stood tall among the coaching staff, arms crossed and an amused smirk on his face. “Let’s see how far the prince has come,” he mused, eyes narrowing as he observed the court.
As the match began, those present could feel the energy shift. Ryoma faced his opponent, Jean Delacroix of France, a tall, composed player known for his unpredictable net attacks and sharp slicing. But Ryoma was unshaken.
His dark green hair shifted slightly in the breeze, falling just above his sharp, focused eyes. The absence of it made his expression clearer—calm, almost unreadable, yet intensely concentrated.
He bounced the ball once, twice, the steady rhythm echoing in the sudden hush of the stadium.
Then he tossed it high.
He arched back and snapped forward, carving up the back of the ball.
The crack of his twist serve split through the air.
It didn’t just fly—it curved, kicking viciously off the court, leaping high and away from Jean’s reach.
Ace.
For a heartbeat, there was silence—then the crowd erupted.
The match exploded into life, each rally building on the previous one. Ryoma unleashed his signature techniques—Drive A propelled Jean into a backpedal, while Drive B curved wide and kept Jean guessing. The initial set was a testament to Ryoma’s hard work, but Jean struck back fiercely, stealing the second set with expert precision.
Then, as the third set unfolded, disaster struck. A misread bounce sent Jean’s racket clipping Ryoma’s brow—a sudden gasp swept through the stadium as blood trickled down his face. The crowd fell into a tense silence, unable to tear their eyes away from the scene.
Sakuno leaned forward, her hand instinctively reaching out, though she didn’t know who she was reaching for. Worry twisted her features as her heart raced. “Ryoma-kun…” she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Tomoka, sitting beside her, was quick to grab her megaphone, her usual excitement subdued by concern. She glanced at Sakuno, her eyes wide, but there was a fierce determination in her voice. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine… He’s Ryoma-sama.” Her words were meant to reassure, but the uncertainty in her own eyes betrayed the depth of her concern.
Sakuno looked at Tomoka, giving a small nod, her expression soft but still full of unease. The blood on Ryoma’s brow seemed to blur her thoughts, but she clung to Tomoka’s words, even as her own heart remained heavy with worry.
The referee offered a medical break, but Ryoma shook his head, wiping away the blood with determination. “There’s no need,” he asserted. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and turned inward, silencing the chaos around him.
In that moment of tranquility, he found his focus—this was the essence of his training. He visualized every shot, felt the rhythm of the game, and then unleashed a legendary move: the Samurai Drive.
With his eyes still closed, Ryoma served, and the ball vanished from view, curving and spinning through the air like a warrior’s sword in battle. The crowd roared with disbelief, the ball moving faster than most could follow.
“Unbelievable…” Byoudouin muttered, his eyes narrowing as he watched Ryoma’s precision. A proud smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “That technique... it’s on a whole new level now,” he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of respect.
Calm and focused, Ryoma returned everything Jean threw at him with an ease that made the game look effortless. The French player struggled to land a point as Ryoma moved with instinctive grace, every step calculated, every swing perfect. His eyes never wavered, his body almost like a reflection of the court itself—fluid, precise, and unstoppable.
Then, in a flash of brilliance, Ryoma stepped into a shot no one had seen coming. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he unleashed an exquisite new technique: Alpha Drive. The ball seemed to hang in the air for a split second, spinning like a comet on a collision course. It curved and twisted in a way that defied the laws of physics, a perfect spiral of raw power and precision. The sound of the ball cutting through the air was like a whip crack—sharp, unmistakable.
Jean lunged, desperate to intercept, but his racket cut through nothing but air as the ball whizzed past him.
He stumbled, completely out of position, eyes wide with disbelief.
It was over.
“Game, Echizen.”
A stunned silence gripped the stadium for a heartbeat.
Then Ryoma lowered his arm, pointed his racket straight at Jean, and said calmly—
“Mada mada dane.”
The words were soft.
The impact wasn’t.
The stadium exploded.
Japan wins the U-17 World Cup!
The crowd exploded into cheers, but all Ryoma did was lower his racket, his expression still calm, his eyes already focused on the next challenge.
As the realization sank in, the Japanese team surged onto the court, surrounding Ryoma in a flurry of jubilation. Kintarou tackled him in a bear hug. “Koshimae! That was amazing!”
The cheers echoed, a symphony of triumph and camaraderie that resonated throughout the stadium. As his teammates lifted him into the air, a wave of adoration washed over him. Up in the stands, amid the celebration, Sakuno clapped softly, her heart pounding in her chest. He hadn’t seen her yet—she was just another face in the celebrating crowd.
But as Ryoma raised his racket in acknowledgment, the sunlight caught the slight wound on his brow, illuminating the fierce spirit behind his eyes. She saw the spark of the champion, a fire that burned brightly where others would falter.
The national anthem echoed triumphantly, celebrating hard-fought victories on the court, where the young champions had carved their names into the annals of sports history. Ryoma's faint smirk breaking the stoic demeanor that defined him.
In the stands, Sakuno sat quietly beside Tomoka, her hands still tightly clasped on her lap, trying to steady the fluttering in her chest. Tomoka, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with adrenaline, still buzzing from the intensity of the match. She held her megaphone with both hands, as if it were an extension of herself, her eyes shining with pride.
“Ryoma-sama! You’re so amazing!” she shouted, her voice a melodic chant that cut through the cheering crowd. Her words were so filled with pure excitement that they seemed to have a life of their own, and the sound was so infectious it drew laughter from the people around them. The joy was contagious.
Even Sakuno couldn’t help but smile, her worries slipping away as she caught Tomoka’s enthusiasm. Katsuo and Kachiro, who had been holding their breath throughout the match, exchanged a grin and chuckled, sharing in the moment of pure celebration.
But not Horio. He sat with his arms crossed, sighing, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over at Tomoka. “Honestly, she never knows when to tone it down,” he muttered under his breath, though his lips twitched slightly as if trying to suppress a reluctant smile.
Sakuno turned her gaze toward Ryoma, her heart giving a small, quiet thump in her chest. As the crowd’s cheers and excitement washed over her, she felt a weight settle deep within her. Five years—it had been five long years since she last saw him. In that span of time, so much had changed, yet so much about him remained the same.
Memories flooded her mind in a rush: the scent of fresh grass on the tennis court, the quiet moments when he had helped her with something, even just his presence beside her. And then there were those stolen glances, brief but so meaningful, glances that made her heart skip in ways she could never quite put into words. It was a bittersweet ache, one she hadn’t realized she still carried.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her skirt, and the coolness of her bag pressed against her palms, grounding her in the present. She inhaled deeply, her thoughts running a mile a minute. Will I get the chance to talk to him? she wondered, a flutter of hope whispering softly beneath her doubts, almost too delicate to hear.
But as the celebration unfolded around her, her thoughts shifted, tugged back by the reality she knew too well. He’ll go back to the US, won’t he? The very thought settled like a stone in her stomach, casting a shadow over the brightness of the moment. The idea of it—the distance, the separation—felt like a barrier she couldn’t cross, no matter how much she wished otherwise. It was easier to push the thought away, but it lingered, lingering with every beat of her heart.
As the players began their descent toward the tunnel, adorned in the pride of their victory, Sakuno’s heart raced, her pulse quickening with each step Ryoma took. The noise of the crowd began to fade as she focused on him, feeling an almost magnetic pull drawing her closer. She stood up suddenly, gripping her bag tightly, as if the cool leather could steady the storm inside her.
"I... I want to say congratulations to him," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible, as if saying the words aloud would somehow make them real. She took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, the kind that had been buried deep within her all these years.
Before she could second-guess herself, she started to move, her feet carrying her toward the stairs leading down to the court's lower levels. Every step felt like a challenge, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to steady her breathing.
Tomoka, who had been caught up in the celebration, noticed her sudden movement. Her eyes widened with curiosity, and she quickly turned to follow Sakuno's path. “Sakuno, where are you going?” she called after her, a playful note of concern in her voice, but there was an edge of surprise too—she hadn’t expected Sakuno to make such a bold move.
But Sakuno didn’t turn back. She just kept going, her steps quick and determined, though her heart was heavy with uncertainty. She had to do this. She couldn’t let the moment slip away again.
But the moment was slipping away—just as quickly as Ryoma turned to head toward the U-17 Japan team bus, flanked by enthusiastic staff and security, the door swung shut behind him. Sakuno’s heart sank as she watched the bus begin to pull away, her hopes deflating in an instant. She had been so close. She took a step forward, her feet moving almost instinctively, intent on breaching the distance between them, but it was too late. The bus rolled away, merging with the sea of excited fans and flashing cameras, until it vanished from view.
With a heavy heart, Sakuno let out a soft sigh, her shoulders slumping as her gaze lingered on the empty space where Ryoma had just been. “Congratulations, Ryoma-kun,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, swallowed by the jubilant roar of the crowd. The words seemed to float in the air, lost among the cheers and the celebration, a bittersweet farewell that had come too late.
Next to her, Tomoka took a breath after running to catch up, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she pouted, the disappointment clear in her expression. “Too bad we can’t meet him,” she lamented, her voice playful but tinged with genuine frustration. “I wanted to get a picture or an autograph… or at least scream ‘Ryoma-sama!’ to his face!” Her eyes sparkled with the excitement of the idea, but even she couldn’t help but feel a little deflated as the reality set in.
Sakuno smiled weakly, her gaze lingering on the road where the bus had disappeared. “He must be busy... probably flying back to the US soon,” she said, forcing a small laugh, though it felt hollow. Her words didn’t reach her eyes; the sadness lingered, settling like a heavy stone in her chest. It was strange—she should have felt happy for him, proud even, but instead, all she felt was the ache of separation, the invisible distance that seemed to stretch between them.
Tomoka, ever perceptive, studied her closely, her playful energy dampened by the subtle change she saw in Sakuno. "You okay?" she asked, her voice soft, the concern clear in her eyes.
Sakuno hesitated for a moment, then nodded quickly, masking her emotions behind a faint smile. "Yes, I’m glad he’s doing well," she replied, though the words felt like they came from someone else. She wanted to believe it, to feel the excitement that should come with Ryoma’s victory, but all she could think about was the uncertainty that hovered over her heart.
What Sakuno didn’t know was that fate had already begun weaving the threads of their lives closer together, even as she felt the vast distance yawning infinitely between them. Unseen, yet inevitable, the universe was moving in ways she couldn’t comprehend, preparing for moments yet to come, moments that would bring their paths together once more. But for now, all she could do was wait—hope—believe that somehow, their story wasn’t finished yet.