The victory glow of making Top 100 hadn't even settled when Ren found himself sitting in a lounge that smelled more like perfume than sweat.
A man in a high-collared noble coat leaned back on the leather chair, crossing one leg over the other. His hair slicked, smile polished, but his eyes sharp like glass shards. He tapped his holo-tablet once, and Ren's name glowed across the screen:
[Tachibana Ren — Rank 99, "Substitute Messiah"]
"Congratulations," the man said smoothly. "You've caught everyone's attention. And attention, Tachibana-san, is currency. I'm here to make you rich."
Ren shifted uncomfortably in his chair, still in sweatpants, bandages peeking under his wrist wrap. Rich? I can't even pay rent in this world.
"I don't—"
The man cut him off, sliding a contract holo across the table. "Guaranteed favorable brackets. Sponsors who love an underdog story. Easy matches until quarterfinals. All you have to do... is wear our emblem. Nod when we tell you. Shake the right hands."
Ren stared at the glowing clause: "Bracket Protection — Compliance Mandatory."
His grip tightened on his racket case. So that's what Daigo meant. The league isn't clean.
"...And if I say no?" Ren asked.
The man's smile thinned. "Then you'll face... the other side of the league. 'Randomized' draws. Umpires who notice every fault. Commentators who frame your narrative as a clown act."
Ren's chest burned. They'd bury me alive.
He pushed the holo-contract back across the table. His voice shook, but the words came clear.
"...I didn't crawl this far just to be bought. If I lose, it'll be because I wasn't strong enough. Not because I sold my matches."
The man's smile didn't falter, but his eyes chilled. He stood, straightening his suit. "Brave. Stupid. Brave and stupid taste the same to me."
As he left, Ren felt his legs tremble, breath shaky. I just made an enemy, didn't I?
The lounge door slammed open. Daigo entered, scowl deep. "Brat. You better not have signed anything."
"I didn't."
Daigo's lips twitched—half relief, half irritation. He dropped into the chair the agent had vacated, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.
"Good. You're not completely useless then. But listen carefully." His eyes were sharp now, heavier than usual. "The court isn't just glass and lines. It's politics. Sponsors. Priests who judge more than foot faults. You want to climb? You fight twice—on the court and off it."
Ren exhaled, his chest still heavy. Fight on two fronts...? How long until I break?
Daigo blew smoke, eyes narrowing. "Remember this: If you bow to their money, you'll never stand tall on their court. You'll just be another name that got erased."
Ren clutching his battered Fallen Star in the dim lounge light, Daigo's words echoing heavy, while the holo-contract flickers faintly on the table—still unsigned, but not forgotten.
I thought I only had to fight my matches. But here... every choice feels like another rally that could decide everything.
Ren escaped the suffocating lounge with the contract still burning in his mind. His head spun—until a familiar voice cut in.
"Oi, Substitute."
Shizuka stood near the training corridor, arms crossed, racket bag hanging from her shoulder. She looked at him, eyes sharp. "What did that man want with you?"
Ren hesitated. "Sponsors. He... offered easy matches."
Her frown deepened. "...And?"
"I refused."
For a moment, silence. Then Shizuka looked away, ears faintly pink. "...Good. If you took it, you wouldn't be you."
Ren blinked. Wait—was that... praise?
Before he could respond, Maria appeared, twirling her racket like a baton. "¡Chico! You're still alive. I was worried the suits had eaten you." She leaned in, green eyes sparkling. "So? Did you accept?"
"No."
Maria's grin widened. "Bien. My chico isn't for sale. He's mine."
Shizuka stiffened instantly. "He's not yours."
Maria tilted her head, playful. "Oh? Then whose is he?"
"I—I didn't mean—!" Shizuka's ears turned crimson, her words tripping over themselves.
Ren's face went redder than both of them. "C-Can we not talk about me like I'm an item at an auction?!"
Before the tension snapped, a loud slurp echoed down the corridor.
"BROOO!" Haru bounded in, holding a steaming cup of ramen like it was holy water. "There you are! I was watching from the hall. You rejected the shady guy, right? Proud of you!"
Ren blinked. "...Were you eavesdropping?"
Haru ignored the question, thrusting the ramen cup at Ren. "Here. Limited edition spicy miso. Perfect for moments of moral victory!"
Ren sighed, but took it. "This... actually smells pretty good."
Maria laughed, clapping her hands. "A celebration feast, eh? Perfect. But next time, chico, we celebrate with wine."
Shizuka muttered under her breath, "...Ramen is fine."
Ren looked between them—fiery Maria, icy Shizuka, and noodle-obsessed Haru—and felt his chest twist. How did I end up surrounded like this?
Ren caught in the middle of Maria leaning on one shoulder, Shizuka glaring from the other side, while Haru slurps happily between them, completely oblivious.
Even if I survive the league... will I survive them?