Prince of Tennis: Shocking! Hyotei's Demon King is a Yukimura fangirl!

Just then, a woman's voice came from the entrance, tinged with tears, and her footsteps were hurried.

"Aaron! Aaron, are you alright?"

Akutsu Yuki ran over quickly, her forehead covered in sweat and her hair a little messy. She was slow and couldn't stop the furious Kawamura Hiroshi. When she arrived, she only saw Kawamura standing frozen in place.

She paused for two seconds at the entrance of the passage, ran to Kawamura's side, looked him up and down, saw his racket lying on the ground and his blood-stained bandage, and her eyes welled up with tears of heartache.

"You child, why are you always causing me so much trouble?" She sniffed, reaching out to gently pull He Cun's arm. "Don't just stand there, come back to the hospital with us right away. Your arm doesn't have time left; it needs surgery immediately, or it will really get worse if we delay any longer."

She used some strength to try and pull Kawamura away.

I pulled it, but it wouldn't budge.

Kawamura Takashi remained frozen in place, staring blankly in the direction his father had disappeared, as if he hadn't heard her words.

Akutsu Yuki was extremely anxious, tears welling up in her eyes. "Aron? Say something! Don't scare me. Let's go to the hospital first, okay? We can talk about it after the surgery."

Kawamura finally responded.

He slowly turned to look at Akutsu Yuuki, his lips moved, his voice hoarse as if it contained grit: "...Yuuki, my dad..."

Akutsu Yuki interrupted him, her tears falling even harder. She grabbed Kawamura's left arm, her voice trembling, "Whatever your dad said to you, don't take it to heart... That's just how he is... Now is not the time to think about these things. Your hand can't wait any longer; the doctor said it needs surgery immediately."

Kawamura still didn't move.

He hung his head, not knowing whether he was looking at the ground or at the tips of his shoes. His injured right hand hung at his side, and blood seeped out from the gaps in the bandage, dripping down his fingertips and falling onto the plastic floor, leaving a few small dark dots.

The surrounding Aoyama Gakuin members all watched, but no one stepped forward.

Akutsu couldn't bear to see his mother crying so much, so he strode over to Kawamura and grabbed his left arm.

"Walk."

A single word, as heavy as a block of iron hitting the ground.

Kawamura's arm was gripped so tightly that he staggered half a step. He looked up at Akutsu, his lips moved, but he didn't say anything in rebuttal.

Akutsu didn't look at him, half-dragging, half-pulling him off the field without stopping. Akutsu Yuki jogged alongside, her high heels clicking on the concrete.

The surrounding chatter gradually picked up again, all in hushed tones, buzzing like a swarm of mosquitoes flying around my ears.

"Sigh, no wonder his dad is angry. His hand was perfectly fine, and now it's ruined like this. Which parent wouldn't be heartbroken?"

"Exactly, he sneaked out to watch the game without even having surgery, and was just swinging his racket around aimlessly. I'd be angry too."

"There's something wrong with the atmosphere at Seigaku; nobody seems to care about their health."

"Kids don't understand, and adults don't understand either? Where's the coach? Where did the coach go?"

The whispers reached their ears, and the faces of the Seigaku students turned red and white, all bowing their heads, speechless.

Daishi opened his mouth, wanting to tell Kawamura to go to the hospital first, but then swallowed the words back.

What could he say?

Saying, "Go to the hospital first, we'll cheer you on"?

It seems a bit too flimsy.

Saying "the competition isn't important, your health is the most important"?

Just now everyone was saying that we'd go see Tezuka after we won the match.

For a moment, everyone fell silent; the atmosphere was awkward and heavy.

……

In the passageway at the exit of the stands, a stretcher was being steadily carried out.

Tezuka Kunimitsu lay flat on the stretcher, his eyes closed, lost in thought. His left arm was firmly secured with a soft pillow, remaining completely still.

The butler walked along the side of the stretcher, his steps very light, trying to keep the stretcher as stable as possible.

As I approached the exit, a middle-aged man walked towards me with his head down and his steps quick, as if he were angry.

The two nearly collided, and the butler quickly signaled to the staff to stop the stretcher.

Hiroshi Kawamura stopped and instinctively looked up to say, "Sorry." But as soon as he finished speaking, he recognized the person on the stretcher and paused, stunned.

A boy lay on a stretcher, wearing a Seigaku team uniform. His left arm was immobilized, and the exposed skin was swollen and reddish-purple, a shocking sight. The boy's face was tilted back, and the sunlight reflected off his glasses, obscuring his expression; only his tightly pursed lips revealed a hint of suppressed resentment.

He recognized the child.

He is Aron's minister.

When Seigaku advanced to the Metropolitan Tournament last time, the whole team went to Kawamura Sushi to celebrate. This boy named Tezuka Kunimitsu sat in the very center. He didn't talk much, but he was very composed. At the time, he thought the other person was his teacher, which made a fool of himself.

I never expected to run into him here.

We'll continue in this manner.

His gaze fell on the boy's exposed left arm. It was swollen and bruised, with patches of blood, and was firmly fixed in place; it looked no less serious than his own son's injury.

The anger on Kawamura Hiroshi's face subsided, replaced by surprise and a somewhat indescribable mix of emotions.

He had initially thought that only his son was foolish enough to disregard his arm in today's match. He hadn't expected that the captain of Seigaku would be the same.

It's just a children's tennis match.

How come they're getting injured like this one after another?

Hiroshi Kawamura stood there, his mind a jumbled mess, heavy and suffocating. He opened his mouth, as if to ask something, but ultimately remained silent.

Tezuka's eyelashes trembled slightly as he slowly opened his eyes on the stretcher.

He had just been on the sidelines and vaguely heard the commotion from the stands. He had seen Kawamura arguing with his father, heard the question "How am I going to explain this to Mom?", and the way the other man turned and left.

Looking at Kawamura Hiroshi's reddened eyes and taut jawline, Tezuka felt an indescribable sense of shame.

It was because he didn't do a good job as minister.

He failed to take good care of his teammates and neglected his own health. He caused worry for his teammates' families and rendered their efforts futile.

His lips moved as if he wanted to say "Hello, Uncle," but he felt too embarrassed to speak.

The two of them just stared at each other without saying a word.

The footsteps around me and the noise in the distance seemed to fade away. In the exit passage, only the soft sound of the wind blowing through the walls and the slight rumble of the stretcher wheels rolling across the ground remained.

Kawamura Hiroshi looked at the boy's pale yet calm face, then at his swollen left arm, and his throat moved. The words that were on the tip of his tongue circled around, but in the end, he didn't say them.

He sighed heavily, turned aside, and made way for the stretcher.

Tezuka withdrew his gaze, tilted his head back, and looked up at the sun overhead. His eyes behind his glasses were calm and expressionless; no one knew what he was thinking.

Medical staff carried the stretcher and slowly walked past him.

Hiroshi Kawamura stood still, without moving.

He watched the stretcher gradually disappear into the distance, then glanced back at the stands, feeling a heavy weight pressing on his heart.

When did tennis become such a dangerous sport?

Or perhaps, these children are underestimating the value of their own bodies.

He clenched his fist, but ultimately kept a serious face and turned to walk quickly toward the medical building.

The wind in the tunnel carried the smell of disinfectant, mixed with the faint noise from the stadium in the distance—it was hard to describe the feeling. The stretcher moved forward smoothly, and Tezuka lay flat on it, his left arm firmly secured, no longer in pain, or rather, completely numb.

He closed his eyes, suppressing all his emotions.

The match is over.

Lost.

My arm is mostly useless.

What path should we take next?

His mind was blank; he didn't know the answer, nor did he know which way to go; he just felt...

tired.

He is too tired.