The instant the serve landed, it was as though someone had pressed pause on all of Court Three.
Two seconds passed before the whole place erupted with a buzz.
"How fast... was that serve?"
"No idea, but definitely over 180."
"This is a fucking qualifier? This is a Grand Slam final!"
"Didn't you see his motion? The toss, the rotation, the swing, all in one line, like it was drawn."
In the stands, a middle-aged man stood straight up, his face flushed red, and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Great shot! What a shot!"
The girls beside him had already gone wild.
Phones rose in a forest, shutter clicks and hushed cries rising one after another.
"Hubby! My hubby is so handsome!"
"How is his serve so smooth? I'm dying..."
"I don't understand tennis, but at this moment, I get it. Isn't this art?"
"Stop, stop, my hands are shaking. All my photos are going to be blurry."
Yan Ruanning sat in the back row with her cap pulled low, but no one saw that her eyes had gone fixed behind her sunglasses.
She knew Cheng Che had talent.
Old Chen had said so, and she had experienced it herself on the court.
But after some time apart, she watched him again, and he had grown stronger once more.
A serve like that would hold its own not just in a qualifier, but even in the professional matches she had watched.
Beside her, Xiao Zhou was already watching in a daze and murmured:
"Ruanning, didn't you tell me before that Xiao Che had some talent, but still needed time to realize it? Why do I feel like he already has?"
Yan Ruanning did not answer.
She simply watched the boy on the court, suddenly feeling a little dazed.
That day at the tennis center, he had not been this strong.
She had even beaten him.
Yet at this moment, she felt a little pride that even she could not explain.
The boy freely shedding his sweat beneath the sunshine seemed to have already crashed into her heart.
On the court, Zhang Hao was still standing where he had been.
He held his receiving stance as though someone had struck his pressure points. The ball had already rolled into the backboard behind him with an extremely faint thud.
He swallowed.
He had seen that ball, and he had not.
What he had seen was a yellow-green blur flying over from the other side. Before he could lift a foot, the ball had vanished.
By the time he heard the sound and turned, it was already behind him.
What kind of speed was that?
What kind of spin was that?
Had that serve really come from someone who had "joined the monastery halfway through"?
The umpire called the score. "Fifteen-love."
Cheng Che had already returned to his serving position, turning the ball in his hand, his face expressionless.
The second serve came.
He tossed, arched back, and swung.
His motion was identical to the previous serve, as though copied and pasted.
Crack!
The ball shot out like a cannonball again, this time landing out wide.
Zhang Hao moved.
He shuffled two steps sideways and stretched his racket out to reach it.
The racket made contact.
But the ball was too heavy.
Immense force traveled from the racket face into his wrist, then into his forearm.
The web of Zhang Hao's hand went numb, and the racket nearly flew from his grip.
The ball bounced high and flew toward the stands.
"Thirty-love."
Zhang Hao looked down at his racket. The strings were still trembling, as though frightened.
He had played tennis for twelve years.
From the municipal sports school to the provincial youth team, from his first junior tournament to today, he had returned countless fast balls, heavy balls, and spinning balls.
But no one had ever made him feel, while returning a serve, that his hand was going to break.
That strength, that explosiveness, that sense of rhythm.
A monster.
He remembered something Qin Lie had once said to the media. He had dismissed it then, but now he believed it.
This person named Cheng Che really had come from another dimension.
The third serve.
Cheng Che did not hit another heavy ball.
With a gentle slice, he sent the ball out with backspin. It drifted down near the net and barely carried forward after bouncing.
Zhang Hao had been waiting at the baseline for another cannon shot. At the sight of this change, he froze for a moment before charging forward desperately.
He reached the net and barely managed to lob the ball back.
Cheng Che was already at the net.
As though he had known all along that Zhang Hao could only lob it back, he pressed down with an effortless backhand.
Crack.
The ball skimmed over the net cord and slammed into the open court behind Zhang Hao.
"Forty-love."
Zhang Hao knelt on the ground, both hands braced on his knees, gasping for breath.
Just one game.
Just three points.
His back was already soaked.
Not from the heat.
It was cold sweat.
It was that unstoppable fear seeping out from between his bones.
He raised his head and looked at the boy across from him.
Cheng Che simply stood there, breathing evenly, with barely any sweat on his forehead.
He lowered his head and adjusted the overgrip on his racket handle, as though he had just finished a set of warm-ups.
I haven't gotten serious yet, Zhang Hao told himself hypnotically. I can still play. This is only the first game. I don't believe he can keep playing like this.
He planted his racket against the ground and stood up.
He was still going to fight.
In the first game, Cheng Che served four aces and held to love.
The chatter in the stands could no longer be contained.
"Is this a pro playing an amateur?"
"I looked up his profile. Apparently he's only trained for less than a few months, but his serve is fiercer than those of plenty of players in ranking tournaments."
"Haven't you noticed? He's barely run at all. Everything ends with the serve or at the net."
"This is what you call a dimensional strike, understand? His opponent can't even probe his hidden cards."
In the livestream, bullet comments swept past like an avalanche.
"What's going on? Isn't Zhang Hao a mainstay of the municipal sports school? How come he can't even return the ball?"
"Holy shit, that serve... even my phone shook."
"Bro on the other side, stop playing and come off. I want to see Brother Zhuangyuan's face."
"Does anyone else think he looks like that kind of person, you know, the kind who's usually quiet but ascends to godhood the moment he makes a move?"
"Yes! And have you noticed? His expression hasn't even changed! That's the scariest part."
"Zhang Hao: Who am I? Where am I? Why am I trying to return this ball?"
"Friends, I came here just to watch the fun, but now I think I'm going to start watching tennis seriously."
In the commentary booth, the two commentators were already becoming somewhat incoherent.
"Viewers, let us confirm once again that Cheng Che is eighteen this year, the top scorer in the college entrance examination, and has been playing tennis for... according to him... a few months?"
"We still find those details a little surreal. A few months ago, he might have been grinding practice questions, and now he's out there serving with this speed and placement. It really feels unreal."
"All right, we've reached the middle of the match. Zhang Hao has finally broken one of Cheng Che's service games in the second set. He's still trailing in games, but judging by the play, Cheng Che still seems to be in complete control."
"Yes. Zhang Hao is fighting incredibly hard, chasing every ball, but his stamina is dropping far too noticeably. And psychologically, the impact may be even greater."
On the court, Zhang Hao really was close to his limit.
His hair was drenched and plastered against his cheeks.
His legs felt filled with lead, and every time he started moving, he was half a beat slower than before.
The heaving of his chest could no longer be described as "panting." Every breath carried a bloody taste in his throat.
He hit the best crosscourt forehand of his career.
A vicious angle, blistering speed, and a reckless downward drive.
Cheng Che moved three steps sideways and ripped a one-handed backhand.
Bang!
The ball sliced over the net like a knife and slammed into the unreachable corner by Zhang Hao's forehand sideline.
Zhang Hao lunged.
It was a frantic, ferocious lunge.
His whole body crashed to the ground, his racket stretched to its limit, catching nothing but a wisp of air.
The ball landed, bounced, and rolled away.
Zhang Hao lay facedown and did not get up immediately.
His face pressed against the court, his mind buzzing.
He could not understand.
He had put everything he had into that shot.
The angle, the power, the timing-all had been at his limit.
Yet Cheng Che had merely taken three steps and casually swung, pinning him dead.
How was he supposed to play against this?
How the fuck was he supposed to play against this?
People in the stands had already begun saying quietly, "Just let it go. This is too brutal."
"Zhang Hao's trained for over ten years, after all. How is he getting crushed like this..."
"It's not that he's weak. Cheng Che is just too absurd. Look at him. He's chased all those balls and barely broken a sweat."
"Is this really just a qualifier? I feel like I'm watching the French Open final."
"I feel bad for Zhang Hao. He's got skill, but he ran into a monster."
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Spring City, Cheng Jianguo and Jiang Xue were huddled in front of a phone screen.
"Did our son win?" Jiang Xue stamped her feet anxiously. "Zoom in, will you! Where's the score?"
"He's winning, he's winning! Look at that number, three to one, third set!" Cheng Jianguo's eyes were nearly pressed against the screen. "Oh, that little brat can really run."
"What about his face? Where's my son's face?"
"They've got him, they've got him... wait, why does this cameraman keep filming his back? Isn't my son's face much better-looking than that Zhang Hao's!"
Jiang Xue rolled her eyes at him. "What do you know? They're filming a match, not a beauty contest."
"Oh, come off it. With my son's looks, he'd win a beauty contest too."
In another room, Guo Xin sat alone, clutching his phone, grinning so hard his face nearly split.
"That's my brother! My deskmate! My brother who stays up gaming all night with me! Hahahaha, did you see that! That forehand had that bastard scrambling and rolling!"
As he laughed, he furiously sent messages to the class group chat.
"Everyone, come watch Cheng Che! Come watch! What fucking qualifier? This is a goddamn one-man show!"
Su Qingyue was watching the livestream at home.
She said nothing in the group chat, simply staring at the boy on the screen, a little lost in thought.
Lin Xiao was watching too.
After tutoring all afternoon, she had come home and sat down at her computer, drinking water as she watched the match.
When she saw Cheng Che win the final point, she even forgot to lower the cup in her hand.
Zhao Lei watched as well.
He had not wanted to.
But messages kept coming into the class group chat, and his phone vibrated until it irritated him.
He opened the livestream just in time to see Zhang Hao return a serve out of bounds, and Cheng Che turn expressionlessly toward the rest area.
Zhao Lei leaned back in his chair and watched for a long while. Finally, he closed the livestream and cursed under his breath:
"This is fucking pointless."
After a pause, he added, "How does this guy just keep getting stronger?"
Hang City Stadium, Court Three.
The final point had come.
Zhang Hao stood at the baseline, his legs already trembling. Cheng Che had the serve.
Cheng Che bounced the ball.
Once, twice.
Then he tossed it, jumped, and swung.
Crack!
An ace down the T.
The ball slammed into the T, bounced, and flew straight toward the advertising boards.
Zhang Hao did not move.
He could no longer move.
The umpire announced the final score.
Cheng Che lowered his racket and walked toward Zhang Hao.
Zhang Hao got up from the ground, but his legs buckled, and he nearly dropped to his knees again.
He gritted his teeth, steadied himself, and walked to the net.
The two shook hands.
Zhang Hao's hand was shaking. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the ground, forming a small wet patch.
"I've trained for twelve years," Zhang Hao said hoarsely. "How long have you trained?"
"A few months." Cheng Che thought for a moment and decided to give a longer estimate after all.
Zhang Hao smiled, but that smile looked worse than crying.
"All these days, I kept thinking I'd gotten lucky, drawing an internet celebrity. Now I know." He released his hand and looked at Cheng Che, his eyes filled with helplessness. "You shouldn't be playing the qualifiers at all. You should be waiting in the main draw."
Cheng Che nodded. "Thanks. You too."
Zhang Hao said nothing more.
He turned around, his retreating figure exhausted and dejected, as though his bones had been drawn out of him.
His coach came up to him, draped a towel over his shoulders, and said something to him in a low voice.
Zhang Hao took none of it in. He just walked out mechanically.
Cheng Che returned to the rest area, unscrewed the bottle of mineral water Qin Lie handed him, tipped his head back, and gulped down half of it.
A thin sheen of sweat had finally appeared on his forehead.
Qin Lie offered him a towel. "How did that feel?"
Cheng Che took it and wiped his neck. "I'm loosened up now."
Qin Lie did not smile.
He stood at the edge of the court, still holding the bottle of water he had not handed over, his gaze following Cheng Che the whole time.
As though he were watching a match unlike any he had ever played.
He had never seen anyone learn to play tennis in such a short time and make it feel so utterly hopeless.
He wondered whether he would have fared any better than Zhang Hao if he had been on the other side.
Qin Lie shuddered.
"You call that getting loosened up?"
He finally spoke, his voice carrying a trace of complexity that even he did not notice.
Cheng Che smiled. "What, you thought I hadn't warmed up enough?"
"I fucking think I need to find you some stronger opponents."
Qin Lie's words brimmed with excitement. He seemed to have caught sight of the future.
He lowered his head, unscrewed the cap, and took a gulp of water himself. His hand was steady, but his mind was in utter turmoil.
How many people in this tournament could return his serve?
At courtside, several reporters had already gathered around.
"Cheng Che! Player Cheng Che! Could we interview you?"
"You played brilliantly today. Could you say a few words?"
Cheng Che hung the towel over the back of his chair and waved at the reporters with a smile.
"See you in the main draw."
With that, he slung his tennis bag over his shoulder, turned, and strode toward the players' tunnel.
The reporters stood frozen, microphones raised.
One female reporter watched his handsome figure recede into the distance and could not help remarking, "The spirit of youth. How wonderful."