The umpire called time.
Both players took their places at the baseline. Zhou Kaiyue served first.
He stood behind the baseline, bounced the ball twice, and looked up at Cheng Che across the court.
In the stands, the clamor of three thousand people suddenly dropped, as though someone had turned down the volume.
Everyone craned their necks, waiting for Zhou Kaiyue's first serve.
There was a strange anticipation in that silence, as though everyone were waiting for an explosion.
Zhou Kaiyue took a deep breath and suppressed his distracting thoughts.
He was a professional player. He had played countless matches bigger than this.
The spectators? Noise. His opponent? He didn't care.
He tossed the ball and swung.
First serve, out wide.
It was a clever serve, its placement pulling outward, the ball continuing to drift beyond the sideline after the bounce.
This was his signature serve: a quick delivery, plenty of spin, and a wicked angle.
Normally, an opponent would have done well just to get a racket on it.
Cheng Che moved.
Just once.
Zhou Kaiyue felt his vision blur, and Cheng Che was already there.
Cheng Che's footwork was impossibly light. He planted himself firmly beside the ball's landing spot and lashed out with a one-handed backhand like the crack of a whip.
Smack!
The ball flew down the line over the net, landed a few centimeters inside the sideline on Zhou Kaiyue's backhand side, and bounced straight toward the backboard.
Love-fifteen!
Zhou Kaiyue stood rooted to the spot, still holding his post-serve stance, as though someone had struck his pressure points.
He had delivered the serve he was proudest of, and his opponent had scored outright with a backhand down the line.
The entire crowd erupted with a roar.
"Holy shit!! What just happened?"
"A return winner! And a one-handed backhand down the line! Is that difficulty level a joke?"
"I just said Zhou Kaiyue was going to dominate. Sorry, I was wrong. Cheng Che is a monster."
"A monster? That was a fucking professional-level shot."
At the commentary desk, both commentators abruptly sat bolt upright.
"That shot... let's watch it again. Zhou Kaiyue's wide serve practically clipped the line, with high-level speed and placement. Then Cheng Che hit a one-handed backhand straight down the line and blasted right through. In all my years commentating, seeing a return like that in a qualifier-honestly, this is a dimensionality-reduction strike."
"Let me say something a little unprofessional. At Zhou Kaiyue's level, that shot is basically unanswerable. He couldn't return it. So he stood there without moving, not because he didn't want to move, but because that shot was already beyond his capabilities."
Gritting his teeth, Zhou Kaiyue walked back to the baseline.
The knuckles of his racket hand had turned white.
It's fine. Just one point.
He served again.
For the second serve, he added more sidespin and aimed down the middle instead.
The ball wasn't especially fast, but after bouncing, it swerved toward Cheng Che's body.
This kind of ball was the nastiest. The receiver couldn't generate power even if they wanted to, nor could they redirect its pace.
Cheng Che indeed used no power.
He stepped half a pace back to make room, then sliced a backhand.
The ball floated lightly over the net and landed extremely short, like a leaf carried to the net by the wind.
A spark of delight rose in Zhou Kaiyue.
An opening!
That ball was short. He could charge in and attack!
He took off, rushed to the net in a few strides, lined up the incoming ball, and hammered a forehand.
He connected!
His racket struck the ball with a loud bang, sending it straight toward Cheng Che's forehand side.
Then he saw Cheng Che smiling.
Zhou Kaiyue's heart plunged.
Cheng Che was already at the net.
As though he had calculated it all beforehand, he gently extended his racket and blocked the shot, using its own pace.
His racket angled just a fraction, and the ball changed direction, sailing leisurely past Zhou Kaiyue's other side.
It landed.
Point.
Love-thirty.
"Another one! A tactical volley!" The commentator's voice changed. "Zhou Kaiyue is completely in the palm of his hand! He took the bait! That short ball from Cheng Che was a trap from the start. He deliberately lured him to the net, then lay in wait there himself, turning his opponent's power against him. I've only ever seen wily veterans on the professional circuit play shots like that."
"Eighteen years old, with the tennis IQ of a thirty-year-old. Cheng Che has shown us once again that he doesn't rely solely on his physical abilities."
In the stands, the minor influencers who had originally maintained an air of "I'm here to ride the hype" had completely forgotten why they had come.
They held up their phones, mouths hanging open, yet couldn't bear to take their eyes off the court.
"I originally wanted to film his face... now I just want to film him playing."
"Is he really human? How does he even know where his opponent is going to hit?"
"He's running Zhou Kaiyue around like a little kid."
"He's terrifying. A man like that-terrifyingly handsome, and even more terrifying on the court."
And those few minor influencers who had originally held their phones up had, at some point, lowered them onto their knees, leaving their cameras filming nothing but their own shoes.
But no one cared.
Even they found their phones a nuisance.
Third serve.
Zhou Kaiyue stood behind the baseline, the last trace of a smile long gone from his face.
He suddenly found that he no longer knew how to play tennis.
His serves were like toys before Cheng Che.
Cheng Che saw through his tactics at a glance.
All his experience, before this young man, was like a small child dragging over a chair to reach candy on a table-clumsy and laughable.
He served.
This time, he went all out, putting every ounce of strength into his fastest shot of the day.
The ball flew toward Cheng Che like an arrow loosed from its bow.
Cheng Che met it and swung a forehand.
Bang-!
The ball came back faster than it had arrived.
Before Zhou Kaiyue could even make a move to return it, he heard a smack behind him.
The ball had already landed and bounced toward the stands.
Love-forty.
"A cannon of a forehand!" The commentator was practically shouting. "After that shot, if I were Zhou Kaiyue, I wouldn't know how to play the next point. Cheng Che's style is, 'Go ahead and serve. If I can't return it, I lose.' Oh, no-it's, 'Go ahead and serve, then see whether you can return my shot afterward.' Absolutely staggering."
"Well, Zhou Kaiyue is now down love-forty in his service game without winning a single point. I genuinely didn't foresee this before the match. I admit I underestimated Cheng Che. I owe him an apology."
In the stands, Zhou Kaiyue's coach covered his face.
Several people had already begun whispering to one another.
"Cheng Che looks only eighteen, but he plays like someone who's been at it for thirty years."
"What's the most terrifying part? The tempo. Zhou Kaiyue is being led around by the nose. When he wants to speed things up, he gets slowed down; when he wants to slow down, he gets rushed. That gap isn't something training can bridge."
"If anyone ever tells me again that 'someone who starts late can't win,' I'll slap them in the face with today's match."
Zhou Kaiyue stood behind the baseline, silent as a stone statue.
He didn't look at the stands or at his coach.
He simply lowered his head and stared at the ball in his hand.
The entire venue suddenly fell silent again.
This silence was different from the last.
The earlier silence had been anticipation.
Now, the silence held a kind of unwillingness to watch.
Three thousand pairs of eyes watched him, as though waiting for him to make a mistake, yet also as though waiting for him to give up.
The final serve.
Zhou Kaiyue held the ball, his fingers trembling slightly.
His breathing was heavy and his throat tight, as though something were lodged there that he could neither swallow nor spit out.
He looked up at Cheng Che across the court.
The kid stood there perfectly composed, as though he had barely moved, without even breaking much of a sweat.
I can't play him, Zhou Kaiyue told himself.
The moment that thought surfaced, he slammed the ball into the ground.
"Serve! Keep going!"
He roared into the air and tightened his grip on his racket.
Then he straightened, raised his hand, and tossed the ball.
The ball rose, then fell.
His eyes were red, like a wild beast driven to the edge of a cliff.
He served.
This time, he served out wide.
The ball clipped the line and landed in, carrying the spin and power of an all-or-nothing gamble.
The corner of Cheng Che's mouth shifted.
He moved.
This time, he neither stepped back nor moved sideways, but took a step forward.
He met it with a one-handed backhand.
His racket swept upward, like a blade slicing across the surface of water.
Smack!
The ball sliced through an extremely low, fast arc, all but brushing the net cord as it flew over, landed at Zhou Kaiyue's feet, then shot forward and passed between his legs.
The umpire called the score.
First game to Cheng Che, without conceding a point.
Zhou Kaiyue stood where he was, as though all his strength had been drained away.
His racket slipped from his hand and crashed to the ground.
"My God..." The commentator's voice had gone hoarse. "Zhou Kaiyue failed to win a single point in his entire service game. Four serves, three outright winners, and one tactical drop shot. Cheng Che dismantled Zhou Kaiyue completely in four different ways. I can say with full responsibility that this was the most staggering game since the tennis event at this year's Youth Games began."
The other commentator fell silent for a long while before continuing:
"I originally wanted to say a few words to salvage things for Zhou Kaiyue. After all, he's facing a match unlike anything he's ever played. But I realized it would be useless. The gap is visible to the naked eye. This isn't a question of form. It's a question of level."
"Yes. Cheng Che is a player on another level."
In the stands, Yan Ruanning pulled down her mask and took a sip of water.
The corners of her mouth hadn't dropped since the first serve.
He really is so amazing.
She said it in her heart.
Some spectators nearby had already begun shouting.
"Zhou Kaiyue! Didn't you say you'd show him what tennis was? Have you seen it for yourself now?"
"You should thank Cheng Che! He gave you the most expensive lesson! For free!"
"Post that Weibo again! 'Wish me luck,' hahahaha!"
"Cheng Che! Cheng Che! Cheng Che!"
The voices merged into a swell that battered the court like ocean waves.
On the court, Cheng Che merely walked to the sideline, unscrewed his bottle cap, and took a small sip of water.
His breathing was steady.
Qin Lie walked over and said quietly, "It's only been one game. Don't relax too much."
Cheng Che nodded. "I know."
He walked back onto the court.
Two more games remained.
What he wanted was to turn Zhou Kaiyue's entire match into a shadow over his life.
To let him know that riding the hype came at a price.
And that price might just be your... professional career!