The sound of a match echoed in the background. The referee's whistle, the crowd's euphoria, the slow-motion goal he'd analyzed at least a hundred times…
Kenyiro smiled from his desk, a cold cup of coffee at his side, a stack of books on sports biomechanics, and another half-written document.
"The human body is the perfect machine… if you know how to use it," he muttered.
It was his favorite mantra. One he'd repeat to his students and himself after every biomechanical analysis, whether dissecting a marathon runner's stride or calculating the ideal angle for a basketball dunk.
He was thirty-two. A university professor, sports consultant, voracious reader of research papers… and, secretly, a fan of fantasy light novels.
His students considered him eccentric but brilliant. Sometimes, he'd vanish for days just to finish an analysis on how eye movement influenced reaction time during a tennis serve.
He was obsessive. Passionate.
And ironically, that killed him.
One ordinary night, he stayed up studying the micro-stimuli in Olympic swimmers' nervous systems. His body gave out. He died in his bed, surrounded by books, notes, and statistics. From exhaustion.
A quiet death. Almost peaceful.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his bed. Or even his world.
The first thing he noticed was the smell of damp wood and wet earth. Then the pain. A weak body, feverish and stiff. A hard bed, a cracked wooden ceiling. Silence broken only by the creak of an old rocking chair swaying in the wind.
Days passed before he could even stand.
Over that week, he pieced together his situation with a scientist's patience: observing, analyzing, processing.
Now, he was Leo. A young laborer living on the outskirts of a city called Ravental. Not the most dangerous area, but the edge of the poor district, where cobblestones vanished and houses wore more patches than paint.
Leo lived in a two-story stone-and-wood shack: one floor for his home, the other for his vegetable shop. It was modest—a cramped kitchen, a squeaky bed, and a basement for storage. Neighbors said he'd inherited the place from his parents, who'd died years ago.
The real Leo had succumbed to fever. Nothing unusual in this world, where hospitals were luxuries for mages and nobles. An inglorious death, like so many others.
Now, Kenyiro was here. In his body. Living his life.
No science. No electricity. No Google.
Just a world where people spoke of spells, magical beasts, and enchanted swords as casually as the weather.
Over those seven days, he'd heard rumors. Warriors training to channel energy through weapons, mages who could fly or summon lightning. Even legends of elves, dwarves, and beastkin—though he'd yet to see one.
For now, that was background noise. Survival came first.
Each day, he opened the shop. Arranged vegetables, haggled with customers, faked half-smiles. No one noticed he wasn't the real Leo. Maybe because Leo hadn't been particularly loved or known. Just another worker.
And just as he began to adapt…
A voice.
Not from outside. Not behind him.
Inside his mind.
🟢 [Sports System Activated!]
Welcome, Host! Your mission: Promote Earth's sports in this world.
Begin your journey as a pioneer of competitive entertainment!
Ignite the flame of peaceful rivalry!
Time remaining to secure your first client: 7 days.
Failure penalty: Leo's illness will return. Imminent death.
Good luck!
The notification hovered before his eyes like a holographic sign only he could see. The letters were gold, gleaming and crisp. But the crucial part was the last line:
"Imminent death."
Leo—or Kenyiro—swallowed hard. Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
"Is this a joke? Some twisted game?"
He reread it three times. It didn't vanish.
The message lingered, clear as daylight. A system. Like in those novels he'd read before bed, where protagonists gained special powers.
"…Of all the things they could've given me, I get a sports system?"
Memories flashed: Maradona in '86, Usain Bolt at the Olympics, Simone Biles' perfect vault…
The thrill of a final match. A stadium's roar. The elegance of a flawless pass.
And now he had to bring that… here?
"In a world where knights throw wind blades and mages fly, I'm supposed to teach soccer… Seriously?"
But the system's final line hammered his mind again:
"7 days or die."
The fever. The weakness. The sweat. It was real.
The system wasn't playing.
Leo leaned against the shop wall, breathing unevenly. Outside, sunlight seeped through the window. The bustle of nearby markets grew louder.
He had to act. Now.
"Fine. If I'm going to die again, let it be chasing a damn ball," he muttered, forcing a bitter smile.
He walked to the center of the shop and scanned the room: stacks of vegetables, empty crates, an old cutting board.
No magic. No weapons. But he had the most important tool: knowledge.
"This world needs thrill. Competition. A victory cry that doesn't come with bloodshed."
"So, if the system wants sports…"—he took a deep breath—"then they'll get the greatest damn coach in the multiverse."
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The afternoon had dragged on. Leo—or Kenyiro, as he still privately thought of himself—sat slumped in a rickety chair beside a poorly varnished wooden table. On one side lay a few unsold vegetables; on the other, an oil lamp flickering wearily. The room was modest, like everything in this house.
The single-story home had two rooms: a cramped stone kitchen and a makeshift storage area doubling as a shop. Outside, the neighborhood wasn't the poorest, but walking at night without a club or blade was ill-advised. Still, tensions between kingdoms had cooled lately, and even the outskirts felt calmer.
He sighed. His seventh night in this body. In this world.
A week of doing the bare minimum: observing, listening, and accepting the absurd reality he'd been thrust into.
"At least I've got a roof, food… and no more Earthly taxes to pay," he muttered dryly.
Then, like a mental spark, the message reappeared in his mind, accompanied by a translucent interface floating before his eyes.
🟢 [Welcome Back, Host!]
As an inaugural gift, you may select one Earth sport to implement in this world.
Note: This will be the first sport in this dimensional plane's history.
His heart skipped a beat. The moment had arrived.
A menu unfolded with a subtle click, as if he were using cutting-edge augmented reality. Names scrolled in alphabetical order:
Athletics, Basketball, Boxing, Football, Judo, Karate, Swimming, Rugby, Tennis…
His eyes froze there.
"Tennis… Yes. That could work."
Memories surfaced: Wimbledon matches he'd watched on his old portable projector. The crisp thwack of the ball, the mental and physical grind, the strategic tension, duels like chess in motion.
It was elegant. Straightforward. One-on-one.
And crucially: it only required two people to start.
"System," he thought, "I choose Tennis."
✅ Confirmed.
Loading protocol: Tennis – Initial Implementation
Analyzing environment… Detecting host-owned property…
Result: Insufficient terrain. Dimensions unsuitable for physical construction.
Activating special technology: Sports Dimensional Space
Estimated size: 23.77m x 10.97m
Installation in progress: Estimated time: 24 hours.
Current progress: 1%…
A progress bar materialized, crawling forward.
Leo blinked. Then rubbed his eyes.
"Dimensional space…? Did I just unlock a magic pocket dimension with a tennis court?"
He paced his house, trying to fathom how a sports dimension would attach to his living room. Nothing had changed… yet. But if the system was telling the truth, his shack was about to become the kingdom's most unique shop.
He poured himself water from a clay jug and slumped back into his chair, overwhelmed.
A full tennis court…
A pocket dimension…
All in 24 hours?
He sighed again.
"Well, at least I don't have to build it myself."
But as he lay back, a second wave of questions hit—more unsettling than the first.
"How do I teach tennis to these people?"
Sure, he knew tennis theoretically. The biomechanics, the history, the official rules.
But he'd never been an elite player.
On Earth, his students were ordinary athletes.
Here… the locals were demigods-in-training.
"A knight could shatter a racket with one serve," he muttered.
"A mage… what if they fireball the court?"
"What if a half-orc tries to smash the ball with an axe instead of a racket?"
The mental image was as absurd as it was hilarious.
"Will I have to forge mithril balls…?" he chuckled darkly.
Then another thought struck.
"Will the system provide coaches? Tutorials? Training manuals? Or just dump me with a net and racket to wing it?"
He wandered into the next room. Leo's farming tools, an old vegetable scale, and a box of copper coins lay scattered. He mimed swinging a racket in the air, picturing the still-invisible court.
"On Earth, sports united people. Here… this could channel their competitive drive without bloodshed."
"But if I botch this, they'll laugh. Or worse… wreck the court."
He glanced at the floating progress bar:
3.7%
"Tomorrow's going to be… interesting."
He doused the lamp and collapsed onto his creaky cot. Above, wooden beams groaned softly, as if anticipating what was to come.
Before closing his eyes, he whispered:
"Tennis… you and I are conquering this world. One ball at a time."