Ryouma nodded politely to the group that had gathered at his request. Several
hundred years was enough to let someone get used to the same faces and personalities,
he’d found, and so he knew almost every one of the assembled very,
very well. Especially since he’d played tennis with them for several
hundred years. He tugged at his cap, a habit that even death hadn’t
been able to banish, and sighed. “I told you that I have an announcement
to make,” he said. “It’s this. I’m leaving.”

Ryouma noted that understanding was more or less instantaneous on some faces,
less so on others, especially Fuji’s and Tezuka’s. He held a
hand up at the startled exclamations and explained, “The last direct
descendant of any of us died yesterday. Yes, I’ve been keeping track,”
he said, to a questioning look from Inui. He went on, “The world would
probably be fine even if I didn’t go back into the cycle of reincarnation,
but after some time here, I want to make sure that things stay safe.”

Ryouma wasn’t surprised that it was Momoshirou who stepped forward.
“You were the one who dragged half of us here,” Momo snapped.

His answer to that was a lazy smirk. “Which is why I know you’ll
take care of Sampras for me. I’m trusting all of you with it.”
More seriously, he added, “I’m doing this, Momo-san. I’m
just telling you because I didn’t want you to be upset because I disappeared.”

“You’re insane,” said Kirihara flatly.

Ryouma snorted. “I rule a region in a place that’s not heaven
or hell that’s called ‘Sampras.’ Of course I’m insane.
I’m also saying goodbye, until I get back.” He paused thoughtfully.
“I’m hoping that my ambition will be something like politics
this time.”

That, as he had expected it to, made several of the hardier souls laugh.
“Try to be a benign ruler,” Fuji told him serenely.

“I’ll be good,” Ryouma promised. “At least I’ll
try.”