531-535

Chapter 531: The Return of the Super Genius – The Terror of the Invincible Armada!  

Thud!  

A faint golden glow burst behind Medanore without warning.  

"40-15!"  

Even the umpire’s voice wavered slightly.  

Rip!  

The next second—  

A section of Medanore’s jacket was cleanly sliced open, as though slashed by a razor-sharp blade.  

"What was that?!"  

Furio, watching from outside the court, felt his eyelids twitch violently as his gaze landed on Byoudouin.  

"The pinnacle of tennis—the Otherworldly Dimension!"  

Behind Byoudouin, a spectral figure had materialized—a skeletal pirate captain, clad in a tricorn hat, wielding a curved cutlass.  

The moment Furio locked eyes with it, an indescribable mental pressure bore down on him. The glint of the blade seemed to threaten splitting him in half.  

Without thinking, Furio took two instinctive steps back under the bewildered stares of those around him.  

"This…"  

His teammates, like Banberi, were stunned.  

"That glare… it’s terrifying."  

Regaining his composure, Furio steadied himself and stared at the golden-haired player on the court with awe.  

Byoudouin Houou.  

Japan’s former strongest player was far more formidable than he’d imagined.  

"Oh?"  

Meanwhile, Medanore—who had just lost the point—glanced at his opponent with intrigue.  

"So this is the new technique you’ve mastered in the past two years?"  

Back then, Byoudouin had only wielded the Glow Shot. Though it had pressured Medanore, it was nothing compared to this.  

"As expected."  

He nodded slowly.  

"No matter how highly I estimate you, it’s never enough."  

Hummm!  

A surge of energy erupted from Medanore, sending shockwaves rippling outward.  

Bang!  

Before most spectators could process it, the crisp sound of a racket striking the ball rang out.  

Tap! Tap!  

Byoudouin dashed forward, eyes locked onto the ball’s trajectory. With a powerful upward swing—  

Whoosh!  

A massive pillar of fire erupted, twisting and morphing midair until it took the form of a roaring, ferocious dragon, hurtling toward Medanore.  

"That’s—!"  

Scouts from various countries stiffened.  

"A pro-level technique—China’s Red Claw Dragon?!"  

"What a terrifying shot!"  

On Spain’s side, Furio and Banberi’s pupils constricted.  

The dragon’s sheer momentum sent waves of scorching air rolling across the court, its heat palpable even from a distance. The power behind it was unimaginable.  

BOOM!  

The flames engulfed Medanore.  

Sizzle…  

Amid the smoke, a figure stood firm, racket still extended. A sharp grating sound echoed before—with a sudden twist of his wrist—the smoke dispersed like shattered glass.  

"He countered it?!"  

Players from other nations gasped, while Spain’s team erupted in exhilaration.  

Their captain—the prodigy who had once surpassed Germany’s Volk—had dismantled a pro-level technique in seconds.  

"Not bad."  

Byoudouin, however, merely nodded in acknowledgment.  

Then, his eyes sharpened as he chased down the next ball, his movements slowing to an almost surreal pace. To the audience, his arm and racket seemed to multiply, leaving afterimages in their wake.  

"India’s… Snake Charmer!"  

Swish! Swish! Swish!  

Dozens of illusory tennis balls rained down like a storm.  

"Another pro-level move?!"  

The representatives stiffened again.  

"Tennis balls don’t multiply out of thin air."  

Medanore remained calm, his gaze pinpointing the real ball instantly.  

"Found it."  

With a swift swing, he intercepted the genuine shot.  

Whoosh!  

But Byoudouin was already moving, his racket lashing out like a whip, spinning the ball with brutal force before launching it forward.  

"That’s—!"  

Spain’s team collectively froze. Furio blurted out:  

"Spanish Bullfight?!"  

This was the signature move of their country’s top pro, Rafael—and now, a Japanese player was using it in the World Cup finals?!  

BOOM!  

The ball struck the court like a meteor, blasting dust outward before leaving a searing mark on the ground.  

Medanore didn’t even flinch. Instead, he leveled a piercing stare at Byoudouin.  

"Impressive technique."  

"40-30!"  

Byoudouin had forced his way into Medanore’s service game, overwhelming him with pro-level skills. Normally, Spain’s players would be furious—but faced with such sheer dominance, they could only fall silent.  

Absolute strength commanded respect.  

Bang!  

"Deuce (40-40)!"  

Bang!  

"Advantage receiver!"  

Bang!  

"Game!"  

"Japan’s Byoudouin leads, 2-0!"  

With an unrelenting barrage of pro techniques, Byoudouin had stolen a game right from Medanore’s grasp.  

"This is bad."  

Furio’s expression darkened.  

Losing a single service game shouldn’t be catastrophic—yet he could sense the subtle shift in momentum.  

Sure enough, as the match progressed, Byoudouin’s two-game advantage solidified his control.  

Bang!  

By the 34th minute, a brutal smash shattered Medanore’s defenses.  

"First set: Japan’s Byoudouin wins, 6-4!"  

"He did it!!"  

"That’s our captain! Unstoppable!"  

"Keep pushing! End this in straight sets!"  

Japan’s team erupted in cheers, while Spain’s side sank into dismay.  

"Our captain… lost?"  

"Could this match really…?"  

"Quiet!"  

Furio, usually composed, cut them off coldly.  

"The match has only just begun."  

To many of Spain’s players, Medanore—who had been absent for two years—lacked the authority Furio had earned as their former captain. His initial loss dented their confidence.  

But Furio knew better.  

Medanore hadn’t even begun to fight seriously.  

Byoudouin was strong—but he was also the perfect stepping stone for Medanore’s resurgence.  

Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud!  

The second set commenced with relentless intensity.  

Pro-level techniques collided, the force of their rallies carving out a no-man’s-land on the court.  

Bang!  

"Game!"  

"Japan’s Byoudouin leads, 3-2!"  

"You never disappoint, Byoudouin."  

As they switched sides, Medanore—now fully ignited—studied his opponent.  

"Only someone like you is worth my full effort."  

Hummm!  

An overwhelming aura erupted from him.  

"He’s finally getting serious?"  

The atmosphere among the spectators tightened.  

No one believed Medanore’s earlier performance was his limit. Among the Big 4 nations, Spain’s captain was assessed to be, at minimum, a top-tier pro-level player.  

"So…"  

Switzerland’s Amadeus narrowed his eyes.  

"Just how far have you gone?"  

Whoosh!  

Medanore tossed the ball into the air.  

"Huh?"  

Many blinked in confusion.  

That was it?  

This subdued aura paled in comparison to any pro player’s. Had they overestimated him? Had his two-year hiatus dulled his genius?  

Then—  

Splash…  

A sound like crashing waves filled the air.  

At first, spectators thought it was their imagination—until it grew louder, drawing all eyes back to Medanore.  

Snap!  

His racket struck the ball at its peak.  

Thud!  

The serve seemed… ordinary. No Glow Shot’s brilliance, no Dark Shot’s trickery. Just a plain, straightforward serve.  

But Byoudouin’s expression tensed. His gaze locked onto empty space ahead—  

Whoosh!  

The ball vanished.  

"It… disappeared?"  

The crowd exchanged glances.  

Vanishing serves were common in pro play. This was… underwhelming.  

"Here it comes."  

Byoudouin’s focus sharpened.  

CRASH!!!  

What he saw wasn’t a tennis ball—but a colossal warship emerging from turbulent seas, its cannons roaring as it fired a direct hit.  

BOOM!!!  

Flames and waves collided, shrouding the ocean in steam—  

—which, in reality, translated to thick smoke enveloping the court. When it cleared, Byoudouin stood frozen in place, staring at a fresh ball mark scorched into the sideline.  

"15-0!"  

The umpire’s voice was strained.  

"What… was that?"  

Switzerland’s analyst, Lampard, gaped.  

"It looked like… a massive ship tearing through the waves," muttered Henry Nobel III.  

"An Otherworldly Dimension!"  

Albert Federer declared. "That had to be one!"  

Amadeus nodded. "That serve embodied Medanore’s indomitable will."  

"Indomitable?"  

Germany’s Bismarck stiffened. "Don’t tell me—"  

"The Spanish Armada."  

QP’s voice was grave.  

In the late 16th century, the Invincible Armada ruled the Atlantic—over 150 warships, 3,000 cannons, and tens of thousands of soldiers.  

Whoosh!  

Medanore served again.  

Silence engulfed the court—until a deafening boom signaled another cannon blast from the depths.  

"Hmph!"  

Byoudouin retaliated instantly, his racket flashing as he unleashed—  

"Egypt’s… Phoenix!"  

Screech!!!  

A fiery bird of prey soared into the sky, vanishing from sight.  

"A fine shot."  

Medanore’s response was eerily calm.  

CRASH!!!  

The warship’s cannons tilted skyward—  

—and then, from the churning seas, hundreds of Spanish galleons emerged, their guns locking onto the phoenix.  

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  

A full broadside turned the sky into an inferno.  

Thud!  

In reality, a charred tennis ball embedded itself into the stadium wall, spinning violently.  

"30-0!"  

The stadium fell dead silent.  

A breeze swept through the lingering smoke, revealing Medanore—his coat fluttering, his presence towering.  

Antonio Da Medanore.  

Now, the world remembered the weight of that name.  

High above, in the VIP section, Germany’s coach—Kan Reinhardt—watched with grim focus.  

"The prodigy who defeated Volk two years ago… has returned."  

Chapter 532: The Shadow Beyond the Tennis Dimension—Equal’s Trump Card  

Boom!  

"Game!"  

"Spain’s Medanore, 3-3!"  

In the blink of an eye, Medanore had seized his service game with the unstoppable might of his tennis’ otherworldly dimension—the Armada Invencible.  

"Is this his indomitable will?"  

The team captains from various nations wore solemn expressions. Antonio da Medanore—a name that had begun to fade from memory—now stood vividly in their minds once more.  

The prodigy who had once dominated with professional-level strength had returned.  

"Two years of injuries stole much of his time," mused Kan Reinhardt from the stands. "Otherwise, with his talent, even if he couldn’t surpass Jürgen, he’d still rank among the world’s elite professionals."  

Injuries were every athlete’s greatest foe.  

Yet Medanore had conquered his afflictions and reclaimed the court. This match would be his redemption—the spark of a storm destined to shake the professional tennis world.  

Thud. Thud. Thud.  

The sound of a bouncing tennis ball drew everyone’s attention.  

"Hm?"  

Eyes turned to the court, where Equal stood expressionless, rhythmically tapping the ball. His aura sharpened with every bounce.  

"Indomitable will? Hah!"  

With a cold smirk, he caught the ball mid-air. "Then I’ll be the one to crush that belief of yours."  

Zzzzt—!  

As he released the ball, a blinding light erupted from it—his ultimate serve: "Light Strike: Annihilation!"  

BOOM!  

The ball rocketed forward like a cannonball, a streak of white tearing through the air like a meteor. The sheer force sent shivers down the spines of onlookers.  

"Useless."  

From Spain’s bench, Frio shook his head. "That serve won’t work on him anymore."  

CRACK!  

Sure enough, Medanore returned it effortlessly, the sound of crashing waves echoing once more.  

Whoosh—!  

But just as Spain’s players swelled with excitement, the clear blue sky darkened without warning. Rolling storm clouds blotted out the sun, arcs of lightning flickering within.  

KABOOM!  

Thunder roared.  

Torrential rain poured down as the sea itself seemed to upheave, waves threatening to swallow the world whole.  

Then—SLAM!—a pirate ship, its black flag emblazoned with a skull, surged through the tempest. It weaved through the armada like a predator, cannons blazing as it tore through the mighty fleet in a frenzy of destruction.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Back in reality, after a grueling exchange, Medanore’s racket froze mid-swing—just long enough for Equal’s shot to slip past him.  

"15-0!"  

The umpire’s call was met with a collective gasp.  

"H-how?!"  

Spain’s players stared in disbelief.  

**"The Armada Invencible… was defeated?!"**  

"The World Pirate," Frio murmured, eyeing Equal with newfound respect. "His otherworldly tennis has reached the same level as Antonio’s."  

"Equal Phoenix."  

From the stands, Amadeus, Reinhardt, and Camus watched the golden-haired player intently.  

If Medanore’s tennis embodied invincible will, then Equal’s World Pirate symbolized freedom and fearlessness.  

Their clash of spirits was evenly matched—victory would hinge on whose resolve burned brighter.  

Boom! Crack! Boom! Crack!  

The battle raged on.  

Both held their serves, the score locking into a tense deadlock. The court became a warzone as the two unleashed their full power.  

"Game! Japan’s Equal, 4-3!"  

"Game! Spain’s Medanore, 4-4!"  

"Game! Japan’s Equal, 5-4!"  

"Game! Spain’s Medanore, 5-5!"  

Fifty minutes into the second set, the match reached its climax—the decisive game.  

"I’ll admit, you’re a stubborn opponent," Medanore said, flicking his hair aside. "To push me this far… This move was meant for him, but since it’s the finals, I won’t hold back."  

"What?!"  

Japan’s bench erupted in shock.  

"He still had another card up his sleeve?!"  

"Of course," Oni and Duke exchanged knowing glances. Medanore was no ordinary pro—he had tamed Spain’s fiercest talents. Even Equal remained unfazed by the declaration.  

HUM—  

A ripple of blue energy pulsed from Medanore, an oppressive weight settling over the court. A shadow—indistinct yet foreboding—loomed overhead.  

"Final game! Japan’s Equal to serve!"  

Equal responded with a thunderous serve.  

WHOOSH!  

Medanore’s aura exploded, a shapeless darkness writhing behind him.  

BOOM!  

The return shot detonated at Equal’s feet before he could react.  

"0-15!"  

"What?!"  

Japan’s players stiffened.  

Equal’s Light Strike had been dismantled—and he hadn’t even moved.  

"What just happened?!" Duke and Tanegashima exchanged bewildered glances.  

Even for a pro like Equal, failing to react was unheard of—unless facing a serve like Ryoma’s Stardust or Tokugawa’s Mach.  

But this shot hadn’t been that fast.  

"So… what was it?" Oni stroked his chin, deep in thought.  

Equal’s expression darkened.  

Unreadable.  

Medanore now seemed like an enigma—a fog obscuring his every move.  

"So you were hiding something," Equal growled. "Let’s see you do that again!"  

BAM!  

Another serve.  

HUM!  

Medanore moved instantly, his shadowy aura spreading like ink in water.  

"It’s coming!"  

Players like Yukimura and Tezuka, sensitive to spiritual pressure, tensed.  

"What is that?" Tokugawa strained to see past the darkness.  

THUD!  

The ball landed—and Tokugawa hadn’t even registered it.  

SWISH!  

Equal lunged, but his racket grazed empty air.  

"0-30!"  

Gulps echoed from Japan’s side.  

"Unfathomable tennis?" Ryuzaki’s eyes gleamed with intrigue. "Ah… So this is why they call him the Heretical Genius."  

BAM! "0-40!"  

BAM! "Game! Spain’s Medanore, 6-5!"  

Medanore had broken Equal’s serve, seizing the lead.  

"ANTONIO! ANTONIO! ANTONIO!"  

The crowd roared, electrified by his dominance.  

Meanwhile, Japan’s players clenched their fists.  

If Equal couldn’t break Medanore’s serve now, the second set was as good as lost—and the third would be even harder.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

Medanore bounced the ball, his gaze icy.  

"If this is all you’ve got," he said, "then this match ends here."  

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face.  

Winning like this—avenging his past defeat—brought no joy. He’d rather have faced him in Singles-1, the one who’d toppled Volk.  

"No matter. There is no Singles-1 now. The next doubles will seal Spain’s victory—"  

His thoughts cut off.  

A presence.  

His instincts screamed as he snapped his focus back to Equal.  

"So you were holding back too!"  

A grin split Medanore’s face as he served with renewed ferocity.  

WHOOSH!  

The ball blurred, its trajectory masked by the looming shadow. But since serves were confined to one half of the court, Equal’s sharpened focus locked onto its landing point.  

"Got it!"  

He lunged, racket flashing—  

—and seven other versions of himself mirrored the motion.  

"Eightfold Void?!" Spain’s bench recoiled.  

Eightfold Void—a transcendent state beyond ordinary reaction time. Their own Akutagawa had used it to defeat a pro-level Japanese player earlier.  

Now, Equal—already a pro—was wielding it.  

The result was terrifying.  

BAM!  

Medanore’s body lagged, his swing arriving a fraction too late.  

"0-15!"  

"OOOOOH!"  

Japan’s morale skyrocketed.  

"If it’s Eightfold Void," Spain’s coach muttered, "Antonio won’t easily predict his moves."  

"Perhaps," Frio said coolly. "But Equal isn’t Akutagawa—and Antonio isn’t that Japanese player, Atobe."  

BAM!  

Sure enough, Medanore adjusted, countering the technique.  

But Equal wasn’t done.  

Ninefold. Tenfold. Elevenfold.  

With each escalation, he carved through Medanore’s defenses.  

Finally—  

TWELVEFOLD VOID.  

Twelve phantoms moved as one, the racket striking with surgical precision.  

BAM!  

The ball kissed the baseline.  

"Game! Japan’s Equal, 6-6!"  

"Tiebreaker!"  

Silence.  

The stadium held its breath as Equal’s suffocating aura pressed down on them all.  

"That…"  

From the German team’s booth, Volk’s eyes widened.  

"Could that be… the legendary state beyond the Eighth Consciousness—the Ālayavijñāna?!"  

Chapter 533: Ultimate vs. Ultimate – The Phoenix Reborn!  

"Alaya-vijnana? What... is that?"  

Not far away, Siegfried widened his eyes in confusion as he stared at the court.  

"Hmm." Bismarck pondered for a moment before answering, "I once heard a pro mention it. Beyond the Eighth Consciousness lies the 'Path of Death.' Those who walk it awaken a supreme force in tennis—something even greater than Muga no Kyouchi."  

"So, something beyond Muga..." Q.P.'s expression darkened.  

He had already witnessed the terror of Muga no Kyouchi in the first match of the finals. But now, with this—coupled with the sheer gap in skill between Atobe and this man—the power unleashed was on another level entirely.  

At the very least, in Q.P.'s mind, the golden-haired player before him was an opponent who demanded his full strength.  

"Toori Bunta."  

Borg’s gaze deepened as he watched the match unfold. A chilling thought crossed his mind—If I had faced him instead of Ishikawa in the semifinals... the cost of victory would have been far greater.  

"A power beyond Muga, huh?"  

On the court, Medanore studied his opponent with newfound interest. "I never expected you to reach such heights."  

He knew Muga no Kyouchi well. Though he hadn’t fought Akutsu personally, thanks to Coach Nanjirou, he’d analyzed countless recordings of the technique. That was why he understood its lethality.  

But this?  

Toori had transcended it.  

Even Medanore felt a flicker of unease.  

Yet, rather than fear, the challenge ignited something long dormant within him—a hunger for battle.  

"Very well. You’ve earned my full strength."  

"Tiebreak. Toori to serve."  

The umpire’s voice cut through the tension.  

At the baseline, Toori’s eyes burned with ferocity.  

BANG!  

A blinding golden streak tore through the air—*"Glow Shot: Destruction!"*  

Even pros like Amadeus and Reinhardt stiffened at the sheer force behind it. Enhanced by Alaya-vijnana, what was already a pro-level technique now carried enough power to shatter concrete.  

BOOM!  

Yet Medanore caught it.  

A shockwave erupted from his racket, shredding the surrounding air. His clothes whipped violently in the storm of force—but his grip didn’t waver.  

"Strong. But not enough."  

Then—  

HUM!  

A dark, writhing aura erupted around him, distorting reality itself.  

Spectators gasped as their vision twisted. Some even hallucinated—a monstrous shadow looming behind Medanore, its presence suffocating.  

"Here it comes!"  

Toori’s eyes narrowed.  

This was the same eerie pressure that had overwhelmed him earlier. Unlike Borg’s indomitable will or Ishikawa’s unfathomable depth, Medanore’s psyche was corrupting, warping perception like a storm at sea.  

The closer the ball came, the more Toori’s senses betrayed him. Nausea. Dizziness. Then—  

A thing materialized before him.  

Something not human.  

"CRUSH IT ALL!"  

Alaya-vijnana flared.  

Veins bulged across Toori’s face as his aura erupted like a demon unchained. Yet even then, he barely caught a glimpse of the ball. Instinct took over—  

CRACK!  

The return shot screamed back—  

"0-15!"  

But the umpire’s call made Toori freeze.  

"What?!"  

He looked down.  

The ball had already landed at his feet.  

"An illusion?!"  

His fists clenched. Even his mental fortitude couldn’t fully resist Medanore’s distortions.  

Then he saw it—  

Behind Medanore, a nightmare took shape.  

Tendrils. Shadows. A formless horror.  

One glance, and the vertigo returned.  

But Toori grinned.  

"So it’s a battle of minds after all."  

HUM—  

His aura exploded.  

Black energy swirled, then ignited—shifting from darkness into a blazing, crimson inferno.  

Alaya-vijnana: Final Form.  

"Medanore to serve."  

The Spaniard tossed the ball high—  

BOOM!  

A serve laced with tangible malice rocketed forward. The sheer psychic weight made even Q.P., Camus, and Reinhardt flinch.  

Only Ishikawa, Ryoga, and Borg remained unfazed.  

"Heh. Not bad."  

Nanjirou smirked from the coaches' box. "So this is the power of a true 'Ultimate'."  

Like Borg, Medanore had honed his mind into a weapon. But where the German was an unshakable mountain, the Spaniard was the abyss—an endless void where reason drowned.  

Once unleashed, the match was supposed to be over.  

But—  

"RAAAAH!"  

Toori’s roar split the darkness.  

CRACK!  

A black-flaming cannonball obliterated the net, hurtling toward Medanore with soul-searing intensity.  

"Spanish Bull?!"  

Medanore’s eyes widened.  

But this was different—the flames burned his very essence.  

"You—?!"  

His instincts screamed.  

Toori had also stepped into the realm of the Ultimate.  

"GAME, SET, MATCH!"  

"Japan’s Toori Bunta wins: 6-4, 7-6!"  

Chapter 534: Doubles 1 – Spain’s Trump Card  

As the referee’s voice fell, the stadium plunged into an eerie silence.  

The spectators looked stunned.  

The Spanish team’s players, in particular, stood wide-eyed, their faces filled with disbelief.  

"WOOOOOAH!!!"  

After that brief moment of stillness, the Japanese team’s side erupted into thunderous cheers.  

"We won!" 

"As expected of Byoudouin-senpai!" 

"That last smash was insane—how can a human hit with that much power?!"  

The excitement was palpable.  

Nearly every pair of eyes was locked onto the scorched mark left by Byoudouin’s final smash—a trail that looked like molten lava had surged across the court.  

It was hard to believe.  

That a person could reach such terrifying heights.  

"You won."  

As the smoke cleared, Medanore—drenched in sweat—walked to the net and extended his hand to his opponent.  

He looked like he had just been pulled out of water. His once-elegant jacket was soaked, his entire body trembling from exhaustion. Even his steps had been unsteady.  

Yet, despite his physical state, the dignity and charisma he displayed left everyone in awe.  

"You were strong too. Stronger than I expected."  

Byoudouin, equally unsteady on his feet, walked forward and clasped Medanore’s hand. The moment their palms touched, Medanore felt a searing heat and instinctively flinched.  

"You’re insane."  

Medanore stared deeply at his opponent.  

It was unbelievable—no ordinary human could maintain normal bodily functions under such extreme conditions. Anyone else would have collapsed from heat exhaustion.  

Yet this man had fought him for nearly thirty minutes in this state.  

The ultimate Araya Shiki (Abyss of the Self) was nothing short of a path to self-destruction.  

But it also proved one thing: Byoudouin’s monstrous strength. His will burned like a phoenix’s rebirth, leaving even Medanore shaken.  

"Hey."  

As they withdrew their hands, Medanore suddenly spoke up.  

"You’re going pro, right?"  

"Maybe."  

Byoudouin shrugged indifferently.  

He had no burning desire for the pro leagues. After all, most of his strength came from traveling the world and battling non-professional legends.  

"Is that so?"  

Medanore sighed.  

"Then the pro scene just lost something interesting."  

"You’re worrying about the wrong thing."  

Byoudouin raised an eyebrow.  

"Shouldn’t you be more concerned about the next match?"  

"The match? There’s nothing to worry about."  

For the first time, a faint smile crossed Medanore’s usually cold face.  

"Losing to you was unexpected. But in the next doubles match—we won’t lose."  

He turned his gaze toward two figures on Spain’s bench, already prepped and ready.  

"Those two… their doubles skills are world-class. Even among pros, they stand at the top."  

"Oh?"  

Byoudouin’s interest was piqued.  

"Interesting."  

A smirk tugged at his lips.  

"Then this next match just got a lot more exciting."  

Doubles 1 – The Battle Begins 

Meanwhile, on Japan’s side, two figures stepped forward after a quick equipment check.  

"The next match, Doubles 1, will take place on the reserve court."  

The referee announced:  

"Japan’s representatives: Inui Jyousei (3rd Year) & Tokugawa Kazuya (2nd Year) vs. Spain’s representatives: Frio Roman (3rd Year) & Silva de Banbieri (3rd Year)."  

"Players, prepare yourselves."  

"Let’s go, Tokugawa."  

Inui smiled faintly.  

"This is top-tier doubles—beyond pro level. Don’t hold back."  

"Mm."  

Tokugawa nodded, his expression unreadable.  

The world stage was vast. After witnessing the battles of Byoudouin, Oni, and even Ryoma against the world’s best, he had learned respect.  

But that didn’t mean hesitation.  

If anything, it only sharpened his hunger for victory.  

The World Watches 

"It’s them!"  

On the U.S. team’s side, Vice-Captain Hopkins’s eyes darkened.  

"Japan’s lineup is terrifying this year."  

Beside him, Chitose Baird let out an impressed sigh.  

Even his usual carefree demeanor couldn’t mask his shock. Both Inui and Tokugawa had crushed the U.S. team in singles—what kind of monster duo would they be together?  

"Spain’s pair is no joke either."  

Captain Reinhard’s expression turned serious.  

Hopkins nodded grimly, recalling a memory from two years ago—when he and Reinhard had participated in a European youth selection tournament.  

Back then, Reinhard had dominated singles, while Hopkins had teamed up with him in doubles, making it to the top of their group.  

But few remembered the other pair that had swept through undefeated—  

"Wait, how strong are these two?"  

Baird, still a first-year, was clueless.  

Reinhard took a deep breath.  

"Their doubles talent is on par with Medanore and Volk’s singles prowess."  

"WHAT?!"  

Gasps rippled through the U.S. team.  

If that was true… then Spain’s doubles were above Germany’s pro-level pair?!  

The crowd’s gaze toward Spain’s players shifted—into one of fear.  

The First Game – Tokugawa’s Strike 

"Pleasure playing with you."  

At the net, Frio greeted them with a smile.  

As Spain’s former captain, his social skills were impeccable. Even someone as aloof as Medanore had been persuaded to join the team under his relentless recruitment.  

"Likewise."  

Inui grinned back, unfazed.  

Meanwhile, Banbieri and Tokugawa locked eyes—a silent clash of wills.  

Even Banbieri, confident as he was, didn’t underestimate his opponent. Anyone who made it this far was a monster in their own right.  

"No matter what tricks you have… I’ll return them all."  

The coin toss decided the serve.  

"First set, Japan’s Tokugawa to serve!"  

Phantom Rainbow Serve – Countered?! 

WHOOSH!  

Tokugawa tossed the ball high, his body coiling like a spring before unleashing a brutal swing.  

BANG!  

The Phantom Rainbow Serve—a shimmering, erratic shot—streaked toward Frio.  

"Got it."  

Frio had studied this serve. Adjusting his stance, he intercepted the ball the moment it bounced—  

THWACK!  

—and sent it flying back.  

"He returned it?!"  

The crowd buzzed.  

But Tokugawa remained calm, dashing to the ball and firing it toward Frio’s backhand.  

"Too slow."  

A shadow blurred across the court—Banbieri, Spain’s Parkour Master, moved like lightning.  

"His speed is unreal!"  

"They say his short bursts rival a sports car’s acceleration!"  

THWACK!  

Banbieri smashed the ball straight at Tokugawa—a challenge.  

"He’s provoking him!"  

Japan’s speedster, Kaji, frowned.  

In doubles, speed could dictate the entire match. Banbieri was likely trying to drag Tokugawa into a high-speed exchange, exhausting him.  

But—  

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!  

Tokugawa calmly returned every shot.  

"As expected of Tokugawa." Kaji smirked. "He’s not taking the bait."  

"Is that so?"  

Frio’s lips curled slightly.  

"Silva’s just getting started."  

For Banbieri, this was barely a warm-up. Once he truly accelerated, his attacks became a storm.  

Even Frio avoided pushing him to full speed.  

"A smart player would realize the danger and restrain themselves. But…"  

Frio’s gaze turned mocking.  

Tokugawa had no idea what was coming.  

The Storm Unleashed 

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!  

Banbieri’s strikes became a blur.  

His speed doubled.  

Yet—  

Tokugawa returned every single one.  

"What?!"  

Banbieri’s eyes widened.  

"Fine. Then try this!"  

His movements became invisible.  

The ball shot back like bullets—  

But Tokugawa still returned them all.  

Finally—  

THWACK!  

A sharp cross shot slipped between Banbieri’s legs, kissing the sideline before flying out.  

"15-0!"  

Silence.  

Then—shock.  

Spain’s players stared, dumbfounded.  

"Silva… lost in a direct speed clash?!"  

Banbieri looked up, meeting Tokugawa’s gaze—  

And for the first time, he felt it.  

"No way…"  

The chilling realization hit him:  

He had been completely read. 

Chapter 535: Miracle Doubles vs. Glow Shot & Asura  

"No way...?"  

On the Spanish side, Fernández stared in disbelief. "Someone actually outplayed Banberi-senpai in a no-bounce speed duel?!"  

"Speed is the baseline of a player’s skill," Medanore said calmly. "Clearly, his opponent has the ability to see through Banberi’s movements."  

"Those eyes—?!"  

The others turned to Tokugawa. The sharp gleam in his gaze sent a chill down their spines.  

"Yeah." Echizen nodded. "Tokugawa-senpai has a terrifying ability—something like precognition."  

"Precognition?"  

On the court, Frio and Banberi exchanged glances.  

An ability like that would counter Banberi’s speed.  

"Don’t worry." Frio adjusted his grip. "It’s still early. Let’s observe first."  

"Right." Banberi nodded.  

He wasn’t reckless. In doubles, he trusted his partner’s judgment completely.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Tokugawa held serve effortlessly. 1-0, Japan.  

"Seriously?" Kirihara scoffed from the stands. "This is Spain’s ‘elite doubles’? They’re nothing special."  

Many nodded in agreement.  

Before the match, Spain had been hyped as unstoppable—as if Germany’s Schneider and Bertie weren’t even in their league.  

Yet here they were, getting shut down by Tokugawa alone.  

"It’s not that simple." Mizuki adjusted his glasses. "The match just started. They’re holding back."  

"Holding back?"  

The others frowned but conceded the point.  

Meanwhile, in Japan’s player box, Mitsuya’s brow furrowed. "The 2-1 lead and Toori’s win over Medanore are making our team overconfident."  

That was dangerous.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Japan took two more games. 3-0.  

"Huh?"  

Even the skeptics were stunned.  

Where was Spain’s hidden strength?  

"Told you!" Kirihara grinned. "Spain’s doubles are just—wait—"  

His smirk froze.  

HUM!  

On the court, Frio and Banberi’s auras erupted—milky-white whirlwinds intertwining like chains.  

Their presence doubled.  

"That’s—!"  

"Synchro?!"  

The crowd erupted.  

"The ‘Miracle of Doubles’…" Switzerland’s strategist, Pete Randby, narrowed his eyes. "And they’ve mastered it to this level?"  

Synchro was a last-resort technique for most. Yet these two activated it effortlessly.  

The fusion of their auras wasn’t just seamless—it was amplified.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Spain struck back.  

Their synchronized assaults were relentless—a storm of precision and power. Japan’s duo, Inui and Tokugawa, were forced into defense.  

The score tightened. Then flipped.  

BAM!  

"GAME! Spain leads, 5-3!"  

In just 20 minutes, Spain had reversed the momentum.  

"Finish them!"  

Spain’s bench roared.  

Fernández clenched his fists. "If we win this, we take the match."  

Even if Japan’s singles player was that monster who crushed Borg…  

Spain’s true ace was waiting.  

"Ryoga-senpai…"  

The name alone sent a shiver down his spine.  

ZZZT!  

Then—lightning.  

"A Glow Shot?!"  

Spain’s players recoiled as Tokugawa’s racket blazed with white light.  

BOOM!  

A golden meteor screamed toward Frio.  

"So this is the Glow Shot…!"  

Frio swung—  

CRACK!  

The impact warped his racket strings. His eyes widened as the sheer force ripped the racket from his grip.  

KABOOM!  

The ball obliterated the back wall, leaving a crater of shattered concrete.  

"Guh…"  

The crowd gulped.  

Compared to Toori and Medanore’s mental battle, this was raw destruction.  

Frio and Banberi paled.  

"No way to counter that…"  

"GAME! Japan leads, 6-5!"  

Japan had flipped the match again.  

Spain’s players tensed. Even Banberi’s confidence wavered.  

"Scan complete."  

Frio suddenly smiled.  

"Got it." Banberi grinned.  

They hadn’t been idle. Frio’s *"Frio Vision"*—his ability to read micro-expressions and muscle twitches—had decoded Tokugawa’s Glow Shot.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Japan’s momentum stalled.  

"What’s happening?" Inui frowned. "Tokugawa hasn’t used the Glow Shot since—"  

"They’re pinning him." Mitsuya’s eyes sharpened. "Every return lands too close for him to charge it."  

"He’s been read." Oni growled.  

"Frio Vision." Ishikawa explained. "He tracks opponents’ subconscious cues—even through a poker face. Tokugawa’s tells are exposed."  

"But Tokugawa has precognition!" Shishido protested.  

"It’s doubles." Ishikawa’s voice was calm. "Precognition against a speed specialist and Synchro is like fighting two battles at once."  

BAM!  

Banberi’s "Sonic Bullet" shot between Tokugawa’s legs—payback for the first game.  

"30-40!"  

Spain wasn’t ahead yet, but the tide was turning.  

BAM!  

Banberi served. Spain’s Synchro strangled Tokugawa’s movements, boxing him in.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Tokugawa was frozen—a statue in his own court.  

"Now!"  

Banberi blitzed forward, a phantom trail behind him. His racket cracked down—  

WHOOSH!  

A gale erupted.  

Smoke swallowed the court.  

"Wha—?!"  

Banberi’s instincts screamed.  

SHIIING!  

The smoke split.  

A colossal tennis ball, wreathed in blue-green lightning, slammed toward them. Behind it loomed a golden deity—six arms spread like a wrathful god.  

BOOOOOOM!  

The impact buried Spain’s duo in a dust storm.  

When it cleared—  

They stood paralyzed.  

"GAME, SET!"  

"Japan’s Inui & Tokugawa win, 7-5!"  

Silence.  

Then—  

"That was…"  

Frio’s voice was hoarse.  

"Asura."  

Banberi finished, staring at the figure wreathed in golden aura.  

(End of Chapter.)