506-510

Chapter 506: The Unstoppable Duet of Destruction  

The crowd erupted in shock as Siegfried activated the Perfect Harmony state.  

Before this, Oni’s display of Perfect Harmony had left an indelible mark—its overwhelming power could suppress even professional players. Naturally, many instinctively equated Siegfried’s current state with Oni’s dominance in the third singles match.  

"Seriously?!"  

Chitose of Team Japan couldn’t hide his disbelief. "That legendary state… broken through so easily?"  

Before the Nationals, Perfect Harmony had been a myth. Even after Ryoma’s defeat by Ishikawa, it remained a revered pinnacle of strength.  

But now?  

It felt like Perfect Harmony had become as common as cabbage.  

Elites like Ishikawa and Oni.  

Others like Tezuka, Ryoma, Tokugawa—even Inui, who’d hacked his way into the state through self-hypnosis and mimicry.  

And let’s not forget Momoshiro, who’d twisted his negativity into a Reverse Perfect Harmony.  

Unnoticed, nearly ten players had now touched this realm.  

"Not surprising," Tachibana said calmly. "He’s Germany’s top middle-schooler. Talent was never in question. That exhibition loss probably unlocked his potential."  

"The power of vengeance, huh?" Fuji mused, tapping his chin.  

As a genius, he never underestimated opponents. His mind raced—how would I break Perfect Harmony?  

The Siegfried Onslaught 

Whoosh!  

With the serve now his, Siegfried tossed the ball high.  

"Watch closely—this is my serve!"  

His racket blurred, moving faster than the eye could track. Before most could process it, a streak of white light exploded at Tezuka’s side.  

"That speed—?!"  

Momoshiro and Kaidoh jolted in their seats.  

"Is this Perfect Harmony’s boost?"  

The difference was staggering. Siegfried seemed reborn—every facet of his game elevated.  

THUD!  

Yet just as the crowd braced for an ace—  

"Got it."  

Tezuka’s return lashed like a whip, nailing the baseline corner.  

"He returned it?!"  

The Germans stiffened.  

"Don’t get cocky!" Siegfried snarled, his body erupting in light as he intercepted the shot.  

"He’s holding his own!"  

Relief washed over the German camp. At least now, Siegfried could fight back.  

Clash of the Titans 

THUD! THUD! THUD!  

The rally escalated into a deadly dance—each shot skimming the baseline like knives grazing throats.  

"His light… it’s Loneliness," Bismarck observed, sensing the razor-edged aura around Siegfried. "Fitting. After tasting greatness, he’s clawed back from nothing. Offense and defense fused—impressive."  

This wasn’t the Siegfried they knew.  

Every stroke carried a newfound ferocity.  

"There’s more," Bertie added, adjusting his star-shaped pendant. "His light drains his opponent’s energy. The longer this goes, the wider the gap grows."  

A hallmark of Perfect Harmony—grinding foes into dust through attrition.  

Yet after dozen exchanges, Siegfried hadn’t gained an inch. Tezuka’s defense remained impregnable.  

"What’s he thinking?" Momoshiro scoffed.  

"Thinking he can outplay Tezuka with this?" Kikumaru grinned.  

Even Hyōe shook his head. "You’d need more than a half-baked breakthrough to crack Tezuka-senpai."  

Tezuka wasn’t invincible—but among Japan’s middle-schoolers, only Ishikawa had ever truly surpassed him.  

Let’s be blunt—who the hell was Siegfried to challenge him?  

The King’s Gambit 

SWOOSH!  

Seizing an opening, Tezuka’s Tezuka Zone yanked Siegfried’s shot skyward.  

"Now, Atobe!"  

"Hmph."  

Atobe launched like a hawk, smashing down a thunderous dunk.  

"0-15!"  

"Tch."  

The Germans groaned.  

In doubles synergy, Siegfried and Klaus were hopelessly outmatched.  

"Damn it!"  

Losing the first point on his own serve was a slap to Siegfried’s pride. His fury redirected—straight at Atobe.  

"Try this!"  

Another Perfect Harmony-enhanced serve blitzed across the court, its light particles surging toward Atobe.  

"Hah."  

Atobe smirked. "Perfect Harmony? Spare me—I’ve seen enough of it to be bored."  

CRACK!  

His return streaked past Siegfried.  

"What?!"  

The Germans gaped.  

"Tezuka’s one thing, but him too?!" Frankensteiner’s jaw dropped.  

Against Siegfried’s Perfect Harmony, he’d been helpless. Yet Atobe made it look effortless.  

"Heh."  

Inui (Japan) chuckled. "Atobe’s been sparring with Perfect Harmony users nonstop."  

Ryoma. Tezuka. Even himself.  

"Ah."  

QP and Bismarck’s faces darkened.  

Elite teams thrived on internal competition—training with monsters bred stronger monsters. Japan’s roster, with its mix of prodigies and wildcards like Inui and Yanagi, had become a self-sustaining ecosystem.  

A microcosm of the World Cup itself.  

No wonder their growth was explosive—Germany operated the same way.  

The Ice Emperor’s Gaze 

THUD! THUD! THUD!  

Siegfried’s attacks grew increasingly frantic.  

"Why won’t you break?!"  

Atobe remained unshaken.  

"Struggling to comprehend?" He adjusted his glasses, fingers resting on the bridge of his nose. "Perfect Harmony is just an amplifier. It magnifies what’s already there."  

A chilling smile.  

"You’re simply not strong enough."  

ZZZT!  

His pupils dilated—the Emperor’s Eye activated.  

Time seemed to freeze as Atobe’s vision dissected Siegfried: muscle twitches, bone structure, even bloodflow patterns—all laid bare.  

THWACK!  

The return shot landed at Siegfried’s feet.  

The German stood paralyzed, like a statue.  

"Game! Japan leads 4-0!"  

Silence.  

Even the Germans’ protests died in their throats.  

POP.  

Siegfried’s Perfect Harmony flickered out.  

He gasped like a drowning man breaching the surface.  

"Wait," Chitose blinked. "I thought Perfect Harmony minimized stamina drain?"  

"Not quite," Inui corrected. "Mental fortitude extends its duration, but no one sustains it indefinitely. Well…"  

His gaze flicked to Ishikawa.  

"There’s more," Dry added. "Tezuka and Atobe’s pressure forced Siegfried to overexert. Mentally, he’s been crushed."  

Chitose shuddered—imagining himself in Siegfried’s place made his spine ice over.  

And Siegfried had faced both while bleeding points. No wonder he’d collapsed.  

Germany’s Last Stand 

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  

The Germans fought desperately, but Tezuka and Atobe gave no quarter. The first set ended brutally.  

"0-6."  

The scoreboard glared like an indictment.  

Two matches prior, Germany had dominated. Now? Becker, Siegfried, Klaus—none could land a blow.  

"Coach Latreu."  

Before the second set, Klaus approached, jaw set. "Permission to remove my restrictions."  

"Granted."  

Klaus bowed.  

The Germans stirred—Klaus was unleashing his trump card.  

"Hrrr…!"  

Midway through the second set, as Siegfried’s Perfect Harmony failed to turn the tide, Klaus erupted.  

RUMBLE!  

A viscous, dark aura engulfed him—his body radiating metallic density.  

"That’s—!"  

"The Hypergravity Dimension?!"  

A pro-level technique.  

"GRAAH!"  

Klaus’s shot cannonballed between Tezuka and Atobe.  

"40-15!"  

Germany’s first point.  

Klaus roared—a beast awakened.  

"Now we fight back!" Siegfried grinned.  

Finally, he wasn’t alone.  

"Not so fast."  

Atobe’s voice cut through their momentum.  

SWOOSH!  

Klaus’s next smash reversed midair, yanked back by Tezuka’s Zone—straight into Atobe’s strike zone.  

"Game! Japan 1-0!"  

"Impossible!"  

"He negated the Hypergravity?!"  

Bismarck grimaced. "Tezuka’s spin diluted its force."  

Unlike Switzerland’s Federer and Poochie, Klaus’s dimension was incomplete.  

The Final Movement 

"It’s over."  

Tezuka’s whisper-drop shot curved midair, smacking Siegfried’s grip.  

"Guh—!"  

His racket clattered to the ground.  

Atobe soared.  

"A fitting finale, Tezuka." His smirk was regal. "Now—revel in this masterpiece!"  

SLAM!  

The dunk shattered Germany’s defenses.  

"Match! Japan’s Tezuka Kunimitsu and Atobe Keigo win—6-0, 6-0!"  

Chapter 507: The Ultimate Showdown – Ryoma vs. Volk  

Silence.  

The massive stadium fell into an eerie hush.  

Even the Japanese team momentarily forgot to celebrate. Their eyes remained fixed on Tezuka and Atobe, standing side by side, their presence almost surreal.  

"Their doubles play was flawless."  

Dankmar Schneider, Germany’s pro player, couldn’t help but voice his admiration.  

"Indeed."  

His partner, Bertie (Volk’s younger brother), nodded solemnly.  

Their coordination was perfect—offense and defense executed with seamless precision. With their individual skills, they could easily dominate the pro doubles circuit in record time.  

But Schneider and Bertie both knew the truth:  

These two would never commit to doubles.  

The spotlight of singles was brighter, and their pride wouldn’t settle for anything less.  

"A shame."  

Bertie sighed.  

As much as he’d love stronger rivals in doubles, the reality was bleak.  

"OOOOOH!!!"  

The crowd erupted.  

Not just Japan’s fans—even German supporters roared in anticipation.  

With the score tied 2-2, the final match loomed:  

Singles 1.  

And for the first time in this tournament, Volk, Germany’s captain and the strongest high schooler in the world, would step onto the court.  

"Next match: Singles 1!"  

The announcer’s voice boomed:  

"Germany’s representative: Jürgen Borisovich Volk (3rd year high school)!"  

"Japan’s representative: Shin Ryoma (1st year middle school)!"  

"Players, prepare yourselves!"  

The stadium buzzed.  

All eyes locked onto the two figures—calm, unshaken—standing on opposite baselines.  

"As expected… the final battle."  

Switzerland’s tactician, Peter Lanbier, exhaled sharply. "The two strongest players of this World Cup… facing off sooner than anyone predicted."  

"True."  

Federer nodded, then shot a glance at Amadeus.  

At the tournament’s start, Amadeus—one of only two pro players in the competition—had been hailed as second only to Volk.  

Yet he’d fallen in the group stage… to Ryoma.  

So had Q.P., Reinhardt, and Camus.  

Now, only Volk and Spain’s Medanore remained unbroken.  

"Do you think…" Federer mused, "that kid can complete an undefeated run this World Cup?"  

"Unlikely."  

Lanbier didn’t hesitate.  

As a data analyst, he respected Ryoma’s prowess—but Volk’s stats were monstrous.  

"Since turning pro last year, Volk hasn’t lost a single match." Lanbier adjusted his glasses. "Including his recent victory over Novak Brynner in the German Open."  

"Brynner?!"  

The Swiss team gasped.  

The current world No. 1—defeated by a high schooler?  

"Volk beat him?"  

"Yes."  

Amadeus’s voice was heavy. He’d watched that match live. Brynner fought like a demon, but Volk’s dominance was absolute.  

Post-match, analysts declared Volk the future king of tennis for the next decade.  

"But now…"  

Amadeus’s gaze shifted to Ryoma.  

"This boy threatens that future."  

Ryoma might not surpass Volk yet—but his potential was terrifying. His only weakness? Youth.  

If Volk crushed him here, he could plant a seed of defeat in Ryoma’s psyche… and rule over him for years to come.  

This match was Volk’s best chance to break him.  

Even Spain’s team, already guaranteed a finals spot, watched with unblinking focus.  

No one dared underestimate these two.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

Ten minutes later, the players took their positions.  

At the net, they faced off.  

Volk’s razor-sharp eyes dissected Ryoma.  

"You’ve grown faster than I anticipated." His voice was low. "You’ve fully entered that realm, haven’t you?"  

"Haven’t you as well?"  

Ryoma smirked. "Defeating the world No. 1 means you’ve already stepped into it. I’m curious… just how far have you gone?"  

In the original timeline, Byoudouin had barely scraped a win against Volk—sacrificing his body in the process.  

Yet even then, Volk had barely broken a sweat.  

Ryoma suspected Volk hadn’t even gone all out.  

Or perhaps… he never expected Byoudouin’s suicidal final strike.  

Either way, Ryoma wouldn’t make the same mistake.  

His guard was up.  

And in his vision, Volk’s name glowed crimson:  

[Lv. 99]  

The highest-level opponent he’d ever faced.  

After the coin toss, they retreated to their baselines.  

"Ahem."  

The new umpire (nervous) cleared his throat.  

"Best of three sets!"  

"First set!"  

"Germany’s Volk to serve!"  

Silence swallowed the stadium.  

Every eye tracked the black-jacketed, shaven-headed titan as he bounced the ball—once, twice, thrice—then tossed it skyward.  

THWACK!  

A golden streak blurred across the court.  

Most spectators didn’t even see the ball.  

"Too fast—!"  

By the time their brains registered the serve, it had already landed.  

THWACK!  

But an instant later, another crisp impact echoed—Ryoma’s return.  

"A half-volley?!"  

Bismarck and Siegfried’s jaws dropped.  

"You’re kidding me!" Frankensteiner yelled. "He just half-volleyed Volk’s serve?!"  

"Not just that."  

Q.P.’s eyes narrowed.  

The ball had kissed the baseline—dead center.  

Even for someone who’d faced Ryoma before, this precision was chilling.  

"Solid return."  

Volk acknowledged coolly, then lashed a backhand with equal ferocity.  

"Nice shot."  

Ryoma sidestepped, his racket flashing.  

THWACK!  

Another flawless return.  

To the untrained eye, their rally seemed effortless.  

But the pros knew better.  

Every exchange was a knife’s edge—each shot carrying enough force to break ordinary players.  

5 hits. 

10 hits. 

15 hits.  

By the 40th stroke, neither showed any decline in speed or precision.  

"Impressive."  

Volk’s voice cut through the rhythm.  

"Most players’ control degrades under prolonged pressure. Muscle fatigue, slowing reflexes, mental strain—they start playing safer."  

But Ryoma?  

Like a machine, he replicated perfect shot after perfect shot.  

Even Frankensteiner—dubbed the "Tennis Robot"—couldn’t match this consistency.  

(Actually, Frankensteiner would’ve lost on the first serve.)  

But Ryoma wasn’t a machine.  

He simply hadn’t reached his limits yet.  

And Volk intended to find them.  

THWACK!  

He ramped up the power, the ball screaming toward Ryoma’s backhand.  

"Hmph."  

Ryoma’s half-volley blurred—again—sending the ball rocketing back.  

THUD!  

Baseline. Again.  

Germany’s team gasped.  

Volk’s eyes sharpened.  

He upped the spin, the next shot twisting like a viper.  

THWACK!  

Ryoma intercepted it mid-air, replying with another half-volley.  

"How?!"  

Volk’s mind raced.  

"Is his half-volley at pro elite level?!"  

No amateur—no matter how gifted—should master a technique so young.  

THWACK!  

Then, Ryoma shifted tactics.  

A drop shot, so delicate it barely cleared the net.  

"What?!"  

Volk lunged, barely flicking it up.  

"Actually…"  

Ryoma leaped, smashing the ball downward.  

"My smash is stronger than my half-volley."  

BOOM!  

The ball exploded past Volk’s racket.  

Silence.  

The stadium froze.  

Chapter 508: The Power of a Max-Level Black Hole—Breaking Through the Whirlpool’s Baptism!  

"0-15!"  

After a long pause, the umpire’s voice finally broke the silence on the court.  

"Borg lost a point?!"  

The representatives from various countries were stunned.  

They knew Ishikawa was strong, but in their minds, Borg was an invincible force—even in the current professional tennis world, he stood at the very top.  

Yet here he was, losing the first point on his own serve.  

This wasn’t a fluke.  

It was the result of an intense rally, a fierce battle of control—and Borg had been outright outplayed.  

"A brilliant drop shot, followed by a terrifying smash!"  

France’s team captain, Camus, said solemnly, "His tennis is as sharp and ruthless as ever."  

Only those who had faced Ishikawa on the court knew just how terrifying his tennis truly was. Precise, relentless, and seemingly limitless—it was the kind of play that could drive opponents to despair.  

"Could it be that Borg is…?"  

Bard, France’s handsome star player, couldn’t help but voice his thoughts.  

"It’s not that simple."  

Camus shook his head. "Jürgen hasn’t even begun to show his full strength. You could say he hasn’t even warmed up yet."  

"Warmed up?!"  

The other French players were shocked.  

Thud!  

At that moment, Borg served again.  

The ball landed perfectly on the centerline of the service box, its mark barely grazing the outer edge—a testament to Borg’s frightening precision.  

Smash!  

Yet, Ishikawa effortlessly returned it.  

"No need to hold back," Ishikawa said with a smile as he sent the ball back. "And warming up? That’s unnecessary at this point."  

"This guy!"  

His words irritated the German team, especially their middle schoolers like Siegfried, who harbored a complicated mix of emotions toward Japan’s captain.  

But more experienced players like Q·P and Bismarck remained calm. Q·P, having lost to Ishikawa before, knew exactly how formidable he was.  

In this World Cup, very few could speak to Borg in such a manner—and Ishikawa was one of them.  

"Oh?"  

Borg lifted his gaze, his sharp eyes locking onto Ishikawa like blades.  

Swish!  

With a quick flick of his wrist, he infused the ball with a powerful spin mid-swing.  

Hiss!  

To most spectators, the serve looked no different from before.  

But players like Byoudouin, Oni, and Atobe narrowed their eyes.  

"This isn’t an ordinary shot."  

Atobe, whose vision was among the sharpest, sensed something dangerous lurking in the ball’s trajectory.  

"A spiral spin?"  

Tezuka and Yukimura also tensed.  

"That move is—!"  

Siegfried and the others belatedly recognized it and exclaimed, "Captain Borg’s—[Whirlpool’s Baptism]!!"  

"Hm?"  

Beside them, Bertie, Germany’s data expert, raised an eyebrow as Ishikawa fearlessly swung at the incoming ball. "That reckless?"  

"He’s finished."  

Schneider shook his head grimly. "Unless he has the raw strength of Japan’s Singles 3 player, Oni Juujirou, his racket will twist apart on impact—if not his wrist."  

He spoke from experience—during practice, he’d once challenged this very technique and spent a week nursing an injured wrist.  

"So… is the match ending this quickly?"  

Bismarck found it hard to believe.  

But if Ishikawa truly had no counter—  

"Wait… What’s that?!"  

Suddenly, Bismarck’s eyes widened in shock.  

"The ball… stopped?!"  

Q·P’s sharp gaze caught it immediately. "Black Hole?!"  

At that moment, the ball froze mid-air in front of Ishikawa’s racket, defying physics—just as it had during the first Singles 3 match.  

"Black Hole!!"  

The other nations’ representatives gasped.  

They remembered—this was the same technique Oni had used to neutralize Q·P’s overwhelming offense.  

Crack!  

The next instant, the ball was effortlessly returned.  

"Impressive technique."  

Borg’s eyes gleamed with interest as he studied Ishikawa. His sharp observation told him that this Black Hole was far more refined than Oni’s—so much so that he doubted his current [Whirlpool’s Baptism] could break through it.  

And he was right.  

Black Hole was Ishikawa’s first max-level technique. Unlike in the original exhibition match, where Borg had shattered Tokugawa’s Black Hole, Ishikawa’s version was impervious.  

"Hmm."  

On the sidelines, Germany’s coach, Kant, frowned. "It seems their captain has thoroughly studied Jürgen’s data. Right from the start, he’s sealed his strongest technique."  

[Whirlpool’s Baptism] was a fearsome move—80% of Borg’s professional wins this year had come from it. With this single technique, he had cemented his place in the competitive pro circuit.  

But now, in the opening stages of the match, he’d lost a weapon. For Germany, the situation was far worse than anticipated.  

Thud!  

Borg struck again.  

Calmly, he unleashed another [Whirlpool’s Baptism]—this time with even greater force and spin.  

Hum!  

Yet, the moment the ball entered a 30-centimeter radius around Ishikawa, it froze in place once more.  

"Completely useless."  

Bismarck sighed.  

Ishikawa was already a monster in his own right, with multiple devastating techniques. Now, with a move that hard-countered Borg’s signature play, the match had tilted dangerously in Japan’s favor.  

"His Black Hole is stronger."  

Q·P analyzed. "Compared to Oni, his execution is more polished, the spatial distortion deeper, and the Black Hole itself far more stable."  

Smash!  

Ishikawa returned the ball again, looking completely at ease—as if he weren’t facing the so-called "strongest high school player in the world."  

But Borg lived up to his reputation.  

Even with his best move sealed, he showed no frustration. He simply adjusted and served again.  

As Germany’s captain, Borg had spent the past year not in exhibition matches, but in the professional circuit. Despite receiving direct entry offers, he insisted on starting from the lowest ranks, grinding his way up through sheer skill.  

By the time the German Championships arrived, he had barely qualified—yet no one expected him to reach the finals.  

Even more shocking? He defeated the reigning world No. 1, Novak Brynner!  

That victory cemented his legend.  

And the experience had forged his mentality into unbreakable steel. A minor setback like this meant nothing to him.  

Thud! Thud! Thud!  

He fired off [Whirlpool’s Baptism] again and again, as effortlessly as breathing.  

Hum! Hum! Hum!  

Yet each time, Ishikawa’s Black Hole halted the ball dead in its tracks.  

"This guy’s cheating!"  

Siegfried grumbled. "Using a cheap trick to block Captain Borg’s [Whirlpool’s Baptism]."  

"Cheap?"  

Q·P and Bismarck frowned.  

"It’s not that simple," Bismarck said. "Black Hole works by distorting space, creating a barrier along the ball’s trajectory. The fact that he’s stopping every shot means he’s reading Jürgen’s intentions perfectly."  

"Reading… in advance?!"  

The German team stiffened.  

"No way!"  

Siegfried blurted out—but logic told him it was true. Without predicting Borg’s moves, Ishikawa couldn’t possibly intercept them all.  

Just that ability alone was terrifying.  

Smash!  

Ishikawa returned the ball again, then glanced at Borg with a faint smile.  

"As expected of the 'Philosopher of Victory.' Your tennis is truly extraordinary."  

"Huh?"  

The crowd was puzzled—what did he mean?  

Thud!  

Borg responded with another [Whirlpool’s Baptism], this time with even more spin and power.  

Byoudouin and Oni immediately realized what was happening.  

"He’s using Ishikawa as a whetstone," Oni said grimly. "Testing his own limits against Black Hole. This guy really is Germany’s captain."  

Amid the tension, Borg remained unfazed. Instead, he treated his opponent as a tool to refine his skills further.  

"A true professional."  

Mitsuya sighed. "Only someone with nerves of steel could’ve defeated the world No. 1."  

The Japanese team’s expressions darkened.  

Despite Ishikawa seemingly countering Borg’s moves, an uneasy feeling settled over them.  

Tap!  

Just then, Ishikawa stepped forward to meet another [Whirlpool’s Baptism]—but this time, something was different.  

Swish!  

The ball didn’t freeze.  

Instead, it shot straight toward Ishikawa’s racket at full speed.  

"He’s in trouble!!"  

The Japanese team paled.  

Inui and Tokugawa looked especially grim—they knew Black Hole, while powerful, placed immense strain on the body. Tokugawa could only maintain it for 40 minutes at most.  

Oni and Ishikawa had greater stamina, but even they likely had a one-hour limit. And against Borg’s top-tier technique, Ishikawa must have been exhausting himself.  

Had he reached his limit?  

"Heh."  

But Ishikawa only smiled. Then—to everyone’s shock—his racket met the [Whirlpool’s Baptism] head-on.  

"Is he insane?!"  

The Germans stared in disbelief.  

Boom!  

A deafening impact echoed as racket and ball collided—yet contrary to expectations, Ishikawa’s racket didn’t shatter.  

Nor did it twist apart.  

It simply… returned the ball.  

"What?!"  

Even Bismarck inhaled sharply.  

"Wait…"  

Q·P’s eyes sharpened. "Did he analyze the spin and counter it with reverse rotation?"  

The others considered it—given Ishikawa’s talent, it wasn’t impossible.  

"But still," Bertie muttered, awed, "to pull that off mid-match is absurd."  

"Reverse spin?"  

Borg, however, knew the truth.  

It wasn’t reverse spin at all.  

Ishikawa had overpowered [Whirlpool’s Baptism] with sheer wrist strength and grip power.  

Theoretically, it required at least 90kg of grip strength to resist the whirlpool’s torque—but Ishikawa made it look effortless.  

Which meant…  

His grip strength exceeded 100kg.  

A middle schooler with 100kg grip strength?  

A true monster.  

Chapter 509: The Terrifying Hyper-Speed Dimensional Serve and Time Loop  

Thud! 

"40-30!"  

Ten minutes into the match, the two were still battling it out in the first game. The score kept seesawing, but Ishikawa stubbornly held onto his lead.  

"No way..." 

"He actually broke through 'Maelstrom Baptism'?" 

"How is this guy so strong?"  

The German team’s players were stunned.  

This was Borg.  

To them, he was practically a god—an untouchable legend. Yet now, on the court, he was being outright suppressed by his opponent.  

Bang!  

Borg unleashed Maelstrom Baptism again.  

True to his nickname, The Philosopher of Victory, the power behind his signature move visibly intensified mid-match. But this wasn’t just raw strength—his control had grown even more precise. The force he channeled into the ball split into countless threads before twisting into a single, spiraling torrent.  

"I’ll admit," Borg said, locking eyes with Ishikawa after the shot, "it’s terrifying that you can return this with pure strength alone. But even metal has its fatigue limit. A human arm will eventually break past a certain threshold."  

He knew better than anyone how devastating Maelstrom Baptism could be. In pro matches, he’d faced players who countered it with brute force—only for their arms to end up bruised and swollen afterward. Some even needed immediate medical treatment.  

Ishikawa was still human.  

In Borg’s mind, unless he relied entirely on Black Hole for defense, his body would eventually give out. And even if he did, the strain would buy Borg more time to analyze his techniques.  

A drawn-out battle? That was Borg’s domain. His power, technique, reflexes, and stamina were all top-tier—but his most fearsome weapon was his ironclad endurance. In a war of attrition, his odds of winning were near 100%.  

"Heh."  

Ishikawa met Borg’s gaze and smirked, as if reading his thoughts.  

Swish!  

He swung his racket—  

Crack!  

The crisp impact echoed through the court.  

But this time, Borg’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "Reverse spin...?"  

Just from the sound, he could tell this wasn’t another raw power return. The strike carried a subtle softness, layered with faint snapping noises—as if the hundreds of spiraling force threads were being severed one by one.  

Flash!  

A blinding white light erupted.  

Borg’s vision flooded with brightness, and a deafening hum roared in his ears. By the time he shook it off, the ball had already thudded against the baseline.  

"Game!" 

"Japan’s Ishikawa leads, 1-0! Change sides!"  

Borg turned to see a fresh mark stamped on the court.  

"That serve... was fast."  

His gaze sharpened as he reassessed his opponent. Outwardly calm, his mind raced through analysis. Ishikawa hadn’t just dismantled his spiral force—he’d woven multiple special techniques into a single shot, blending blinding light and disorienting sound.  

"His skill level is monstrous."  

Power, speed, perception, technique...  

Hard to believe someone with all these abilities was a middle schooler under 13. If not for Borg’s unshakable will, even he might’ve questioned reality.  

"An extraordinary boy."  

Borg planted his feet at the baseline, bracing himself. The scouting reports had warned him—Ishikawa’s greatest weapon was his serve.  

"Oh?"  

Noticing Borg’s stance, Ishikawa grinned.  

Whoosh!  

He tossed the ball high, arched his back, and—  

Snap!  

His racket blurred forward.  

To the spectators, his entire form seemed to distort, as if crossing some invisible speed threshold. A surreal, comic-like afterimage flickered—  

Boom!  

The ball streaked across the court in a yellow flash.  

"Here it comes!"  

Borg focused intently—but then, something felt off. The ball was flying toward him, yet the distance between them seemed to stretch unnaturally.  

"Hyper-Speed Dimensional Serve?!"  

He’d faced speed-based players before, but none had ever rattled him like this.  

"Hmph!"  

But Borg wasn’t a world-class pro for nothing. His mental fortitude alone could override sensory overload.  

Swish!  

He swung—  

Thud!  

The Hyper-Speed Dimensional Serve was returned—  

But the ball clipped the net and dropped.  

"15-0!"  

Gulp.  

The German team collectively swallowed hard.  

"C-Captain Borg actually...?"  

Even Siegfried and the others were speechless. They’d acknowledged Ishikawa’s strength, but this? His serve was so overwhelming that Borg couldn’t even clear the net.  

"What a terrifying serve."  

In the stands, players from other nations exchanged uneasy glances.  

This was Borg—disciplined, meticulous, flawless. For him to mishit a return? The sheer dissonance hammered home just how fearsome Ishikawa’s serve truly was.  

"That’s on par with the 'Mach Serve,'" Switzerland’s strategist, Pete Lanbill, muttered. "With that alone, he’s already surpassed most pro players."  

"Agreed."  

Amadeus, Tasta, and Federer nodded grimly.  

Even before this match, Ishikawa had outclassed 99% of the World Cup’s competitors. These first 10 minutes only solidified his standing as Borg’s equal—maybe even his superior.  

For many, this serve was proof: Ishikawa might just dethrone Borg as the tournament’s #1 player.  

Boom! Boom! Boom!  

The next three serves followed the same pattern. Borg made contact each time, but the ball either caught the net or flew out. Ishikawa cruised to a 2-0 lead.  

"That serve’s too much."  

The German team watched in awe. Borg’s will was unbreakable, but Ishikawa’s speed pushed even his limits. Still, they noticed Borg adjusting—his returns inching closer to success. A few more tries, and he’d crack it.  

"It’s... not that simple."  

QP’s face was grim.  

He knew Ishikawa’s caliber too well. Once ahead, he never let opponents recover. And at this level, even the smallest gap could be fatal—especially after Borg dropped his serve.  

Boom!  

Borg served again, this time with sharper precision. For most players, it’d be a death sentence.  

But Ishikawa returned it effortlessly.  

Borg, however, showed no frustration. Every shot hugged the baseline or sideline—flawless, patient, methodical. His rock-solid playstyle left even Monster Byoudouin and Demon Oni struggling to find openings.  

Ishikawa, too, found himself locked in a grueling rally.  

Borg’s relentless returns offered zero weaknesses. The match slipped into a brutal war of endurance—Borg’s strongest battleground.  

"Just as I thought."  

Amadeus narrowed his eyes. "He’s using the same strategy he did against Novak Brenner."  

In the German Open finals, Borg had lost the first three sets—but kept each game agonizingly close. By the fourth set (after 3 grueling hours), just as Brenner seemed poised to win, Borg dragged the match into a 90-minute marathon, stealing the set 7-6.  

By then, 4.5 hours had passed. Even the referees and ball kids were exhausted. Brenner’s stamina nosedived—while Borg looked like he’d just warmed up.  

He reversed the momentum, won 4-3, and claimed the title.  

Now, history repeated itself.  

Borg was luring Ishikawa into the same endurance trap.  

Thud! Thud! Thud!  

Thirty minutes later, the two were still deadlocked in a single-point duel.  

Yet shockingly, Ishikawa showed no signs of fatigue—matching Borg stride for stride.  

"He practices yoga, right?" Coach Mikuni glanced at his assistants.  

"Yes," Kurobe confirmed. "Kendo, martial arts, yoga, even archery—he trains daily."  

"I see."  

Advanced yoga could minimize energy expenditure. At its peak, practitioners achieved *"infinite stamina"*—perfect metabolic balance.  

"This kid’s a freak of nature." Mikuni sighed.  

"No need to hold back."  

Ishikawa’s voice cut through the tension. "Warm-ups aren’t necessary anymore."  

"Huh?"  

The crowd blinked in confusion.  

"Wait," Mukahi frowned. "Didn’t he say that earlier?"  

"Yeah." Inui and Yanagi nodded.  

Ishikawa had uttered the exact same words in the first game. This wasn’t deja vu—it felt intentional.  

Hummm...  

A dark void—Black Hole—materialized before Ishikawa’s racket.  

"Huh?!"  

Spectators were baffled. Why use Black Hole now? He’d been countering Maelstrom Baptism fine without it.  

Bam!  

Seizing the opening, Borg fired a sharp cross-court winner to Ishikawa’s blind spot.  

"15-0!"  

The marathon point finally ended—but everyone’s eyes were on Ishikawa. Byoudouin and Oni sensed it: he was trapped in some kind of loop.  

"No need to hold back." 

"Warm-ups aren’t necessary anymore."  

Again, the same words.  

Black Hole formed once more—  

And again, Borg exploited the gap, driving the ball past Ishikawa’s reach.  

"Game!" 

"Germany’s Borg, 1-2! Change sides!"  

The German team cheered, but even they seemed uneasy. What just happened?  

"Urk—"  

Ishikawa shuddered, snapping back to reality. The bewildered stares around him told him everything.  

"So..." He met Borg’s gaze, voice low. "I was caught in your Time Loop, wasn’t I?"  

Chapter 510: A Barrage of Pro-Level Techniques – The Sudden Onslaught of a Terrifying Tornado!  

"A... time loop?!"  

During the changeover, the Japanese team overheard Ishikawa’s muttered words.  

"So that’s it!"  

Byoudouin narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharp. "Borg’s [Whirlpool’s Baptism] attacked his mental state, trapping him in a recursive memory cycle without him even realizing it."  

"Is that even possible?"  

Fuji and Oshitari exchanged stunned glances.  

In their minds, Ishikawa’s mental fortitude was unshakable. And objectively, he had countered Borg’s techniques head-on multiple times.  

There was no logical reason for him to fall into a memory loop.  

"Hmm."  

Mitsuya pondered before offering an explanation. "When the human brain encounters something too overwhelming, it sometimes compartmentalizes memories as a defense mechanism."  

"Like blacking out during a traumatic event," Inui added grimly. "But because Ishikawa’s mental resilience is so strong, he didn’t lose consciousness—instead, his mind started repeating the same moment."  

"As expected of Borg!"  

On the German side, Bismarck and Schneider were electrified. Even they were witnessing this technique for the first time.  

"A time loop?"  

Q·P’s eyes gleamed with analysis.  

He suspected Borg hadn’t just developed this move—rather, his past opponents had never been strong enough to survive [Whirlpool’s Baptism], let alone trigger the time loop.  

"In theory, breaking free should be impossible."  

Q·P rested a hand on his chin, watching Ishikawa intently. "But if anyone could defy it, it’s him. Still, this buys Borg enough time to close the score gap."  

As much as he respected Ishikawa, Q·P trusted Borg’s skill more. And if this match dragged into a war of attrition, Borg’s victory was all but guaranteed.  

Thud!  

Ishikawa served.  

The ball rocketed across the court at blistering speed, startling the Germans. "Damn it—did the time loop reset his serve memory too?!"  

This was the same ultra-fast serve even Borg had struggled to handle.  

Smack!  

But as the ball bounced up, before anyone could react—  

Whoosh!  

A thunderous return shot back, this time with a vicious spiral, aimed straight at the baseline.  

"Tch!"  

Siegfried smirked. "Captain Borg’s seen through tricks like that!"  

"This is bad!"  

The Japanese team tensed.  

They’d hoped Ishikawa’s serve would secure points despite the time loop. But now, it was clear Borg had adapted completely.  

The situation was dire.  

Thud! Crack! Thud! Crack!  

Yet as the match continued, an odd stalemate emerged.  

"W-what’s happening?!"  

The Germans grew uneasy.  

Siegfried and the others felt a creeping dread—what if Ishikawa broke free from the time loop?  

"No need to hold back."  

Then, Ishikawa spoke.  

The familiar phrase made the Germans brighten—until—  

Boom!  

Ishikawa smashed Borg’s [Whirlpool’s Baptism] straight back.  

"I imagine," he said with a faint smile, "you were expecting me to say that, weren’t you?"  

"...?!"  

The Germans froze.  

Even Borg’s composure flickered.  

He broke free?!  

In just one game, Ishikawa had shattered the time loop’s hold?!  

"A dangerous man indeed."  

Borg’s eyes sharpened like honed blades.  

Ishikawa kept defying expectations. Even knowing his strength, Borg hadn’t anticipated him escaping this fast.  

Truthfully, [Time Loop] was formidable.  

In the original timeline, even Byoudouin—with his 10-point mental stat—had been trapped without realizing it, only breaking free through sheer willpower.  

Ishikawa had prepared defenses in advance.  

Yet Borg still dragged him into the loop unconsciously. That alone spoke volumes about Borg’s prowess.  

But once exposed, the technique lost its edge against Ishikawa’s adaptability.  

And so—  

Thud!  

"Game!"  

"Japan, Ishikawa – 3-1!"  

The gap widened.  

Tension gripped the German team.  

This was a professional-level duel, yet Borg was being outpaced. Worse, Ishikawa’s stamina seemed barely dented after 40+ minutes of intense play.  

If this became an endurance match, Borg’s usual advantage might not hold.  

Glancing at the scoreboard—1-3—a flicker of frustration crossed Borg’s mind.  

But it vanished instantly, crushed under his ironclad discipline.  

Calm.  

Steady.  

Unshaken.  

Borg moved like a seasoned farmer weathering storms—unbothered by external chaos.  

That mindset alone nullified Ishikawa’s psychological attacks.  

Neither [Illusion] nor [Karma] could rattle him. Even [Manas], which surpassed [Atobe Kingdom] in pinpointing weaknesses, found no openings.  

"Then… a direct assault it is."  

With the lead secured, Ishikawa went on the offensive—in Borg’s serve game.  

Crack!  

Lightning erupted as he swung.  

[First Thunder – Shock Awakening!]  

A pro-level technique—yet Borg returned it effortlessly.  

Tap-tap!  

Ishikawa lunged forward, then balanced on one foot mid-swing.  

"That stance—?!"  

Tachibana and the Fudomine players stiffened in recognition.  

Boom!  

The next instant, the ball split into dozens—no, hundreds of afterimages, blotting out the sky like a meteor shower.  

"Hah…?!"  

Tachibana’s breath caught.  

He’d wondered why Ishikawa would use [Chaos Ball Dance] at this level.  

But this was nothing like his own version.  

"So this is the pro-level [Chaos Ball Dance]?!"  

Awe and inspiration warred in Tachibana’s chest.  

Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh!  

The swarm of projectiles engulfed Borg.  

Most would’ve panicked—but Borg’s expression never wavered. His blade-like eyes locked onto the real ball, and his racket lashed out.  

Crack!  

A simple, unadorned strike—yet it pierced straight through the illusion.  

"Pointless."  

Bismarck shook his head. "Even pro-level techniques mean nothing to Jürgen."  

Borg’s tennis was like tempered steel—deceptively plain, yet unbreakable.  

Tap!  

Ishikawa stepped in.  

His racket whipped forward—  

Zoom!  

A golden streak tore through the air, accompanied by a bestial roar. Before the ball even landed, its sheer presence sent shivers down spines.  

"So."  

Q·P’s face darkened. "He held back another technique against me."  

"[Four Gods Formation – White Tiger]!"  

The Hyotei players recognized it instantly—but compared to Nationals, its power had skyrocketed.  

The wind howled as the ball shot forth, ruffling the linesmen’s clothes. For a split second, a spectral white tiger seemed to pounce toward Borg, fangs bared.  

Yet Borg merely raised an eyebrow and swung.  

Thud!  

Impact.  

A tremor ran through his grip.  

"Oh?"  

Borg’s eyes flashed—this wasn’t just raw power. The follow-up vibrations numbed his palm.  

But only briefly.  

With a twist of his wrist, he blasted the ball back.  

"He returned that so easily?!"  

The Japanese team was stunned.  

Tap!  

Unfazed, Ishikawa moved again.  

This time, he angled his racket sharply, imparting a ferocious spin as he hammered the ball.  

Boom!  

A cyan streak shot across the net.  

"Wha—?!"  

Q·P and Bismarck recoiled.  

Before the ball even reached midcourt—  

Rooooar!  

A gale erupted on Borg’s side, kicking up dust. Then, a deafening screech split the air as the dust cloud ripped apart—  

Revealing a scaled, azure-scaled beast—dragon-like, with gleaming claws and gaping jaws—lunging straight at Borg!  

"This technique—?!"  

For the first time, Borg’s composure cracked.  

His focus snapped into razor-sharp clarity.  

Like a knight facing a mythic foe, he raised his racket like a sword—  

BOOM!  

The shockwave blasted outward, sending debris flying.  

When the dust cleared—  

Borg’s eyes had changed.  

Gone was the calm strategist. In its place—a predator’s glare.  

"That look…!"  

Coach Lendard’s breath hitched.  

The last time Borg wore that expression was during the German Open Finals—against world No. 1, Novak Brynner.  

He was serious now.  

Whoosh!  

Borg returned the ball—  

But Ishikawa was already airborne, racket poised for a smash.  

As he swung, his arm blurred—not once, but nine times in an instant.  

Swish-swish-swish!  

The afterimages merged—  

CRACK!  

The ball struck like a comet.  

"0-15!"  

Silence.  

The Germans gaped.  

Borg’s serve game—and Ishikawa had just taken the first point?!  

"You’re formidable, Ishikawa Zen."  

Borg’s voice was low, edged with intensity. "In that case… I’ll stop holding back too."  

The crowd stirred.  

What terrifying technique would he unveil?  

Whoosh.  

He tossed the ball—  

Then swung with his entire body’s torque.  

BAM!  

The serve landed dead-center on the line, kicking up a spray of dust.  

"The power’s greater, but…"  

Mitsuya frowned. "It doesn’t seem special otherwise. Wait—what is that?!"  

Whoooosh!  

Three tornadoes erupted on Borg’s side of the court.  

Without warning, they multiplied, converging on Ishikawa with terrifying suction—as if to shred him apart with their spiraling force.  

"So you’ve mastered it after all."  

Ishikawa stood calmly amidst the storm.  

He recognized this technique.  

[Harmony – Infinite Tornadoes.]  

(End of Chapter.)