481-485

Chapter 481: Emperor vs. Prince  

"Two losses, one win."  

Watching the dust-covered ninja boy return, Balthazar muttered under his breath.  

Despite their thorough pre-match analysis, no one had anticipated such a turbulent match. France’s worst-case scenario had been facing Japan’s top three—Ishikawa, Byoudouin, and Oni—along with a doubles pair from among Tokugawa, Duke, or Irie. In that case, their chances of victory would have been less than 20%.  

But no one expected Japan to field an entirely junior high lineup. Even more shocking? France had still lost two matches.  

Even if they secured a win in Singles 2, their captain, Camus, couldn’t guarantee a victory against Ishikawa.  

The reason was simple.  

Even Switzerland’s captain, Amadeus—a full-fledged pro—had suffered a crushing defeat at Ishikawa’s hands. Despite being only a first-year in junior high, Ishikawa’s skill already placed him among the world’s elite.  

Camus was France’s unbeatable icon, but with two devastating losses fresh in their minds, doubt had begun to creep in.  

"The problem is…"  

Balthazar sighed. "We might not even make it to the fifth match in Singles 1."  

If Camus took the court, there was still a sliver of hope. But as things stood, France might not even reach that point.  

"I believe in the Prince’s strength," Camus said with a calm smile. "He may not be Ishikawa’s equal, but his talent far surpasses even mine."  

His words reignited a spark of hope in the French team.  

Meanwhile, on an empty practice court… 

Two figures exchanged rapid-fire shots, the ball streaking back and forth like bullets. The sheer speed left onlookers breathless.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Ten tennis balls shot across the net like a barrage of gunfire.  

Against such an onslaught, most players would have frozen. But the red-haired boy stepped forward, undaunted.  

SWISH! SWISH! SWISH!  

Multiple afterimages split from his body—each one intercepting a ball—before blasting them back with fierce precision.  

WHOOSH!  

But the boy adjusted his swing rhythm deliberately, creating a staggered return. To spectators, it looked like the ten balls split into two waves of five, flying back one after the other.  

"Hmph."  

On the other side, Atobe raised an eyebrow before reacting instantly. Five phantom copies of himself materialized, effortlessly returning every shot.  

SWOOSH!  

He lunged forward, meeting the second wave head-on.  

"Tch."  

Charlodore’s eyes sharpened as he countered Atobe’s returns with equal speed. Their rackets moved in perfect sync.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

The sound of colliding shots echoed like firecrackers. Some balls crashed mid-air, exploding with enough force to send shockwaves rippling outward. The rest landed harmlessly on either side, ignored by both players.  

The gust from the impacts whipped at their jackets, but neither flinched.  

"Gulp…"  

A spectator swallowed hard.  

"Is this really a match between junior high students?!"  

"Time’s almost up."  

Atobe glanced at the sky, calculating. "Singles 3 should be over by now. Two losses, one win—you’re France’s last hope."  

"You’re awfully confident," Charlodore shot back. "Two sets in 30 minutes? Even if that’s true, there’s no way Dohlong would lose!"  

"Maybe."  

Atobe smirked before turning away.  

"That bastard…"  

Charlodore’s expression darkened. He’d hoped to settle Singles 2 off-court, but his opponent’s strength had caught him off guard.  

Still, he refused to believe Atobe’s words. No one knew better than him just how terrifying Dohlong’s Five Chariots Technique was. Rumor had it his senior even possessed a forbidden technique—one with devastating power no junior high player should wield.  

"P-Prince!"  

A frantic voice cut through his thoughts.  

"Georges?"  

Charlodore turned to see the bespectacled boy, his face still smudged with paint, panting heavily.  

"I finally found you!" Georges gasped. "The captain says you need to return now. Singles 2 starts in less than five minutes!"  

"What?"  

Charlodore stiffened.  

"Understood."  

Suppressing his shock, he nodded. But as they hurried back, he couldn’t resist asking:  

"So… who won?"  

"Uh… the other team."  

Georges’ face twisted with discomfort.  

Charlodore’s breath hitched.  

Lost?  

Dohlong—the ninja who’d once defeated him, master of the Five Chariots and forbidden techniques—had lost?!  

"I see."  

Taking a deep breath, Charlodore’s expression hardened.  

"D-Don’t worry!" Georges tried to reassure him. "Japan’s Singles 2 player might not be as strong as Singles 3."  

"I know."  

Charlodore’s voice was steel. "Because I just played him."  

His eyes flashed with determination—a mix of wariness toward Japan and resolve to turn the tide for France.  

"Huh?"  

Georges blinked, confused, but Charlodore didn’t elaborate.  

Back at the stadium… 

Charlodore gave Camus a firm nod before stepping onto the court.  

At the same time, Atobe strode forward from Japan’s side, a confident smile on his lips.  

"The Singles 2 match will now begin!"  

"Representing France—Prince Ludovic Charlodore (1st Year, Junior High)!"  

"Representing Japan—Keigo Atobe (3rd Year, Junior High)!"  

"Players, prepare yourselves!"  

The two stepped onto the court in perfect sync.  

"Huh?!"  

In the stands, Marui and Hiyoshi perked up. "That’s the guy from yesterday!"  

They hadn’t forgotten their humiliating encounter. If not for Ishikawa’s intervention, the white-horse-riding brat would’ve crushed them.  

"He’s France’s rep?"  

"Wait… he’s a junior high student too?!"  

They exchanged stunned glances.  

"Prince Ludovic Charlodore," Mukushi explained smoothly. "A prodigy descended from French nobility."  

"An actual prince?!" Oishi and Kikumaru gaped.  

Back at Seigaku, Ryoma’s talent and looks had earned him the nickname "Prince" from fangirls. But compared to Japan’s penchant for grandiose titles like "Emperor" or "King," it was nothing special.  

Yet here, on the world stage, stood a real prince.  

"Atobe’s basically nobility too, right?" Senju mused. "With his family’s wealth, you could call him the ‘Emperor’ of junior high tennis."  

"So…" Yanagi adjusted his glasses, amused. "This is a battle between Emperor and Prince?"  

"Huh." Saeki, ever observant, noted, "They’ve both warmed up already—and they’re in top form."  

His sharp eyes caught the subtle readiness in their stances.  

"Atobe actually warmed up?!" Akutagawa burst out laughing. "The guy who never bothers?!"  

"Well, it is the World Cup," Mukahi defended weakly.  

The others chuckled, but no one disagreed. This was France, one of the Big 4. Even with Japan’s lead, no one dared underestimate them.  

"Though…" Mukushi twirled a lock of hair, smirking. "They don’t seem like strangers, do they?"  

Everyone turned back to the court.  

"We meet again, Prince of France."  

Atobe’s voice was smooth as silk.  

"Tch."  

Charlodore’s jaw tightened.  

He knew Atobe was referencing their earlier exchange. Dohlong had lost—and brutally, failing to take a single game in two sets.  

Japan’s depth was alarming. Beyond Ishikawa and Tezuka, they had monsters like this.  

"Enough talk," Charlodore snapped. "I’ll show you the gap between us and the world stage."  

"Looking forward to it."  

Atobe’s smile didn’t waver.  

In the past, he’d have retaliated with sharper words. But after Ishikawa’s dominance, the rise of the "Ice Demon," and the pressure from Tezuka and Yukimura, his mindset had shifted.  

To him, Charlodore was still raw—like Ryoma during Nationals, brimming with talent but reckless.  

Back then, Atobe had wondered: What if Ice Dale didn’t have Ishikawa? Could I have beaten that fiery kid?  

But U-17 and the pressure from high schoolers had buried those thoughts. And when Ryoma left, the question faded entirely.  

Now, facing this red-haired prince, curiosity flickered anew.  

France’s Side 

"Georges, who is this guy?" Balthazar and the others turned to their analyst.  

They’d just heard Charlodore mention playing Atobe earlier.  

"Checking now."  

Georges flipped through his notes. As France’s strategist, he researched all top players—Germany, Switzerland, Spain.  

Japan’s sudden rise had forced him to cram, but he’d focused on high schoolers. Now, with Japan fielding only junior high players, his prep felt wasted.  

"Found him!"  

He pulled up Atobe’s profile.  

"Keigo Atobe, 14. Japanese U-17 junior high representative. Captain of Hyotei’s tennis team… Wait, Hyotei won Japan’s Nationals this year?!"  

His eyes widened.  

"What’s the big deal?" Darlacova scoffed. "It’s just a junior high tournament."  

"Hyotei’s vice-captain…" Georges swallowed hard. "You won’t believe who it is."  

"Who?"  

The team frowned.  

"Him."  

Camus’ gaze snapped toward Japan’s bench—to the smirking black-haired boy.  

A collective shudder ran through the French team.  

Chapter 482: The Terror of Ultimate Insight  

Keigo Atobe!  

This man was not only from the same school as Ishikawa Ryoga—he was also the captain of that team?!  

The revelation sent shockwaves through the French camp.  

Given their already frayed nerves, even this small piece of information was enough to unsettle them.  

"I-It can’t be that bad…"  

One of France’s high schoolers hesitated before speaking up. "Japan’s junior high players are strong, but they can’t all be on Tezuka or Yukimura’s level, right?"  

As for Ishikawa? He didn’t even bother comparing.  

That monster had long since transcended the label of "junior high student."  

"Best of three sets!"  

The umpire’s voice rang out. "Atobe Keigo to serve. Game start!"  

Under the crowd’s watchful eyes, Atobe tossed the ball high, arching his back dramatically. His racket arm extended at a near-perfect 90-degree angle.  

"Tannhäuser… Serve!"  

With a sharp flick of his wrist, the ball rocketed across the net like a bullet.  

"So fast!"  

Several French junior high players paled.  

"That’s it?"  

The high schoolers, however, relaxed. To them, the serve—while quick—was nothing extraordinary. The fact that Atobe had even announced it felt almost… theatrical.  

"This ball…"  

But Camus and Balthazar noticed something else. Their eyes narrowed as the ball accelerated mid-descent.  

"Got it!"  

Prince Charlodore lunged forward, his upper body eerily still as he positioned himself for the return. His racket swung—  

"Wait—!"  

His pupils shrank.  

Instead of bouncing up, the ball skidded along the ground, barely rising an inch.  

"15–0."  

Gasps erupted from the crowd.  

"Atobe Keigo!"  

Balthazar, Darlacova, and even Dohlong stared at the Japanese player with newfound wariness. That serve had been a statement.  

Charlodore’s jaw tightened.  

During their warm-up clash, Atobe hadn’t used this move.  

"So," he thought grimly, "you were holding back."  

Steeling himself, he adjusted his stance, determined to crack the serve’s secret.  

BAM! BAM! BAM!  

Three more serves. Three more failures.  

"Game! Atobe leads 1–0! Change ends!"  

Four aces. A flawless hold.  

The French team’s morale dipped further.  

"That’s our captain!"  

Hiyoshi and Ootori cheered from the stands, swelling with pride—just as Kintarou had for Yukimura earlier.  

"Atobe couldn’t resist showing off after Tezuka and Yukimura’s matches," Shishido chuckled.  

"That kid’s unlucky," Mukahi added. "He just became Atobe’s highlight reel."  

"Is that so?"  

Oshitari frowned.  

True, Charlodore hadn’t touched a single serve. But Atobe’s Tannhäuser was second only to Tezuka’s Zero-Shiki in difficulty. It’d be stranger if the Prince had returned it.  

More tellingly—Atobe wasn’t treating this match lightly. Beneath his usual arrogance, Oshitari detected focus.  

"Could it be…?"  

His eyes flicked between the two. Their pre-match "warm-up" hadn’t been casual.  

THWACK!  

Charlodore’s serve exploded onto the baseline. Atobe barely twitched.  

"15–0."  

"What?!"  

Japan’s players stiffened.  

"That speed…" Inui adjusted his glasses. "It rivals Kintarou’s."  

Unbelievable for a first-year. Charlodore wasn’t particularly tall or muscular—more like Ryoma’s build.  

THWACK!  

Another ace.  

"30–0."  

"Two in a row?!"  

If the first was a fluke, the second confirmed it: this kid was dangerous.  

"Interesting."  

Atobe’s smirk widened.  

Charlodore had held back too. Naturally—no one revealed their full hand off-court.  

"But this makes it fun."  

He studied the Prince with fresh interest. A one-sided stomp would’ve been boring. Now? He had a worthy opponent.  

THWACK!  

Another baseline bullet. The ball left a visible mark on the court.  

"40–0."  

Atobe nodded. "Upper-body strength on par with Kintarou’s."  

Aside from Ishikawa, he’d never seen a first-year with such raw power.  

"But your weakness is already mine."  

His smile turned knowing.  

"Laugh while you can," a French player sneered. "When the Prince gets serious, even high schoolers can’t keep up."  

Balthazar and the others nodded.  

Even Dohlong—who’d beaten Charlodore using the Five Chariots Technique—admitted the Prince’s talent surpassed his own.  

THWACK!  

Charlodore served again, his eyes sharp.  

"Atobe Keigo!" His voice rang with challenge. "Let’s see you return this!"  

BAM!  

Atobe’s racket met the ball mid-flight.  

"What?!"  

France’s players froze.  

Not only had he returned it—the ball shot straight between Charlodore’s legs before he could react.  

"40–15."  

The crowd erupted.  

Disbelief. Admiration. Fear.  

Atobe had not only broken the serve—he’d humiliated the Prince.  

"P-Prince…?"  

The French team’s faces darkened.  

"Trouble," Camus murmured. "He’s found the Prince’s flaw."  

"Flaw?!"  

Even Dohlong and Georges stiffened. They’d studied Charlodore endlessly but never pinpointed a weakness.  

"Horseback training," Camus explained. "His upper body is elite, but his lower body…"  

As nobility, Charlodore had practiced tennis on horseback since childhood. His explosive serves relied on torso strength—but his footwork?  

Atobe had spotted the imbalance during their warm-up. Now, he exploited it ruthlessly.  

"No way!"  

Charlodore served again—only for Atobe to blast another return past him.  

"40–30."  

The Prince’s hands trembled. His unbeatable serve… cracked?  

"Damn it!"  

He forced himself to stay calm. Toss. Swing.  

THWACK!  

"Freeze."  

Atobe’s voice cut through the air.  

Suddenly, Charlodore saw them—glittering ice pillars crashing down around him, sealing him in a cage.  

"My… dead angles?!"  

Every pillar radiated danger. His instincts screamed.  

"Nonsense!" He roared. "I have no dead angles!"  

CRACK!  

The ice shattered.  

"Oh?" Atobe’s grin turned predatory. "But they’re right there."  

His eyes gleamed—X-ray vision peeling away flesh, muscle, even clothing. Only bone remained.  

One glance.  

That’s all it took.  

THWACK!  

The ball slammed into Charlodore’s absolute dead angle—his right hip and shoulder locking up mid-swing. A searing pain shot through him, as if his bones would snap if he moved.  

"I… can’t…?!"  

Helpless, he watched the ball roll behind him.  

"Game. 1–1."  

Silence.  

"Absolute dead angles…" Camus’s voice was grave. "To think a junior high player’s insight could reach this level."  

"He’s dangerous," Balthazar agreed.  

Atobe’s ability lacked the dazzle of Tezuka’s Perfect Harmony or Yukimura’s Five Senses Theft. But this—the sheer, fundamental terror of seeing everything—was perhaps the most oppressive of all.  

Dohlong and the others swallowed hard.  

Tezuka. Yukimura. Atobe.  

Even without Ishikawa—already in a league of his own—Japan’s junior high lineup was suffocating.  

A grim realization settled over France: they might not even reach Camus’s match.  

"Prince."  

Camus’s gaze burned into Charlodore. "Don’t falter. Your potential—your tennis—is far from its limit."  

The true battle had only just begun.  

Chapter 483: Unleashed Potential – The Invincible Return Game  

Thwack!  

"Game!"  

"Japan leads, 2-0!"  

In the blink of an eye, Atobe had broken his opponent’s serve.  

With the terrifying insight of Atobe Kingdom paired with his masterful technique, the French player stood no chance.  

"Prince Charles… he’s actually…"  

The French team fell silent.  

The gap in skill—no, the gap in ability—was staggering. Yes, Charles’ Super Shot was formidable, but Atobe’s prowess was equally monstrous.  

As long as Atobe could touch the ball, Atobe Kingdom would expose his opponent’s absolute blind spot—a weakness Charles could never defend against.  

"Tannhäuser… Serve!"  

Boom!  

The ball landed, skimming the ground at blistering speed.  

Charles didn’t give up. He crouched low, trying to replicate how Delacroix had countered Fuji’s Phoenix Return earlier.  

But this was different.  

A Tannhäuser Serve was far deadlier—Charles only had the instant the ball touched the ground to react.  

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!  

Four serves in a row.  

The French prince flailed helplessly, his racket swiping at air as the ball zipped past him each time.  

"Game!"  

"Japan leads, 3-0! Change sides!"  

"Tch."  

From the stands, Hiyoshi smirked. "And here I thought he was something special. Atobe-senpai crushed him 3-0 in under five minutes. This match is already over."  

"Atobe is strong," agreed Sengoku and Saeki.  

Ryoma’s brilliance had somewhat overshadowed the rest of Hyotei, but outside that prodigy, Atobe was a force to be reckoned with. Among middle-schoolers, only Tezuka and Yukimura could definitively surpass him. Compared to them, this "French Prince" was clearly outmatched.  

"True, but…"  

Mizuki and Yagyuu narrowed their eyes, watching Charles as he gripped his racket after the changeover.  

"You’re missing something," Akutagawa suddenly said. "That kid’s racket is getting closer to Atobe’s serves each time."  

"Right," Marui nodded. "Give him two or three more tries, and he’ll return it."  

"Breaking the Tannhäuser Serve head-on?!"  

The group tensed.  

The only person they’d seen do that in an official match was Inui during the shuffle matches—and they now knew he had pro-level skills. His Asura Path had even swallowed top American players whole.  

Inui was far stronger than he let on.  

"Atobe Keigo."  

Charles glared across the court, his grip tightening on the ball. "You are strong. But I won’t lose to you!"  

This wasn’t bravado—it was conviction.  

Facing a powerful opponent didn’t intimidate him. Instead, the pressure ignited something deep inside—an unquenchable thirst for victory.  

Like a seal breaking, his potential was awakening.  

Boom!  

His next serve was faster, yet just as precise. Even Atobe felt a flicker of pressure.  

But only a flicker.  

"You’re nowhere near ready, brat!"  

Atobe’s eyes flashed as he swung. Guided by Atobe Kingdom, his return shot arrowed straight for Charles’ blind spot.  

"Again?!"  

Charles’ face paled.  

He knew Atobe could exploit weaknesses, but he’d been confident he could adapt mid-match.  

He’d been wrong.  

"But—!"  

His gaze sharpened. "I refuse to surrender!"  

Swish!  

He lunged, his racket slicing through the air—  

—and a jolt of pain shot through his arm.  

His bones were resisting.  

His body’s limits screamed at him—this shot was beyond his current speed and reflexes.  

"Hmph!"  

But he didn’t back down. He’d already made his choice.  

Step!  

His reaction time spiked as his focus peaked—yet his racket still missed by inches.  

"0-15."  

"Damn it!"  

Dohn and Georges groaned in frustration.  

But Camus and the high-schoolers smiled. They saw something the others didn’t.  

"This guy…"  

Atobe’s brow twitched.  

To everyone else, he was dominating with Atobe Kingdom. But he knew the truth—his "kingdom" was cracking.  

Because Charles’ ability was evolving.  

Atobe Kingdom wasn’t invincible. Blind spots shifted as opponents grew stronger—some even vanished.  

"Not bad, French Prince."  

Atobe acknowledged him with a glance, staying calm. He’d seen the vastness of the world. He wouldn’t get complacent.  

Thwack! "0-30."  

Thwack! "0-40."  

Atobe secured three break points. One more, and the first set was his.  

Then—  

Hiss.  

A crimson, flame-like aura erupted from Charles’ body.  

"Finally… he awakens."  

Camus smiled.  

Charles had immense talent—but he’d spent years playing equestrian tennis, never facing true court battles. Even his loss to Dohn had been a fluke.  

Now, under Atobe’s pressure, his potential had been unleashed.  

"Oh?"  

Atobe’s eyes widened—  

—then narrowed as a golden aura burst from him.  

Emperor’s Presence.  

This ability didn’t just boost his stats—it suppressed opponents, capping their performance if their mental strength was lacking.  

But—  

"Huh?"  

Atobe stiffened.  

His golden aura couldn’t penetrate Charles’ flames.  

The kid’s willpower was stronger than he’d thought.  

Boom!  

Charles fired another shot.  

Atobe countered, again targeting his blind spot—  

"Useless!"  

Charles’ body transformed—his skeleton visible like an X-ray, his jawbone clacking as he spoke.  

Poof.  

The eerie image dissolved—  

—and Charles reappeared right where the ball landed.  

"I told you."  

His racket, wreathed in flames, blurred as he swung.  

Crack!  

The ball rocketed back.  

"What?!"  

Hyotei’s players froze.  

Charles had returned it—meaning Atobe Kingdom had been broken!  

"His potential’s fully ignited now," Duke chuckled. "Camus always said he’d be the one to carry France’s future."  

"Decent," Byoudouin admitted. "But this level won’t change anything."  

Hiss.  

Atobe’s aura intensified—Emperor’s Presence, Stage Two.  

His next shot, a vicious curveball, caught Charles off-guard.  

"Game!"  

"Japan leads, 4-0!"  

Another break. Japan’s side erupted in cheers; France’s morale dipped.  

Yet—  

"Heh."  

Charles, despite the scoreline, grinned. "You’re scared."  

That last point? Atobe had panicked. Instead of weathering Charles’ rise, he’d gone all-out to shut him down.  

A smart move—but in this battle of wills, it was a tell.  

Atobe feared his growth.  

"Is this guy insane?" Hiyoshi spat. "He’s getting crushed, and he’s still talking trash. There’s no way Atobe-senpai is scared!"  

"Right," Mukahi scoffed. "He’s down 4-0, and Atobe’s serving next. He should worry about returning the Tannhäuser Serve first!"  

Boom!  

Atobe served again.  

The ball kissed the baseline, skimming the court like a bullet.  

"Again?!"  

The French team tensed.  

This serve was a monster—low, fast, nearly unreturnable. Even Delacroix might’ve struggled.  

But then—  

Whoosh!  

Charles moved.  

His flaming aura exploded, his speed doubling in an instant. A trail of afterimages followed as his racket sliced downward—  

Crack!  

The ball flew back.  

"He… returned it?!"  

Hiyoshi and Mukahi’s jaws dropped.  

Thud!  

Even more shocking—Charles’ return was faster, sharper, and landed perfectly.  

Atobe couldn’t react.  

"0-30."  

The Tannhäuser Serve had been broken—twice.  

Dohn and Georges gaped. Balthazar and Moreau’s eyes darkened with unease.  

Because Charles’ true terror wasn’t his serves—  

—it was his unstoppable return game.  

Before today, his return-game win rate was 100%.  

No one who’d let him touch the ball had ever returned it. His speed, precision, and flawless form made his counters unbeatable.  

Now, with his potential unleashed, the French Prince was ready to strike back.  

Chapter 484: Beyond Limits – The Domain of the Ice Emperor  

"This guy!"  

Atobe, too, realized that his opponent had broken through his limits under pressure. This wasn’t uncommon—facing a top-tier genius, nothing was impossible.  

He had expected this.  

So, the moment he sensed the sharp, overwhelming force behind Charltarou’s super return, Atobe moved.  

Thud!  

But he was still a step too late.  

Thanks to years of rigorous upper-body training, Charltarou’s return was even more terrifying than his serve. After all, Atobe’s Tannhäuser Serve required significant preparation, leaving his body unable to adjust immediately after the shot.  

Even with his lightning-fast reflexes, his racket barely grazed the ball as it shot past him.  

"0-40."  

"Too slow!"  

Charltarou laughed, his previously suppressed emotions now bursting forth without restraint.  

Swish!  

Then, he raised his racket and pointed it straight at his opponent.  

"Watch closely—my performance has only just begun!"  

Arrogant? Absolutely.  

Yet, Hiyoshi and the others fell silent.  

Charltarou had just dismantled the Tannhäuser Serve—he had every right to be. Neither that super serve nor his return were something they could counter.  

"With just his fundamentals, he can already rival elite high school players," Mitsuya said grimly. "This French prince’s talent is terrifying."  

Boom!  

Atobe served again.  

This time, he opted for a standard high-speed serve instead of the Tannhäuser, but the placement was still ruthless—landing precisely on the service line.  

"Useless."  

Charltarou smirked as he positioned himself where the ball would land.  

"No matter what serve you use, it won’t work!"  

Bang!  

A flash of pale yellow light exploded right beside Atobe.  

"Game!"  

"France, 1-4! Change sides!"  

"Woooo!"  

"That’s it! The prince is fighting back!"  

"Keep this momentum and finish him off!"  

The French team erupted in excitement.  

As one of the Big 4, being pressured by an all-middle-school lineup had been humiliating. Many had even doubted they’d make it to Singles 1.  

But now—  

Charltarou had awakened.  

With his potential unleashed, he completely overwhelmed his opponent. Using nothing but flawless fundamentals, his returns struck with lethal precision, leaving Atobe helpless.  

Bang!  

Soon, the sixth game began.  

Now with the serve, Charltarou opened with another Super Serve.  

Swish!  

Across the net, a sharp glint flashed in Atobe’s eyes.  

Activating his enhanced perception and mental focus, the effects of Atobe Kingdom instantly took hold.  

"I told you—I have no weaknesses!"  

Charltarou, now transcending his limits, smirked beneath his red bangs, radiating absolute confidence.  

Static—  

The skeletal vision of Atobe Kingdom flickered like a disrupted signal, dissolving into visual noise.  

Bang!  

The ball landed.  

Atobe stood frozen, his body stiff.  

"15-0!"  

"Finally! The prince’s ace serve!"  

"At full power, even elite high schoolers can’t match him."  

"He was already strong, but now that he’s broken through, he’s entered a whole new realm!"  

The French team was ecstatic.  

If he kept this up, the match was as good as over.  

Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud!  

As the match progressed, Charltarou’s dominance only grew, suppressing Atobe completely.  

Thud!  

"Game!"  

"France, 2-4!"  

Thud!  

"Game!"  

"France, 3-4!"  

"It’s over."  

Off-court, France’s Delacroix shook his head. "His spirit is probably on the verge of crumbling."  

His gaze shifted to Atobe, whose forehead glistened with sweat. Despite Melbourne’s summer heat, the amount was abnormal.  

"Honestly, the moment he stopped using the Tannhäuser Serve, he’d already lost," Barthe remarked. "At this level, it’s not just about skill or stamina—it’s a battle of wills. And clearly, Charltarou has won."  

"Right."  

Morrow, Dorglas, and the others nodded in agreement.  

Bang!  

Another of Charltarou’s shots landed beside Atobe.  

"Game!"  

"France, 4-4!"  

In less than five minutes, Charltarou had erased the deficit. The sheer speed of his comeback left spectators stunned. After all, Atobe’s skill was undeniably at an elite high school level.  

"Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic!"  

Charltarou swept his bangs aside, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "I thought you’d be stronger. Turns out, this is all you’ve got?"  

"Cheap provocation," Atobe replied calmly. "But you’re right—it’s about time the real match began."  

The real match?  

The crowd blinked in confusion.  

Was he delusional? By all accounts, Charltarou held absolute control.  

"Has he lost his mind?" Morrow scoffed. "I get that he’s backed into a corner, but if he’s just going to talk big, he might as well forfeit and save himself the embarrassment."  

Anyone could see Atobe was completely outmatched.  

"Perhaps… it’s not that simple."  

The team’s captain, Camus, suddenly spoke.  

Hm?  

The others turned to him in surprise.  

Had anyone else said that, they’d have dismissed it outright. But this was Camus.  

"Hmm." Morrow rubbed his chin. "From where I’m standing, he’s done for. Unless… he let Charltarou catch up on purpose—Wait, what?!"  

His words died in his throat as his eyes widened in shock.  

On the court, Atobe’s body erupted with a blazing golden aura—his presence now far more overwhelming than before.  

"This again?"  

Charltarou sneered, activating his own crimson energy. "Too bad your little trick won’t work on—Huh?!"  

His smirk vanished.  

"This pressure… impossible!"  

A suffocating, invasive force bore down on him, so intense that his grip on the racket nearly faltered.  

"Finally getting serious?"  

Inui, Shiraishi, and others who had faced Atobe before grinned.  

They knew his true strength.  

This golden aura wasn’t just for show—Atobe had honed it to an exceptional level. The training matches and exhibition games had pushed him even further.  

Now, with his full power unleashed, the real battle began.  

Whoosh!  

With the serve back in his hands, Atobe fired off a bullet-like shot.  

"Heh."  

Charltarou smirked. "I thought you’d pull out that Tannhäuser Serve. Guess you’re too scared now!"  

He dashed to the ball’s landing point and swung—another Super Return.  

Bang!  

The shot was blindingly fast, its trajectory merciless. A basic return, yet it carried the force of a high-level technique.  

Watching the ball streak across the court, Hiyoshi, Kirihara, and the others tensed. At their current level, they couldn’t even react to such speed.  

Thud!  

But then—  

A crisp impact echoed.  

Everyone turned to see Atobe, holding his racket with one hand, effortlessly blocking the return.  

"He stopped it?!"  

The French team stiffened in disbelief.  

Charltarou’s signature move—neutralized so easily?  

"I’ve seen enough of this trick."  

Atobe flicked the ball back dismissively.  

"Tch!"  

Frustration burned in Charltarou’s chest. With a furious grunt, he lunged forward, channeling every ounce of strength into his next strike—a brutal shot aimed at Atobe’s backhand corner.  

"Still don’t get it?"  

Atobe was already there.  

His racket swung down like a guillotine, sending the ball rocketing toward Charltarou’s baseline.  

"Damn it!"  

A gust of wind howled in Charltarou’s face as he barely raised his racket in time—  

Snap!  

But it was a trap.  

The ball smashed into his grip, the impact forcing his fingers open. The racket clattered to the ground as the ball rebounded high into the air.  

Swish!  

Atobe leaped, his form a blur as he descended like a hawk—  

CRASH!  

A deafening slam echoed through the stadium.  

The crowd’s eyes snapped to Charltarou, now clutching his right hand in pain.  

"There it is!"  

"Atobe’s (captain’s) signature move—!"  

" Destructive Dunk! "  

The Japanese team roared, especially the Ice Prince’s loyalists. The move was sheer elegance fused with brutality—a spectacle that left the French team speechless.  

"15-0."  

Silence gripped the court.  

"He was holding back?!"  

Charltarou’s face darkened.  

Even a fool could see it now—Atobe had let him catch up. The realization stoked his fury.  

Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang!  

From then on, Atobe dominated.  

Both had impeccable fundamentals, but Atobe’s technique and insight were superior. More crucially, his evolved Emperor’s Aura subtly eroded Charltarou’s focus, tilting the match irreversibly.  

Boom!  

"Game!"  

"Japan, 5-4!"  

In no time, Atobe secured the first set’s final game, sealing his victory with a ruthless smash.  

"First set concluded."  

"Japan’s Atobe wins, 6-4."  

The momentum shift made one thing clear—this match might end in Singles 2.  

Charltarou refused to accept defeat.  

After a brief break, the second set began with him launching an aggressive offensive, desperate to seize control.  

But Atobe countered everything, striking back at every opening.  

Frustrated, Charltarou’s focus wavered—and Atobe capitalized, taking three straight games.  

"Hah… hah…"  

Sweat poured down Charltarou’s face as he slumped on the bench, gasping for air. Physically and mentally, he seemed spent.  

But Camus knew the truth—his teammate’s spirit was shaken. Without conviction, even flawless technique meant nothing.  

"Here."  

Camus handed him a water bottle.  

"Captain… I’m sorry."  

Charltarou’s voice was thick with bitterness.  

"No need."  

Camus remained composed. This year’s French team wasn’t their strongest. Whether they advanced to the semifinals hardly mattered—even if they won, defeating an all-middle-school lineup wasn’t an achievement worth celebrating.  

But before leaving, he placed a hand on Charltarou’s shoulder.  

"Believe in yourself. The door ahead has just opened—step through it."  

Door?  

The others exchanged puzzled glances.  

But Charltarou’s eyes sharpened.  

When he’d broken his limits earlier, he had glimpsed something—a door. He’d dismissed it as exhaustion.  

"Step… inside?"  

His grip tightened.  

He wasn’t one to surrender. Not when France’s advancement still hung in the balance.  

So he fought back, relentless.  

Yet Atobe was unstoppable.  

That golden aura smothered Charltarou’s every move, as if he were dragging weights through quicksand.  

"Damn it!"  

By the end, sweat stung his eyes, his vision blurring. The French prince finally snapped.  

"This level of pressure— you won’t crush me! "  

With a roar, he shattered his restraints—his swing igniting with a golden sheen.  

BOOM!  

The next instant, a deafening explosion rocked the court as the ball, now shimmering with light, hurtled toward Atobe.  

"This is—?!"  

Atobe’s eyes narrowed.  

"A Light Ball?!"  

He hadn’t expected his Emperor’s Aura to force Charltarou’s latent potential to surface—unleashing a shot rivaling the destructive power of a Light Ball.  

"Perfect!"  

Instead of retreating, Atobe grinned and met it head-on.  

Bang!  

Racket and ball collided.  

A crushing weight shot up Atobe’s arm, his pupils contracting.  

BOOM!  

The ball’s energy tore through his racket, blasting a crater into the wall behind him.  

Zzzzt—  

The ball still spun violently, threatening to rip through the strings.  

Thump-thump! Thump-thump!  

Atobe’s heart hammered, blood surging like a torrent through his veins.  

Flash!  

Then—golden flames ignited in his ocean-blue eyes.  

Countless future trajectories unfolded before him, and in that split second, he seized one.  

His racket swung.  

"I’ve captured… your future."  

BOOM!  

A golden comet streaked back across the net, its sheer velocity sending chills down every spectator’s spine.  

"This ball—!"  

Charltarou’s hands trembled—not from fear, but exhilaration. For the first time, he felt the raw thrill of competition.  

His potential flared again.  

"Huh?!"  

But just as he mustered every ounce of strength to counter—  

His body locked up.  

"I… I can’t move?!"  

He looked up.  

Countless ice pillars rained down like a blizzard, encasing him in a frozen prison.  

At first, he thought it was another vision of his weaknesses, like before.  

But then—  

His breath hitched.  

"These ice pillars… they’re sealing my abilities?!"  

His crimson flames.  

His Light Ball power.  

All of it—frozen solid within Atobe’s domain.  

The Domain of the Ice Emperor.  

Chapter 485: Singles 1 – Ishikawa vs. Camus  

At this moment, Charludeau felt an indescribable chill.  

It was as if an invisible hand had seized his body—his carefully honed abilities had completely vanished.  

"An illusion?"  

The thought flashed through his mind.  

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t. He simply couldn’t face the overwhelming reality before him, so he chose to escape it. And with that, his once-unshakable mental fortitude crumbled.  

"Is that... the Abyss of Tennis?!"  

While Charludeau was being utterly crushed, the French team—Barte, Moreau, and the others—stared in shock.  

"I... I think I saw a figure... like an emperor!" George, the bespectacled boy with a mushroom cut, stammered.  

The Abyss of Tennis.  

This was a realm only accessible when a player’s abilities transcended normal limits, causing a fundamental transformation in at least one of their five core attributes.  

For example, if speed was pushed beyond its peak, the player would enter the realm of superspeed, where the ball moved faster than the eye could track. Only by sharpening their senses—or awakening a sixth sense—could they perceive it.  

"It seems to be a mental-type Abyss ability?" Draluc said uncertainly.  

Compared to the other four attributes, mental Abyss abilities were the most mysterious. They tapped into the deepest layers of human consciousness, unlocking powers that defied conventional understanding.  

On the French team, only Camus had ever reached such heights.  

And so, as they questioned whether Atobe had truly broken through his limits, all eyes turned to their captain.  

"Yes."  

Camus nodded calmly. "What he’s awakened is an Abyss ability that seals his opponent’s techniques."  

As he spoke, his gaze remained fixed on Atobe, analyzing the golden aura surrounding him. Atobe was radiating his mental power outward, using sheer pressure to overwhelm his opponent—suppressing, even erasing their abilities.  

This was a higher dimension of power.  

Compared to him, Charludeau was still far too weak. Whether in mental resilience or match experience, the gap between them was so vast that Atobe could effortlessly lock away the French Prince’s skills.  

Boom! 

"Game!" 

"Japan leads, 1-0!"  

Boom! 

"Game!" 

"Japan leads, 2-0!"  

Boom! 

"Game!" 

"Japan leads, 3-0!"  

In the blink of an eye, Atobe had secured three straight games.  

With his Emperor’s Dominion, he had finally crossed that threshold—reaching the same level as Tezuka and Yukimura.  

"As expected of Hyotei’s captain."  

Sanada, Tachibana, and the others nodded in acknowledgment.  

To the middle schoolers, Hyotei was more than just a name—it was a symbol. Before this, many had doubted whether Atobe was truly fit to lead.  

But now?  

He had shattered his limits, proving himself as one of the elite.  

In contrast, Charludeau was a pitiful sight—drenched in sweat, trembling, his confidence in tatters. It was hard to believe this was the same prodigy hailed as the future of French tennis.  

Whispers spread through the crowd, even among the French team. Some of the younger players shook their heads, murmuring about Charludeau’s past arrogance.  

As a top-tier talent, he had rarely trained with the team. Having dominated the junior circuit with his "Equestrian Tennis," he’d believed his style was unbeatable.  

But now?  

He was being humiliated by a fellow middle schooler.  

The myth of his invincibility had been shattered.  

On the court, Charludeau could feel the crushing weight of Atobe’s pressure—and for the first time, he began to regret.  

If only he had trained harder. If only he hadn’t been so complacent. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be so powerless now.  

Thud.  

It was Charludeau’s turn to serve, but his ball hit the net.  

"First serve fault!"  

"Has it really come to this?"  

Dolan, George, and the others watched with concern. The boy on the court was a far cry from the confident French Prince they knew.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

Charludeau bounced the ball slowly, trying to regain his rhythm—something he’d once mocked as a "weakness."  

Finally, after nearly 20 seconds, he managed a shaky serve.  

Boom!  

But in the next instant, a golden light exploded beside him.  

"Gh—!"  

Charludeau’s body locked up. A bitter taste filled his mouth.  

He had lost.  

There was no coming back. Atobe was too strong—his aura was like ice, freezing Charludeau’s very soul.  

As the match dragged on, his despair only grew. He moved like a zombie, his spirit broken.  

Even the most oblivious spectator could see it now: France was finished. Their journey would end in the quarterfinals.  

Boom! 

"Game!" 

"Japan leads, 4-0!"  

Another shutout.  

By now, French fans had seen enough. Some began to leave.  

But before they could even reach the exits—  

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!  

Atobe fired four consecutive ace serves, sealing the fifth game in under a minute.  

Thud.  

Then, to everyone’s shock, Charludeau collapsed to his knees.  

His eyes were hollow.  

"I lost... I lost..."  

His voice was a broken whisper. "I’m sorry, Captain Camus... I failed you. I wasn’t strong enough... If only I hadn’t been so arrogant... This is all my fault..."  

The crowd fell silent.  

Even the umpire hesitated before speaking. "Charludeau... it’s time to switch sides."  

But the red-haired boy didn’t move. He just stared blankly ahead.  

With a sigh, the umpire glanced toward the French team’s bench.  

Chaos erupted.  

No one could believe it—France, one of the Big 4, was about to be eliminated in disgrace. And the decision to concede would have to come from their captain, who hadn’t even stepped onto the court.  

This was humiliating.  

"N-no... I can still... fight..."  

Charludeau gripped his racket, forcing himself to stand.  

"That’s enough, Prance."  

Camus shook his head. "Your body can’t take anymore."  

The match was over.  

If France had to leave in shame, he would bear the responsibility—not his teammates. He wouldn’t let the backlash destroy their futures.  

With Charludeau’s talent, he would return stronger.  

"NO!"  

But Charludeau screamed, his voice raw. "I CAN DO IT! If you just step in, we can still win! We haven’t lost yet! WE CAN’T LOSE!!"  

He sounded delusional.  

"Enough!"  

Camus’ voice turned icy. He turned to the umpire—  

"Umpire!"  

But before he could speak, Atobe raised his hand.  

"I forfeit."  

Silence.  

Then—the stadium erupted.  

No one had seen this coming. The match was all but over. Even if Charludeau somehow continued, Atobe would’ve ended it in minutes.  

Yet he chose to surrender?  

The umpire frowned. "Atobe... are you sure?"  

His eyes darted toward Japan’s coach—the red-nosed man on the bench.  

"Don’t worry."  

Atobe smirked. "I’m certain he’ll support my decision."  

"Heh."  

Nanjiro chuckled, waving a hand. "Do whatever you want."  

Atobe’s defiance was unexpected, but it didn’t matter. With two wins already secured, Japan had already won. The only question was how.  

And if Atobe wanted to forfeit? Fine.  

Besides, Nanjiro was curious to see what Camus—the so-called *"Revolutionary Strategist"*—was truly capable of.  

"W-we... won?!"  

The French team was stunned. Even Camus looked shocked.  

"Y-you bastard!"  

Charludeau, still trembling, glared at Atobe. "I... I didn’t lose to you—!"  

"You talk too much."  

Atobe smirked, turning away. "Instead of whining, why not sit back and watch your team’s downfall?"  

With that, he walked off, leaving Charludeau seething.  

"Ahem."  

The umpire cleared his throat. "Due to Atobe’s forfeit, the winner of Singles 2 is... Prance Ludovic Charludeau of France!"  

Dead silence.  

Then—  

"FIXED MATCH?!"  

Someone in the crowd yelled.  

This wasn’t just a forfeit—it was a public mockery. No one had ever seen such a blatant display.  

"No."  

A calm voice cut through the noise. "Japan did this on purpose."  

"On purpose?!"  

"Their goal is simple," the man replied. "They want to crush France—completely and utterly."  

"Wait... Beckx?!"  

The crowd turned to see a young man in a black, yellow, and red jacket—Auguste Beckx, captain of Belgium, ranked 8th in the world.  

"So... Japan’s real target is Camus?"  

All eyes shifted to the two figures at the edge of the court.  

"Next up—Singles 1!"  

"Representing France: Leopold Camus (3rd Year)!" 

"Representing Japan: Shin Ishikawa (1st Year)!"  

"Players, prepare yourselves."  

At that moment, the fans who had been leaving paused.  

They turned—and saw figures emerging from every tunnel.  

"That’s... Reinhardt of the U.S.!" 

"Amadeus of Switzerland!" 

"Medanore of Spain!" 

"Wait—Borg and QP?! Germany’s entire team is here?!"  

The atmosphere grew tense as the world’s strongest players gathered.  

Even in the shadows, others watched—Gawain of South Africa, Sharma of India, Lee Seung-bu of Korea...  

"They all came."  

Mitsuya, Japan’s strategist, clenched his fists.  

Of course.  

No one wanted to miss the match that would decide the new Big 4.