471-475

Chapter 471: The Unthinkable!  

Even someone as composed as Reinhardt was utterly shaken.  

Had his tennis—his otherworldly technique—really been dismantled so easily?  

"This can’t be real!"  

But in the next moment, a sharp glint flashed in his eyes.  

"There’s no way I’m losing this match!"  

BOOM!  

An overwhelming aura erupted from his body. The dark-gold energy swirling around him surged outward like scorching waves, radiating in all directions.  

"That gaze…!"  

Byoudouin and Oni’s expressions darkened.  

This was the first time they had truly taken Reinhardt seriously. Even Duke and Tokugawa tensed up.  

"His perfect tennis was just a façade," Duke said grimly. "His real strength has been hidden all along."  

"He’s been concealing his true power," Tokugawa agreed.  

Ralph Reinhardt had always been seen as a mid-tier player—someone overshadowed by the Big Four, only mentioned in passing when discussing top contenders. Even when the U.S. team secured their world ranking, Reinhardt remained an afterthought in most conversations.  

But now, the aura he unleashed was on par with the likes of Amadeus. He had hidden his strength so well, yet Ishikawa had forced it out of him.  

Like a sparrow hiding in the mountains, only to reveal itself as a sea eagle dominating the skies.  

At this moment, Reinhardt’s piercing, aggressive gaze sent chills down everyone’s spines.  

"Good."  

Ishikawa, however, remained unfazed. "If you’d shown this side earlier, we wouldn’t have needed to drag things out like this."  

"W-what does that mean?!"  

Elvis and the others stiffened.  

To them, Ishikawa sounded almost… expectant. As if he had been waiting for Reinhardt to reach this state.  

"Wait…" Hopkins, watching from the hospital room, suddenly paled.  

"What is it?" Obando and Ballentyne turned to him nervously.  

"Remember those three insane serves Ishikawa opened with?" Hopkins muttered, a trace of fear in his voice. "What if… he already knew about Reinhardt’s ability? What if he was deliberately pushing him to get stronger?"  

"What?!"  

The idea was absurd. Who would want their opponent to grow stronger?  

But as they recalled Ishikawa’s actions throughout the match, their faces froze.  

"N-no way…" Ballentyne forced a laugh. "He can’t possibly be that strong, right?"  

"I don’t know…" Hopkins shook his head.  

Reinhardt was already in a league of his own in the U.S. team. Hopkins, still far from the pro level, couldn’t comprehend the mindset of players at this height.  

But the evidence was undeniable—Ishikawa had been waiting for this version of Reinhardt all along.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

Ishikawa bounced the ball calmly at the baseline.  

"Senior," he said, locking eyes with Reinhardt. "You should be able to handle this now, right?"  

BOOM!  

The serve was so fast, even the spectators lost sight of it.  

"What?! His serve got even faster?!"  

Players from other countries gaped in disbelief. Scouts frantically scribbled notes, only to cross them out moments later.  

THWACK!  

But Reinhardt—now a completely different player—returned it effortlessly.  

"His speed… it’s unreal," Mitsuya muttered, eyes narrowed. "And yet, his precision hasn’t dropped at all."  

Where Reinhardt had once struggled, he now matched Ishikawa blow for blow.  

CRACK!  

Then—lightning.  

A thunderous strike tore through the air, rain-like streaks flickering in its wake.  

"It’s here," Tezuka murmured. "His 'Awakening of Insects' technique."  

Back in the Kanto Tournament, this move had frozen even Tezuka in his tracks. Now, with Ishikawa’s evolved strength, its power was terrifying.  

THUD!  

Yet Reinhardt blocked it.  

Electric sparks crackled against his racket, but the ball couldn’t break through.  

SWOOSH!  

With a fierce swing, Reinhardt launched the ball skyward—  

"SUPER TORNADO STORM?!"  

Elvis and the others were stunned.  

They’d never seen this technique before, but its sheer force dwarfed Ishikawa’s attack. If the earlier strike was a gust of wind, this was a city-leveling hurricane.  

Gulp.  

Even the U.S. team members swallowed hard.  

"Is this… our captain’s true power?!"  

Excitement surged through them. Finally, Reinhardt would crush this arrogant opponent!  

BOOM!  

The tornado engulfed Ishikawa.  

SCREECH!  

In the unseen realm of consciousness, a massive white-headed sea eagle soared over turbulent waves.  

One flap—the calm sea churned. 

Two flaps—the sky darkened with storm clouds. 

Three flaps—a tsunami rose, crashing toward Ishikawa as the eagle dove for the kill.  

"The will of a sea conqueror… impressive."  

Ishikawa smirked. "Guess I’ll stretch a little too."  

SWISH!  

His racket transformed into a curved longbow. Drawing it back like a full moon, he released—  

WHOOSH!  

A golden streak split the storm.  

The tsunami parted. The eagle shrieked—  

THUD.  

Its neck stained red, it plummeted from the sky.  

The sea calmed. The storm vanished.  

THWACK!  

Back in reality, a golden flash exploded before Reinhardt.  

Too fast.  

His mind couldn’t process it. His body couldn’t react.  

"This is…" Reinhardt’s voice trembled. "The pinnacle of speed—the Super High-Speed Tennis Dimension?"  

He had thought only Japan’s tallest player (presumably referring to a character like Ochi or another speed specialist) had reached this realm. But Ishikawa had not only entered it—he had mastered it.  

Then—  

The wind cleared the dust around Ishikawa.  

And Reinhardt saw it.  

"N-no…" His pupils shrank. "This isn’t just speed!"  

Behind Ishikawa stood a primal figure—wild-haired, clad in animal hides, gripping a longbow.  

Under its gaze, Reinhardt felt an unbearable pressure.  

"So this is why…" He laughed bitterly.  

Now he understood how Q·P and Amadeus had fallen.  

Ishikawa’s power transcended imagination.  

That single arrow had shattered the Sea Eagle’s spirit.  

"It’s over," Byoudouin said flatly.  

"Yeah," Oni agreed.  

The others frowned. The match was only in the fifth game—surely Reinhardt still had a chance?  

But reality proved them wrong.  

Reinhardt couldn’t fight back.  

Game. Set. Match.  

"First set ends! Japan’s Ishikawa wins, 6-0!"  

Ten minutes later:  

"Second set ends! Japan’s Ishikawa wins, 6-0!"  

The umpire took a deep breath.  

"Match concluded! Japan’s Ishikawa defeats the U.S. team’s Reinhardt, 6-0, 6-0!"  

Silence.  

Then—chaos.  

The U.S. team stared in disbelief. Their unbeatable captain had been double-bageled.  

"He’s… too strong."  

Byoudouin’s voice was thick with awe.  

Oni nodded, equally stunned.  

Because what they sensed from Ishikawa now—  

Was an entirely new level of Asura’s Path.  

Chapter 472: The Prince of France and the Startled Stallion  

[Ding!]  

[Player has defeated boss-level opponent Ralph Reinhardt. Gained 23,000 EXP.]  

[Player has obtained the special ability dropped by Ralph Reinhardt: Weakness Correction.]  

As the referee announced the end of the match, the system’s notifications echoed in Ishikawa’s mind.  

"Weakness Correction?"  

Ishikawa was slightly surprised.  

Then, a thought struck him—how many exploitable weaknesses did he still have at his current level?  

After all, he had already mastered [Ultimate Quality], a technique QP had painstakingly developed. Combined with [Weakness Correction], these two abilities alone might be enough to push him into the realm of the God of Tennis.  

"The second round of the World Cup has now concluded."  

After both teams regrouped, the referee declared in a loud voice: "Team Japan wins with a total score of 3-0 and advances to the quarterfinals!"  

"Woooooh!!!"  

On one side of the court, the Japanese players erupted in cheers. Meanwhile, the American team, led by a dejected Reinhardt, quietly exited the arena.  

"Let’s go, Ryoga."  

In a secluded corner of the stands, a strikingly handsome young man in a light blue jacket spoke up.  

This was none other than Mars, a third-year high school student and representative of Team Spain. Beside him, wearing a black hoodie with the hood pulled up, was Echizen Ryoga—another Spanish team member whose whereabouts had been shrouded in mystery.  

Since arriving in Australia, Ryoga had kept a low profile. While other Spanish players—Echizen, Akutsu, and Kishou—had already competed, Ryoga had yet to make an appearance.  

The entire Spanish team had questioned this, but out of respect for their captain and vice-captain—and the legend they revered—the doubts quickly faded.  

Even Mars wasn’t entirely sure what Ryoga had been up to. But his instincts told him the other boy was undergoing some kind of intense training.  

"What a shame."  

Ryoga glanced at Reinhardt’s defeated figure and shook his head lightly. "I was hoping to take his ability. Now, it seems unnecessary."  

Take his ability?!  

Mars thought he had misheard. He snapped his head up, staring at Ryoga in shock.  

"Let’s go."  

Without explaining, Ryoga simply turned and walked away.  

Did I hear that right?  

Mars’s pupils trembled. If Ryoga wasn’t joking—if he truly had the power to steal the American captain’s ability—then that was terrifying.  

"Wait—!"  

Then, another thought struck him. His gaze shifted to the black-haired boy leading the Japanese team off the court.  

"The rumors say Ryoga lost to him..."  

At that realization, even the usually composed Mars couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath.  

"If that’s true… then that guy and his Japanese team are a serious problem."  

That same day, the remaining quarterfinal matches unfolded.  

As expected, the Big Four—Germany, Switzerland, France, and Spain—all advanced. As last year’s semifinalists and this year’s top-seeded teams, they had been placed in separate groups.  

Historically, these four teams would dominate the semifinals.  

But this year, things were different.  

Among the newly decided quarterfinalists was a team hailed as the ultimate dark horse.  

And now, one of the Big Four would face them head-on.  

"It’s confirmed. Our next opponent is Team Japan."  

In a hotel room, a blond young man in a blue-white-red jacket spoke.  

Leopold Camus.  

Captain of Team France.  

Though not yet a professional, he was widely recognized as a player with pro-level skill—earning him the title of "The Revolutionary."  

"We already knew that before the match."  

A boy with an eccentric hairstyle and what looked like a smear of paint under his eye shook his head. "Honestly, Team USA’s overall strength was no match for them."  

This had been the general consensus even before the match.  

After the exhibition and group stages, Japan’s strength was undeniable. Even the most arrogant critics had to admit—this was a team capable of shaking the Big Four’s dominance.  

Now, in the quarterfinals, France would be the first of the Big Four to face Japan in an official match.  

And no one could remain calm about it.  

"Team USA wasn’t weak. We discussed this before."  

Camus waved his hand dismissively, then turned to a small-framed boy with ash-white hair.  

"Jonah, give us your analysis of Team Japan."  

"Understood."  

The shy-looking boy straightened up. "Based on my intel, Team Japan has at least three pro-level players: Captain Ishikawa Shin, and their two unit leaders, Byoudouin Houou and Oni Juujirou."  

Three pro-level players?!  

The room fell silent.  

"Y-You’re joking, right?"  

A brown-haired boy with a spiral mark on his face stammered in disbelief. "That means they’re almost on par with Germany!"  

"This is insane."  

Edgar Delacroix—the flamboyant 17-year-old known for his artistic playstyle—narrowed his eyes. "Jonah, you do understand what ‘pro-level’ means, don’t you?"  

"Please calm down, Edgar-senpai."  

Despite being a middle schooler, Jonah remained composed. "You do realize that Duke Watanabe—who was once part of our U17 team—isn’t even in Japan’s top three, right?"  

Duke?!  

The name sent a ripple of shock through the room. Even Edgar stiffened.  

Though he held influence in the French team, he was nowhere near Camus’s level.  

And yet, two years ago, Duke had been Camus’s equal—one half of France’s legendary Twin Stars.  

If even he couldn’t crack Japan’s top three…  

"So," Jonah continued, "our best strategy is to secure victories in both doubles matches."  

The others exchanged glances and nodded.  

Unlike Team USA, France had a stronger middle school lineup, allowing them more flexibility in match assignments.  

"They are strong."  

After the meeting, Camus looked at the roster and smiled. "But we still have a chance."  

"But… Captain."  

Jonah hesitated. "Are you sure about placing Prince in that position?"  

"We don’t have a choice."  

Camus sighed. "His singles performance is unreliable, but his talent is undeniable. If he avoids Japan’s top three, he can win."  

Jonah nodded slowly.  

He pictured the cold-faced redhead. Though a year younger, the boy’s talent had even impressed Camus.  

If placed in Singles 2, there was a real chance he could pull off a victory—if he didn’t face Japan’s elite.  

And based on Team USA’s experience, Japan might very well hold back their strongest players. After all, Germany was waiting in the semifinals.  

Meanwhile, France had no such luxury.  

"Team Japan… is that strong?"  

After the meeting, a redheaded boy stepped out of the room and headed straight for the elevator.  

"Their captain is a first-year too… He sounds interesting."  

Soon, he left the hotel and rode his pure white stallion toward Team Japan’s lodgings.  

"Another day over… Yawn."  

Near Team Japan’s hotel, a spiky-haired boy in a yellow-black T-shirt stretched lazily. "Hey, Hiyoshi, aren’t you bored?"  

"Hm?"  

Hiyoshi, the boy with mushroom-cut hair, tilted his head. "Not really. The vice-captain said we’re just here to observe. Our real chance will be in two years, at the next World Cup."  

"Two years?! That’s too long!"  

Kaidoh, the impatient one, grumbled. "All these strong players around, and we can’t even fight them. This sucks."  

He hadn’t gotten a single match in the selection rounds, so he wasn’t even a reserve. And given how stacked Japan’s roster was, even their strongest middle schoolers might not get playtime.  

What was even the point of coming all the way to Melbourne?  

"Hey."  

Hiyoshi smirked. "Did the coaches actually forbid non-members from playing outside matches?"  

"Uh—"  

Kaidoh froze.  

Now that he thought about it, the coaches had only warned them not to wander off. The rule against unofficial matches only applied to the official team members.  

"But…"  

He scratched his head. "Where would we even find strong opponents?"  

They had sparred so much in U17 that they knew each other’s games inside out. If they were going to play in Melbourne, they wanted to face international talent.  

"Overthinking it."  

Hiyoshi shrugged. "This is Melbourne. There are courts everywhere. Just hit up some street matches. Sooner or later, we’ll run into someone good."  

"You’re right!"  

Kaidoh’s eyes lit up. "Then what are we waiting for? Let’s—"  

"Quiet."  

Hiyoshi’s expression suddenly turned serious. His gaze locked onto a redheaded boy riding a white horse—holding a racket.  

"A… horse? Seriously?"  

Kaidoh blinked.  

Then he tensed. The boy radiated an intense, almost aggressive aura.  

"Are you two from Team Japan?"  

The rider’s voice was sharp.  

"This guy’s trouble!"  

Neither Kaidoh nor Hiyoshi understood French, but they could feel the hostility.  

"No matter."  

The boy—Prince Ludovic Charludeau of Team France—narrowed his eyes. "I’ll start with you two."  

Whoosh!  

He tossed a ball into the air, then yanked the reins—charging forward on horseback.  

BAM!  

The combination of speed and momentum turned his swing into a devastating strike.  

"This ball—!"  

Kaidoh and Hiyoshi barely had time to react before the ball was upon them. Instinctively, they both swung.  

CRACK!  

The impact sent them stumbling back.  

Kaidoh’s racket had a hole torn through it. Hiyoshi’s strings were completely shredded, the ball dropping limply to the ground.  

"Who is this guy?!"  

Both stared in shock.  

"Oh?"  

Charludeau was equally surprised. His strength alone was formidable, but combined with the horse’s momentum, the shot should have been unstoppable.  

Yet these two nobodies had managed to block it.  

Interesting.  

He prepared to strike again—  

"Hiiiiii—!"  

But suddenly, his stallion reared up in panic, throwing him off balance.  

"What?!"  

Charludeau barely had time to register the dark-haired boy standing nearby—whose piercing gaze seemed to freeze the very air.  

"Did… my horse just get scared by his eyes?!"  

The thought was absurd, but Charludeau couldn’t shake the image of those cold, unfeeling eyes.  

THUD!  

Just before he hit the ground, a pair of strong arms caught him.  

"You’re—!"  

Charludeau looked up—into the round, gentle face of a large man.  

But the man’s attention wasn’t on him.  

"Captain," he said, staring at the black-haired boy. "I request to be excluded from the next match."  

"Him?!"  

Charludeau’s eyes widened.  

The man holding him was none other than the legendary Duke Watanabe—France’s former Destroyer King.  

Chapter 473: The Quarterfinals – Japan vs. France  

Evening.  

A snow-white horse moved slowly through the streets of Melbourne, drawing curious glances from passersby. Their eyes lingered on the stiff-faced red-haired boy atop the steed as he rode into the distance, eventually disappearing around a corner.  

"That guy… he’s terrifying!"  

Charludor clung tightly to the reins, his expression still shaken. Even now, he couldn’t gauge the true strength of that black-haired boy. But one thing was certain—he had felt genuine fear emanating from the former "King of Destruction."  

As one of France’s top prodigies and a descendant of an old royal bloodline, Charludor had exceedingly high standards. In his eyes, only his captain, Camus, truly commanded his respect.  

And yet, Duke—a legend who once rivaled Camus—had shown reverence toward a boy no older than Charludor himself. The realization unsettled him deeply.  

It was like staring at a mountain shrouded in mist—its peak hidden, unreachable, looming so high that the mere thought of scaling it felt impossible.  

Charludor prided himself on his unshakable will. Even among France’s elite high school players, few matched his mental fortitude.  

"That look in his eyes…"  

He traced his unease back to the black-haired boy’s gaze—calm on the surface, yet dark and fathomless, like a black hole swallowing stars. It had been enough to startle even his well-trained horse, nearly throwing him off.  

"How am I supposed to defeat someone like that?"  

Lost in thought, he barely registered the sudden whoosh cutting through the air from the bushes beside the road.  

"Hm?"  

His head snapped up, eyes sharpening. "Fools."  

With a sharp tug of the reins and a squeeze of his legs, he spurred his horse forward, raising his racket to intercept the incoming tennis ball.  

BANG!  

The sheer momentum of the galloping horse amplified his swing, sending the ball rocketing back with brutal force.  

THUD!  

A figure wrapped head-to-toe in white cloth was sent flying, crashing heavily onto the ground.  

But before Charludor could investigate, more projectiles sliced through the air.  

"Tch."  

Unfazed, he smirked and urged his horse forward again. With impeccable balance, he twisted his body, deflecting ball after ball with swift, precise strikes.  

THUD! THUD! THUD!  

One by one, white-clad figures crumpled in the distance. Within seconds, not a single attacker remained standing.  

Clap. Clap. Clap.  

A slow, mocking applause echoed from the shadows as a short figure stepped into view. "Impressive, Prince of France. Even World Cup-level high schoolers are no match for you."  

Charludor’s eyes narrowed. The masked assailants, dressed like cultists from a bad movie, suddenly clicked in his mind. "Alaménoma’s players? Ranked 28th… Wait, didn’t they advance from the group stage? Their Round of 16 opponent was… Spain!"  

His gaze snapped to the masked boy with ash-gray hair, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "So… he’s from Spain?"  

Without hesitation, Charludor spurred his horse forward—only to find himself in a dead-end alley.  

"Heh."  

The masked boy smirked before leaping onto a wall and vanishing.  

"You won’t escape!"  

Pride stung, Charludor gave chase. Already humiliated earlier by Japan’s captain, this ambush had ignited his fury. His expert horsemanship let him weave through streets effortlessly, but each time he closed in, the boy slipped away—taunting him from a distance.  

"Damn it!"  

His patience frayed, Charludor finally cornered a figure in a Spanish team jacket. With a sharp pull, his horse reared dramatically, blocking their path.  

"Nowhere left to run— Wait. You?!"  

His voice faltered as he recognized the face.  

"Romeo Fernandez?!"  

The boy—Spain’s prodigy, Fernandez—merely raised a brow. "Charludor. Fancy meeting you here."  

Their history went back three years, to an elite gala where both had dominated older opponents on an indoor court. Though their promised rematch never happened due to family constraints, the rivalry had simmered ever since.  

Now, face-to-face, the tension between them crackled like live wire.  

One and a half hours later.  

A thoroughly exhausted Charludor staggered back to Camus, while across the city, Fernandez slumped before Medanore.  

Both captains sighed.  

Camus, in particular, was exasperated—Charludor’s recklessness had disrupted his plans. But in the grand scheme, this was merely a prelude. Tomorrow’s match was what truly mattered.  

Next morning. Melbourne Tennis Park, Court 2.  

By 8 AM, the stands were packed—half with French supporters (expected for a Big 4 team), the other half with Japanese fans drawn by their Cinderella run.  

"To think they’d make it this far," mused Kim Taewoo, Korea’s No. 2, eyeing the red-and-black clad team.  

"Frankly, it’d be stranger if they hadn’t," replied Lee Seungbu, their captain. After witnessing Ishikawa dominate QP in the exhibition match, he’d stopped doubting. To him, Ishikawa now stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the world’s best—perhaps even the undisputed No. 1, Volk.  

"So," Taewoo ventured, "who wins today?"  

"Japan. No question." Seungbu’s gaze didn’t waver. "That team’s ready to challenge Germany for the title."  

Taewoo nodded. Even Japan’s bench players like Mouri had surpassed expectations.  

Still, his eyes flicked to France’s golden-haired captain. "But Camus won’t go down quietly."  

Dubbed the "Revolutionary," Camus’ philosophy on tennis rivaled even Volk’s.  

Seungbu shrugged. "Doesn’t matter. Unless it’s Germany, Japan will crush them."  

On the court.  

Ishikawa and Camus met at the net, shaking hands.  

"A pleasure, Ishikawa," Camus said in careful English—a rarity for a Frenchman, underscoring his respect.  

"Likewise."  

Ishikawa studied him. With his refined features and artist’s braid, Camus exuded elegance. His unique devotion to tennis—treating his racket like a beloved partner—was legendary.  

"Looking forward to our match," Ishikawa said.  

"Indeed," Camus agreed. "Let’s enjoy the games ahead."  

The exchange was cordial, almost too polite for a high-stakes quarterfinal.  

Japan’s bench.  

"Ready?" Ishikawa glanced at two middle schoolers—Tachibana and Senri. "France won’t hold back in doubles."  

"Leave it to us," Tachibana grinned.  

"We’ve got this," Senri nodded.  

As they stepped onto the court, France’s pair—Tristan (3rd year) and Dimody (2nd year)—followed suit.  

The crowd murmured. "Middle schoolers? Japan’s throwing the first match?"  

But seasoned observers saw the strategy—by fielding three underclassmen early, Japan freed up their strongest players for singles.  

Camus exhaled. "No openings, huh?"  

The pressure was palpable before the first ball was even struck.  

Chapter 474: Clash of Titans – The Might of the Big 4  

"Best of three sets," announced the umpire. "Japan's Senri to serve first."  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

With measured calm, Senri bounced the ball twice before tossing it high. Leveraging his 190cm+ height, he unleashed a blistering serve.  

"Not bad!"  

Even France's players nodded in approval. For a middle schooler, this serve was impressive—proof that Japan hadn’t fielded mere "cannon fodder" in this doubles match.  

But as the ball landed, something strange happened.  

Whoosh!  

The moment it bounced, the ball vanished from sight.  

"What?!"  

France’s middle schoolers gasped.  

"Hoh?"  

Dimody, the receiver, merely smirked. "Clever. Extreme spin to distort visibility. But—" His racket flashed, intercepting empty air with precision.  

CRACK!  

The ball rocketed back from nothingness.  

"No way!"  

Even Zenji from Hyotei stiffened. "Senri’s ‘Mirage’... broken in one shot?!"  

"Tch."  

Senri wasn’t fazed. He’d long known tricks like this wouldn’t fly at the World Cup. Darting across the baseline, he countered with a sharp backhand—only for the ball to disappear again mid-flight.  

"Useless." Dimody chuckled, tracking the air currents. "Once I see through it— Wait?!"  

His swing faltered. At the last second, he twisted awkwardly to return the ball.  

"Multi-layered spin?!"  

For the first time, Dimody looked intrigued. "You’re better than expected."  

Senri’s jaw tightened. That shot should have scored. Yet France’s player adapted instantly.  

This is the Big 4’s level.  

A memory flashed—Switzerland’s Pete, the "Talent Incarnate." These opponents were worse: two elite high schoolers with zero weaknesses.  

BOOM!  

Suddenly, milky-white energy erupted around Senri—Muga no Kyōchi (Zero-Shiki Tennis)! Though he hadn’t mastered Tezuka’s "Pinnacle of Perfection," his control now dwarfed his Nationals self.  

"Oh?"  

Dimody’s smirk faded. He hadn’t expected this from a middle schooler. Instantly, the match escalated into a blistering baseline duel.  

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  

The crowd roared as rallies stretched past 20 exchanges.  

"He’s keeping up with Dimody?!"  

France’s juniors paled. Dimody was no joke—a flamboyant but lethal player. Yet this Japanese kid matched him stroke-for-stroke.  

"Hmph."  

Charludor crossed his arms. "Dimody’s still warming up."  

True to his word, pressure soon mounted on Senri. Just as he wavered—  

"Tachibana!"  

"Leave it to me!"  

Like a lion pouncing, Tachibana intercepted with a thunderous smash!  

BANG!  

The ball screamed toward France’s court—  

SHING!  

—Only for a shadow to materialize mid-flight.  

POKE!  

A delicate drop shot landed at Tachibana’s feet.  

"0-15."  

"You—!"  

Tachibana glared up at Tristan, France’s stoic ace. But the man didn’t even glance back.  

"Stop playing around," Tristan coldly told Dimody.  

"Yeah, yeah."  

Playing... around?  

Tachibana’s grip tightened. These two hadn’t been trying. Worse—Tristan’s aura felt heavier than Switzerland’s Pete.  

"Listen," Tristan’s voice cut like ice. "Crush them fast. France doesn’t waste time on preliminaries."  

The insult was clear: You’re just stepping stones.  

RUMBLE!  

Tachibana’s Wild Beast Aura exploded. Beside him, Senri’s Muga surged brighter—his "Absolute Prediction" now refined beyond recognition.  

France’s juniors tensed.  

"They’re serious now," muttered Georges, the intel specialist.  

"As if that’ll help!" scoffed Dorglas, France’s ninja-themed prodigy.  

But then—  

VWOOOM!  

A white energy tether linked Tachibana and Senri.  

"SYNCHRONIZATION?!"  

Dorglas nearly choked. The miracle doubles technique—and these kids wielded it casually?  

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  

The tide turned. Synced, Japan’s pair dominated, stealing the first set 7-5 to deafening cheers.  

"Heh."  

Georges adjusted his glasses. "Best-of-three favors us. Your stamina’s already fading. And..." His gaze sharpened. "Our seniors haven’t even unlocked yet."  

As if on cue—  

RIIP!  

Tristan and Dimody’s auras doubled.  

"They were at 60%?!" Mitsuya’s pen snapped.  

"Two Pete-level players," Ishikawa said calmly. "No gaps to exploit."  

The second set was a slaughter. Japan clung to service games but cracked under relentless offense. Dimody’s smash sealed it 6-4.  

By the third set, exhaustion crippled Japan. The final score:  

"Game, set, match! France wins 5-7, 6-4, 6-1!"  

The stadium erupted. France’s fans roared as players exchanged grim nods.  

This was the true might of the Big 4—no mercy, no underestimations. Japan’s invincible streak had met its match.  

Chapter 475: Doubles 1 - The Seigaku Duo Steps Forward  

"France!" 

"France!" 

"France!"  

The crowd erupted as their team claimed the first victory. French fans roared with excitement—their players had successfully humbled Japan, the so-called "dark horse" that was supposedly on par with France.  

"Well done."  

In the players' area, Camus smiled as he watched his teammates return. "This gives us control of the match."  

"Mhm."  

Barte nodded. "The next two matches will decide everything."  

A single win didn’t guarantee victory. After all, Japan had defeated Germany and Switzerland, then crushed the fifth-ranked U.S. team with ease.  

Underestimating them would be foolish.  

That said, Japan had only fielded two middle schoolers in Doubles 2—essentially sacrificial pieces. For France, the real battle was just beginning.  

"Still..."  

Exchanging glances, Barte and Moreau both saw the same thought reflected in each other’s eyes.  

Even as "cannon fodder," Japan’s pair had been shockingly strong.  

Synchronization plus Ability Resonance.  

Only their superior individual skills and stamina had allowed them to outlast their opponents. Otherwise, the outcome might have been different.  

"Next up: Doubles 1."  

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium.  

"Representing France: Edgar Delacroix (12th grade) and Jonah Saint-Georges (8th grade)." 

"Representing Japan: Kunimitsu Tezuka (9th grade) and Syusuke Fuji (9th grade)." 

"Players, please prepare."  

All eyes turned to the court.  

From the French side emerged two figures—one tall and flamboyant, the other small and unassuming.  

Delacroix, with his striking gold-streaked hair and bold face paint, exuded an arrogant, oppressive aura. Beside him, the meek-looking George adjusted his round glasses, appearing almost innocent.  

"Hey, Edgar."  

George’s usual smile faltered as he studied their opponents. "They’re... middle schoolers?"  

"Huh?"  

Delacroix’s eyes narrowed.  

Indeed, their opponents seemed to be two teenagers. But according to the rules, Japan only needed to field three middle schoolers total. With one already confirmed, there was no reason to use two more here.  

"What’s their game?"  

Camus pondered the same question.  

Japan’s lineup defied expectations. Were they really saving all their top players for singles?  

"Doesn’t matter."  

Barte crossed his arms. "Whatever their plan, we just need to win."  

"Right."  

Moreau nodded.  

Japan’s choice to field middle schoolers in Doubles 1 was a gift. One more victory, and France’s chances would skyrocket to over 90%.  

"Fuji-senpai?!" 

"Tezuka-buchou?!"  

On Japan’s side, Seigaku’s members shot to their feet in shock.  

"No way!"  

Oishi’s eyes bulged. "They’ve never paired up before—not even at Seigaku!"  

"Seriously!"  

Kikumaru vibrated with excitement.  

Only on the World Cup stage—where Japan’s strongest gathered—could they witness Tezuka and Fuji playing together.  

For Momoshiro, Kaidoh, and the others, this was Seigaku’s finest taking on the world.  

"Those two, huh?"  

Duke’s brow rose. "So that’s what he meant by a winning strategy..."  

His gaze shifted to Ishikawa, and a flicker of disbelief crossed his face. If his guess was correct, the captain’s plan was insanely bold.  

**"This is France—not some 20th-ranked team like Australia..."**  

But this was Ishikawa’s call. The man who’d even surpassed Byoudouin commanded absolute respect. Whatever his reasoning, Duke trusted it.  

"That’s Edgar, alright."  

Duke studied the gold-haired Frenchman. "Talented, but if they can contain glasses-kid... Wait—!"  

His thoughts stuttered as he reassessed the Japanese pair.  

That composed boy with glasses... He might be even more dangerous than he looked.  

"Game start!"  

The referee gestured to the brown-haired Japanese player. "Japan’s Fuji to serve!"  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

Fuji bounced the ball lightly, then caught it with a smile.  

"Let’s begin."  

With a fluid motion, he spun the ball and let it drop. At the perfect moment, his racket flashed out—  

Ping!  

A crisp slice serve arced toward the French side.  

"What the—?!"  

"A slice serve?!"  

"Are they mocking us?!"  

The French team scowled. Even elementary schoolers knew better than to use such a basic serve in high-level matches.  

"Here it comes."  

George, however, remained focused. "The 'Disappearing Serve.'"  

As France’s strategist, he’d studied Japan thoroughly—especially Fuji, the technical genius who’d countered even Switzerland’s power players.  

"After bouncing, the ball oscillates rapidly. At a certain frequency, it creates the illusion of vanishing."  

George’s eyes tracked the ball as it landed—  

Flicker-flicker-flicker!  

Just as predicted, it began darting side-to-side at blinding speed.  

"Now!"  

He lunged—  

Whoosh.  

...And froze.  

The ball had completely disappeared.  

A second later, a gentle breeze brushed his back as the ball materialized behind him, rolling to a stop at his feet.  

"15-love!"  

"Tch."  

George’s lips tightened.  

He’d been so sure he could counter it. But Fuji’s serve wasn’t just about speed—the spin’s complexity exceeded all calculations.  

"For a split second, it genuinely ceases to exist visually."  

Even replaying the moment, George couldn’t pinpoint how it had defied physics.  

"My turn."  

Delacroix smirked. He’d cracked the trick—  

"Internal spin variations create post-bounce instability. Predict the pattern, and it’s easy."  

Ping!  

Fuji served again.  

The ball danced identically, its hidden spin kicking in upon impact.  

Flicker-flicker—  

"There!"  

Delacroix’s racket lashed toward empty air—  

Swish.  

A breeze fluttered past.  

"Huh?!"  

His swing met nothing.  

Meanwhile, the ball reappeared on his opposite side.  

"30-love!"  

"Impossible!"  

Delacroix’s confidence shattered. His instincts never failed him—he’d seen the ball’s trajectory through its distortions.  

...Hadn’t he?  

Another breeze stirred.  

Delacroix’s head snapped up, locking onto Fuji’s serene smile.  

"You little—! How?!"  

For the first time, the so-called "Tennis Artist" felt genuine intrigue.  

Pride aside, he had to admit—this Japanese boy’s creativity was frightening.  

"Interesting."  

A grin spread across Delacroix’s face. "I thought this’d be boring, but Japan’s got a real genius, huh?"  

(End of Chapter.)