461-465

Chapter 461: The Dangerous Scalpel - An Ever-Shifting Threat  

A single style change in tennis isn't inherently frightening.  

What's truly dangerous is someone like Yagyu—a player who can constantly switch between styles, creating scoring opportunities at will.  

Like right now.  

After a rapid exchange, Elwes' rhythm was completely shattered when Yagyu abruptly slowed the pace. It was clear this Japanese middle schooler named Yagyu Kojirou had an extraordinary understanding of tennis.  

But the real terror?  

Every player he mimicked wielded world-class techniques. Even Loki Elwes, the star who led his team to dominate American tennis, stood completely helpless against this onslaught.  

Swish—!  

In an instant, Yagyu—channeling Fuji’s phantom—executed a flawless "Phoenix Return", scoring effortlessly.  

"Game!" 

"Japan leads, 1-0. Change sides!"  

Silence.  

The American players and fans stared in disbelief at the silver-blue-haired boy casually walking to the opposite court.  

"His tennis… is terrifying."  

Valentin’s voice trembled. "He’s already switched styles five times in one game."  

"Worse," Obando muttered, "every style he replicates is executed at a master level."  

That was the horrifying part.  

For someone like Obando, such versatility was impossible.  

"Mastering multiple elite styles means he has no weaknesses," Reinhardt observed grimly. "Loki’s chances of turning this around are slim."  

Thud! 

Bang! 

Thud!  

Just as Reinhardt predicted, Elwes was overwhelmed. Despite his blazing "Child of the Sun" form, he couldn’t counter Yagyu’s ever-changing tactics. Though he scraped a few points, the match was Yagyu’s domain.  

"Game! Japan, 2-0!" 

"Game! Japan, 3-0!" 

"Game! Japan, 4-0!" 

"Game! Japan, 5-0!"  

Five straight games—gone in a flash.  

Elwes wasn’t completely outplayed; he had moments of brilliance, like sudden, razor-sharp counters. But they were fleeting. The scoreboard didn’t lie: Japan dominated every set.  

The American fans’ hopes plummeted.  

"Sixth game!" The referee announced. "Japan’s Yagyu to serve!"  

Tap… Tap… Tap…  

Yagyu bounced the ball calmly—then transformed.  

His form shifted into a handsome, gray-haired boy in a white sleeveless shirt.  

"Tannhäuser… Serve!"  

Boom!  

"That’s Atobe’s Tannhäuser!" Hyoutei’s members gasped.  

The serve was fast—but what stunned Elwes was what happened after it landed.  

The ball skidded along the ground, refusing to bounce.  

Gulp.  

Elwes swallowed hard.  

This guy was limitless. Every player he mimicked was a nightmare on their own. Stacked together? It was overkill.  

Deep down, Elwes knew: He’d already lost.  

"Nice serve."  

A cold voice cut through the tension.  

Whoosh!  

A shadow darted across the baseline—Alan Hopkins, America’s vice-captain, scooped the ball off the ground and smashed it back.  

"But your technique needs work."  

Thwip!  

The return shot zipped between Yagyu’s legs, kissing the baseline before rocketing out.  

"0-15!"  

Yagyu froze.  

He hadn’t even seen the return.  

"That feeling…"  

His stomach dropped.  

He’d expected Hopkins to be strong—but this?  

"Finally," Valentin exhaled. "Once Alan steps in, the match is over."  

Obando nodded. "No one escapes his 'Tennis Scalpel'—except Reinhardt."  

The Scalpel’s Edge 

Boom!  

Yagyu served again, this time morphing into Tezuka.  

A spinning shot arced toward the baseline—perfectly placed.  

"That spin…!"  

Hopkins smirked. "The 'Tezuka Zone,' huh?"  

He lunged, racket flashing.  

"Impressive—but useless against me."  

Crack!  

The ball streaked down the sideline and didn’t curve back.  

"0-30!"  

"What?!"  

Inui’s glasses fogged with shock. "He broke the Zone… without a counter-spin?!"  

"That’s his ability," Mitsuya said darkly. "Alan Hopkins—America’s vice-captain. His 'Tennis Scalpel' dissects any technique."  

"Dissects… any technique?"  

Fuji and Oshitari exchanged glances. As technical players themselves, they knew how impossible that sounded.  

"He’s from a medical dynasty," Mitsuya explained. "He treats tennis like surgery. There’s a recorded match where he dismantled every opponent’s signature move."  

"But how?"  

Atobe’s eyes narrowed. "He must pinpoint weaknesses instantly."  

"Perspective," Ishikawa said quietly. "To us, it’s tennis. To him? It’s an operating table."  

The team fell silent.  

Sanada’s fists clenched. He’d always applied kendo to tennis—but Ishikawa had transcended that, treating tennis itself as a swordfight.  

If Hopkins viewed opponents as patients…  

Yagyu never stood a chance.  

Bam!  

Yagyu unleashed *Sanada’s "Raging Fire"*—only for Hopkins to slice through it like a scalpel through tissue.  

"0-40!"  

The Americans erupted in cheers.  

Yagyu’s breath hitched.  

"Is this really… a tennis match?"  

Every technique he threw was surgically dismantled.  

Then—  

Tap.  

A racket patted his back.  

"Don’t overthink it," Inui smiled. "Just play your game. Leave the rest to me."  

Yagyu exhaled.  

He wasn’t alone.  

This was doubles—and his job was already done.  

Boom!  

He fired the next serve.  

"Hoh?" Hopkins’ eyes gleamed. "I expected Japan to field Byoudouin or Oni. Instead… they sent a nobody."  

His racket flashed—  

Whoosh!  

—but the return was intercepted by a shadowy blur.  

Plink.  

The ball dropped dead, barely bouncing.  

"15-40!"  

Hopkins’ pupils shrank.  

"That’s… 

Shiraishi’s 'Metsu ni Itaru'?!"  

Chapter 462: The Tennis Doctor – The Terror of Old Injuries Resurfacing!  

Shūji Tanegashima!  

A player who had appeared in the exhibition match, battling against Germany’s top contender, Rudolf Becker. In the end, he secured a narrow victory for Team Japan.  

His skill was near—if not already at—a professional level.  

Naturally, Team USA had thoroughly studied him. Even before this match began, Reinhardt had been preparing for the possibility of Tanegashima being deployed in doubles.  

Yet, Tanegashima never appeared. Instead, an unknown player named Irie took the court.  

However…  

No one expected that this very same unremarkable player would suddenly unleash Tanegashima’s signature move—*"Hadōkyū: Annihilation!"*  

"Alan’s spin and power… they were completely neutralized by that invisible force."  

Outside the court, Reinhardt’s expression grew solemn.  

Tanegashima’s Annihilation was an elite-level technique. With it, he could even dismantle Becker’s world-class spin. Without it, he never would’ve defeated the German powerhouse—whose strength was already at a professional level—in the exhibition match.  

And now, Irie had replicated it.  

"Am I imagining things?"  

Beside Reinhardt, Ogden suddenly frowned. "I’m sensing Tanegashima’s presence from this guy."  

"Huh? You too, Dood?" Balentien blinked in surprise. "I thought it was just me. If we’re both feeling it… then this ‘Irie’ guy isn’t as simple as he seems."  

His gaze sharpened as he studied the round-faced player across the net, who had just calmly lowered his racket.  

Meanwhile, after scoring against Hopkins, Irie smiled.  

"As expected of Team USA’s vice-captain. Without Shūji’s technique, I wouldn’t have been able to return that."  

"So it’s true."  

Reinhardt’s eyes snapped open. "This man has an ability similar to that of Yagyū Hiroshi—the ‘Phantom.’"  

"A similar ability?"  

"An illusion?!"  

"You’ve got to be kidding me!"  

The American players stiffened at Reinhardt’s words. Elvises’ crushing defeat had already given them a taste of just how terrifying the Phantom technique could be.  

Thankfully, Hopkins was strong enough to dissect his opponent’s moves with surgical precision. But now, they were being told that another high schooler had a similar ability?  

"So… this is why Japan placed him in Doubles 2?"  

Ogden and Balentien’s expressions darkened.  

"Good."  

On the court, Hopkins—who had just lost the point—lifted his head, his piercing gaze locking onto his opponent.  

"I thought this match would end uneventfully. But with an opponent like you… I’m finally interested."  

His demeanor shifted. The once approachable aura sharpened into something far more dangerous. His eyes alone felt like blades.  

"He’s getting serious."  

Irie nodded slightly before turning to his partner. "Be careful, Yagyū. The tennis he’s about to play… will be lethal."  

"Understood."  

Yagyū gripped his racket tightly.  

The focus of the match had subtly shifted—from the middle schoolers to the high schoolers. The duel between these two would decide the outcome.  

As Team USA’s vice-captain, Hopkins was undeniably formidable.  

And Irie? He had defeated Atobe. His strength was unquestionable—perhaps even more so, given how deeply he concealed it.  

This was a battle Yagyū couldn’t interfere in.  

Which suited him just fine.  

The less attention he drew, the better.  

Thwack!  

Yagyū served, then immediately retreated from the court without hesitation.  

"Smart move."  

On the sidelines, Oni nodded approvingly. "Sometimes, stepping back is wiser than forcing your way in."  

Unlike Yagyū’s decisiveness, Elvises hesitated.  

Crack!  

Just then, Hopkins returned Irie’s shot—straight toward Elvises.  

"Did you forget I’m still here?!"  

The strongest American middle schooler lunged, racket swinging like a predator’s strike.  

Whoosh!  

His speed was blinding. His explosive athleticism surpassed even most high schoolers.  

But the moment his racket made contact—  

"Huh?!"  

The ball phased through his strings. Before his stunned eyes, the tennis ball faded into transparency… then vanished entirely.  

Boom!  

A split second later, Hopkins—now positioned at the baseline—returned Irie’s shot with ease.  

"Stand down, Loki."  

His voice was ice. "This match is beyond your level."  

Elvises’ face twisted in frustration, but he obeyed, retreating without another word.  

And just like that…  

The doubles match became a singles showdown.  

Bam! Crack! Bam! Crack!  

The rallies intensified.  

Hopkins’ technique was razor-sharp—every shot precise as a scalpel, targeting weaknesses with clinical efficiency. Yet Irie countered flawlessly, his movements smooth and controlled.  

"No way…"  

Balentien’s jaw dropped. "Alan’s attacks… are being completely shut down?"  

Hopkins in offensive mode was a nightmare. His shots dissected opponents like a surgeon excising diseased tissue.  

Yet…  

He hadn’t scored a single point.  

"This opponent isn’t ordinary."  

Reinhardt narrowed his eyes. "His playstyle isn’t fixed. In just these few exchanges, he’s cycled through at least five different approaches—just without the flashiness of that middle schooler."  

"Five?!"  

Balentien and Ogden tensed.  

"So he’s already reading Alan’s Weakness Exploit?" Ogden muttered.  

"Too bad." Balentien smirked. "Alan’s ability isn’t something you can just ‘defend’ against. In the eyes of the Tennis Doctor, no player is ever completely healthy."  

Hopkins’ perspective was unique. Where others saw form and technique, he saw anatomy—breathing patterns, micro-expressions, the slightest shifts in posture.  

As a doctor, his vision was terrifyingly precise.  

Tap.  

Irie stepped forward.  

To Hopkins, that single motion unfolded like a 3D anatomical model—force traveling from the sole of his foot, through neural pathways, straight to the brain.  

Normally, such a process would be flawless.  

But Hopkins spotted it—a minuscule delay in the neural impulse as it passed a certain junction.  

"The right ribcage."  

His eyes gleamed. "You’ve suffered a significant injury there before, haven’t you?"  

Wham!  

He fired the ball straight toward Irie’s right side.  

For a left-handed player like Irie, returning it would require stretching to the right—putting direct strain on his ribs.  

Tap.  

The moment Irie moved—  

"This feeling—?!"  

A sharp twinge shot through his ribs.  

Years ago, during his middle school days, a smash from an upperclassman had fractured that spot. He’d needed weeks to recover.  

And now…  

The pain was back.  

"The Tennis Doctor…"  

Irie’s eyes darkened as he returned the shot.  

Now he understood the moniker.  

If this continued, the match would turn deadly.  

Bam! Crack! Bam! Crack!  

The grueling rallies wore on.  

Irie’s stamina, never his strong suit, dwindled rapidly. Worse, his movements grew sluggish—each step to the right now came with a visible wince.  

Boom!  

Hopkins seized the opening with a vicious smash.  

Irie’s body locked up mid-motion.  

"Game!"  

"Team USA, 1–5!"  

The sixth game ended.  

Though the scoreboard still favored Japan, the momentum had undeniably shifted.  

"Senpai… are you okay?"  

Yagyū eyed Irie’s unsteady steps with concern.  

"I’m… fine."  

Irie instinctively touched his ribs, then forced a smile. "Don’t worry, Yagyū. Leave the rest to me."  

"…Understood."  

Yagyū nodded, though unease prickled at him.  

Something was wrong.  

But interfering now would only invite Hopkins’ surgical strikes—risking his own destruction.  

Bam!  

The match resumed.  

Hopkins attacked without mercy. Like a surgeon, once the operation began, there was no stopping.  

His presence grew sharper, more lethal—even more so than Ryōma’s Kendō Essence. Every shot felt like a blade grazing skin.  

Irie faltered. His reactions slowed. Sometimes, he’d freeze mid-step, face contorted in pain.  

Hopkins capitalized ruthlessly.  

"Game!"  

"Team USA, 2–5!"  

"Game!"  

"Team USA, 3–5!"  

"Game!"  

"Team USA, 4–5!"  

"Game!"  

"Team USA, 5–5!"  

Five straight games.  

The crowd roared as Hopkins erased Japan’s lead.  

"This is bad…"  

On Japan’s side, Tachibana’s fists clenched. "Their high schooler just reversed everything. And Irie-senpai… can’t even fight back."  

This was the man who had crushed Atobe.  

Yet Hopkins had dismantled him completely.  

"That’s the horror of the Tennis Doctor."  

Mitsui’s voice was grave. "Hopkins has triggered Irie-senpai’s old injury. That right rib… must’ve taken serious damage in the past."  

Using tennis to reopen old wounds?  

The team paled. Every player had injuries. If Hopkins could exploit them at will…  

Bam!  

The eleventh game began.  

Hopkins pressed harder. Irie’s pained grimaces drew winces from the Japanese team.  

"Irie Sōta."  

Hopkins’ voice was cold. "Retire now. If you keep going, your body will—"  

"No."  

Irie’s eyes burned. "I promised Yagyū… I’m winning this. No matter what."  

"Fool."  

Hopkins’ next shot was merciless.  

Bam!  

Irie swung—  

"Guh—!"  

Blood sprayed from his lips.  

The ball dropped.  

Silence.  

"Game!"  

"Team USA, 6–5!"  

The Americans erupted in cheers.  

But the sight of Irie’s blood staining the court was chilling.  

"Senpai…!"  

Yagyū rushed over.  

He hadn’t expected this. The man who defeated Atobe—now brought to his knees.  

If this continued, defeat was inevitable.  

There was only one option left—  

"I’ll have to use that now— Hm?"  

But as Yagyū reached for his Phantom technique, something caught his eye.  

"This blood…"  

His lips curled into a fox-like smirk.  

"I see."  

Chapter 463: The Asura Divine Path – Nightmare!  

"USA!" 

"USA!" 

"USA!"  

The crowd erupted as Hopkins overpowered Irie, securing the 11th game. The sight of the Japanese player coughing up blood, his body battered and exhausted, only fueled their excitement.  

Before the match, what had the rumors said?  

That Japan’s team was "Big 5" level. 

That the U.S. team stood no chance. 

That the two sides weren’t even in the same league.  

Yet now, Hopkins had proven with sheer force that those words were nothing but empty boasts. The U.S. team was more than capable of crushing this Japanese squad, ranked outside the top 20.  

This was an undeniable fact.  

Irie’s bloodied state seemed like a physical manifestation of the clash between their wills. While some spectators pitied him, far more were electrified—awakening a primal thirst for violence and dominance.  

"Hmph."  

On the sidelines, Loki Elwes, now reduced to a spectator, smirked. "I expected more. To think their so-called star would be completely helpless against our vice-captain. Pathetic."  

"Hmm."  

Hopkins narrowed his eyes.  

Despite his naturally bold personality, he was still a doctor. Exploiting an opponent’s weakness to inflict serious damage went against his medical ethics.  

But when his gaze swept over the roaring U.S. fans and the eager faces of his teammates, any lingering hesitation vanished.  

"Irie Kanata."  

Hopkins watched as the unsteady young man stubbornly bent to pick up the tennis ball, preparing to serve. His voice was firm. "You should forfeit. Continuing like this will cause irreversible damage to your body."  

The moment those words left his mouth, the Japanese team’s expressions darkened.  

"He’s right."  

Mitsuya’s face was grim. "The human body has its limits. Once pushed past the breaking point, even advanced medical treatment might not be enough to fully recover."  

"Irie-senpai..."  

Yūshi, Fuji, and the others wore worried expressions. They understood—Irie wasn’t just fighting for himself. On this stage, he represented his team and his country. Retreat wasn’t an option.  

But Irie’s physique had always been frail. If things worsened, the consequences could be permanent.  

For a moment, no one knew what to say.  

"That guy..."  

Even Atobe was moved.  

Though he still burned with the desire to face Irie again and redeem his previous loss, seeing him in such a state stirred something unexpected—pity.  

Atobe glanced toward Coach Mikuni, expecting urgency, only to find the man lounging lazily, head tilted back as if he might doze off at any second.  

"What the—?"  

Atobe was stunned.  

How could their head coach be so indifferent at a time like this?  

But when he turned to the team captain, the black-haired boy’s expression was eerily calm. The same went for Byoudouin, Oni, Duke, and Tanegashima—none showed even a flicker of concern.  

As if the match wasn’t hanging by a thread.  

"Wait..."  

A sudden realization struck Atobe. His gaze snapped back to Irie, whose body swayed precariously, looking seconds from collapse.  

No. Something’s off.  

Memories of his own match against Irie flashed in his mind—how he, too, had once believed he had the upper hand.  

"This bastard...!"  

Atobe’s eyes darted to the "bloodstains" on the court, a sharp glint in his gaze.  

"Forfeit?"  

Irie lifted his head weakly, gripping the tennis ball. His pale face was set with determination. "I promised Yagyu. I won’t back down."  

"Tch."  

Hopkins’ expression darkened.  

"Stubborn fool..."  

Elwes shook his head—until he noticed something odd. The silver-blue-haired player beside Irie was struggling to keep a straight face, his lips twitching.  

"What’s with him?"  

Elwes was sure he hadn’t imagined it. That wasn’t the look of someone moved by their teammate’s resolve. It was more like... he was trying not to laugh.  

"You..."  

Hopkins’ eyes sharpened. "What are you playing at?"  

"Huh?"  

Caught under that surgeon-like scrutiny, Irie’s carefully crafted act faltered. His dramatic buildup collapsed in an instant.  

"Ah... busted already?"  

Scratching his head sheepishly, Irie grinned. "I was planning to save the big reveal for the last point. But I guess I can’t hide anything from the 'Tennis Surgeon,' can I?"  

"..."  

Hopkins’ face went blank.  

The rest of the U.S. team exchanged bewildered glances. What the hell just happened?  

"What... what’s going on?"  

Barrinton blinked in confusion. "Didn’t that guy just vomit blood? How is he fine now?"  

"Alan was deceived."  

Reinhardt’s voice was low. "That man manipulates emotions and tempo through dialogue. He’s a master at psychological warfare."  

"But... why?"  

"He was hiding his true strength." Reinhardt explained. "He pretended to be cornered, putting on an act—likely planning a last-minute reversal to shatter Alan’s morale."  

"So he controls emotions... Got it."  

Obande nodded. "And it worked. Our momentum just took a hit."  

Tennis wasn’t just physical—it was a battle of wills. Players who could dictate the emotional flow of a match were rare, and dangerous.  

"But why would he think Alan would fall for it?" Barrinton frowned. "A top surgeon’s focus is unshakable."  

"Exactly." Obande smirked. "No matter how good his acting is, it won’t work if Alan stays clinical."  

"True." Reinhardt agreed. "If Irie had struck earlier, when he had the advantage, he might’ve won the first set. But by wasting his buildup, he’s thrown away his chance."  

Thud. 

Thud. 

Thud.  

Irie bounced the ball leisurely at the baseline, testing its weight before catching it.  

"Just so you know... I’m getting serious now."  

"Serious?" Hopkins scoffed. "Good. Show me what you’ve got."  

In his eyes, Irie was nothing but a clown. Any prior respect had evaporated.  

Whoosh.  

Irie tossed the ball—then, with a faint smile, leaped into the air and smashed it down.  

Crack!  

The ball streaked across the net, landing perfectly on Hopkins’ service line.  

"Precise, but... too ordinary."  

Hopkins tracked the ball, timing his swing flawlessly—  

"Let me show you real tennis!"  

—only for the ball to vanish the instant it touched the court.  

Like a drop of ink dissolving into water, it disappeared without a trace.  

Tap... tap... tap...  

The sound of the ball bouncing came from behind him.  

"15–0!"  

The umpire’s call sent murmurs through the crowd.  

"What... was that?"  

Hopkins’ eyes narrowed. For a split second, his senses had failed him—no sight, no sound. The ball had simply vanished.  

"Did my eyes deceive me?"  

His focus sharpened. This time, he’d watch closely.  

Crack!  

Irie served again.  

Hopkins saw the ball clearly—until it landed. Then, silence.  

"30–0!"  

"Loki." Hopkins turned. "What did you see?"  

"I—"  

Elwes hesitated. Just moments ago, he’d dismissed Irie as a joke. Now, he was at a loss.  

"I saw the trajectory. But... I couldn’t return it."  

"You saw it?"  

That didn’t match Hopkins’ experience.  

"Understood." He clapped Elwes’ shoulder. "Leave the complex shots to me. You handle the basics."  

"R-Right."  

Elwes was taken aback by Hopkins’ uncharacteristic gentleness.  

Crack!  

Irie served once more.  

Hopkins strained every nerve, analyzing every detail—  

Drip.  

The same illusion struck. The ball melted into the court, disappearing.  

But this time, Hopkins was ready. His aura surged, sharpening his senses—  

Whoosh!  

The ball reappeared. He swung—  

Thud.  

—only to feel... nothing. The impact was feather-light.  

"What...?"  

Then, in the next instant, Irie’s return carried monstrous force, blasting back with crushing weight.  

Hopkins’ world twisted. His vision blurred. The court, the crowd—everything warped like a nightmare.  

"Is this... a dream?"  

He gritted his teeth, forcing clarity.  

"It doesn’t matter! I won’t lose—in reality or dreams!"  

His willpower shattered the illusion. His senses stabilized—  

CRASH!  

—just as a colossal tennis ball tore through the dust, looming before him.  

And behind the haze, a shadowy figure emerged—eyes glowing crimson, towering like a demon.  

A voice, dripping with menace, echoed in his skull:  

"Tell me, Doctor... 

Can you really tell dream from reality?"  

(Chapter 464: Desperate Gambit – Team USA's Fighting Spirit  

Thud.  

"Net touch."  

"Game!"  

"Japan leads 6-6, entering tiebreak!"  

Under the stunned gazes of Team USA, Hopkins' shot slammed directly into the net.  

"Another error?"  

"How many is that now?"  

"What’s happening to Mr. Hopkins?!"  

The American fans exchanged bewildered looks. Just moments ago, their star player had been dominating—relentlessly crushing his opponent. Now, he was making mistake after mistake.  

"V-Vice Captain…"  

Elvises was just as shocked.  

The man he’d seen as invincible now looked utterly lost. Meanwhile, the bespectacled Japanese player remained perfectly composed.  

"What’s wrong?"  

Noticing Elvises’ stare, Irie turned and gave him a meaningful look. "Do you want to experience that strange feeling too?"  

"Ghk—!"  

Elvises’ face paled instantly.  

His once-confident expression twisted into uncertainty. His grip on the racket trembled before he forced it steady—only making his fear more obvious.  

"It’s over."  

Balentien and Ogden exchanged grim glances.  

Hopkins was trapped in a mental labyrinth.  

Elvises had lost the will to fight.  

The match wasn’t officially over yet, but Team USA’s fate was already sealed.  

Swish!  

Sure enough, moments later, Irie’s slicing drop shot secured the final point.  

"First set concluded!" The umpire announced. "Japan wins, 7-6!"  

His voice crushed Team USA’s last shred of hope.  

What followed was pure annihilation.  

Team USA repeated their first-set collapse, losing game after game. By the time the score hit 0-5, Elvises was gasping for breath—and Hopkins still hadn’t regained his focus.  

"Has he truly fallen into the abyss of nightmares?"  

Reinhardt clenched his fists.  

This match had been crucial. Without an early lead, Team USA’s chances dropped below 40%.  

That’s why he’d fielded Hopkins—his second strongest.  

Yet the Tennis Doctor had been outplayed, trapped in a hallucinatory world crafted by Irie.  

"Alan… Your will isn’t this fragile. Wake up. Show me your resolve!"  

No one understood Hopkins’ strength better than Reinhardt. His surgical tennis was a force to be reckoned with.  

And as a doctor, his mental fortitude should have been unshakable.  

"Break free!"  

"Show them the spirit of Team USA!"  

Bam!  

As if answering Reinhardt’s thoughts, Hopkins finally returned a shot—his sharp aura flaring even brighter than before.  

"VICE CAPTAIN!!"  

Elvises shouted in relief.  

"My apologies for worrying you."  

Hopkins’ eyes were clearer now. Having shattered the nightmare’s grip, his mental state had ascended to a new level.  

He turned to his opponent.  

"You’re terrifying. That dreamlike domain… For someone like you to remain unknown in Japan’s lineup…"  

Only those who’d experienced Irie’s illusions firsthand could grasp his true power.  

And yet, in Japan’s hierarchy, he wasn’t even top five.  

The more Hopkins learned, the more he understood Reinhardt’s despair.  

"That’s exactly why… we can’t lose this!"  

His mind made up, Hopkins steeled himself for a final, desperate gamble.  

"Impressive."  

Irie chuckled, utterly unfazed. "As expected of Team USA’s No. 2. To break free from that world…"  

"Arrogant bastard!"  

Elvises pointed his racket accusingly. "Your trick’s been exposed. Stop acting so smug!"  

To him, the high schoolers’ battle had clearly ended in Hopkins’ victory. With the Tennis Doctor back in form, victory was assured.  

"Oh?"  

Irie’s smile widened. Then, to everyone’s shock, he glanced back at the silver-haired middle schooler behind him.  

"Yagyū-kun. It’s time for the final blow."  

"Yagyū?"  

Confusion rippled through the crowd.  

This match had long since shifted to a high schooler’s duel. Elvises’ bravado meant nothing—he’d been irrelevant from the start.  

"Hmm?"  

But then—  

Whoosh!  

A milky-white aura erupted from Yagyū’s body. Even more astonishing, it intertwined with Irie’s energy, creating strange, rippling waves between them.  

"This is—?!"  

Hopkins’ eyes bulged.  

"Synchro?!"  

Gasps echoed across the stadium.  

Synchro.  

The Miracle of Doubles.  

Japan had been hiding this all along?!  

In an instant, any hope of a USA comeback evaporated.  

"Damn it! I forgot about that!"  

Reinhardt’s nails dug into his palms.  

He’d been so focused on Yagyū’s Phantom and Irie’s illusions that he’d overlooked one critical fact—  

Yagyū could copy his own teammates.  

Right now, he’d transformed into Irie—allowing their wavelengths to synchronize perfectly.  

BOOM!  

A final smash tore through USA’s defenses.  

"Second set concluded!" The umpire declared. "Japan wins, 6-0!"  

"Doubles 2 match ends here!"  

"Japan wins, 7-6, 6-0!"  

From the second round onward, matches were best-of-three. The finals would be best-of-five—brutal tests of endurance.  

But Japan had delivered a flawless opening performance.  

Irie, in particular, drew intense scrutiny. Scouts from every team marked him as a priority threat—alongside Yagyū’s Phantom and his ability to Synchro with anyone.  

Japan’s doubles strength had just skyrocketed.  

"Sorry, Ralph. We—"  

Hopkins and Elvises bowed their heads in shame upon returning.  

"You did your best."  

Reinhardt waved it off.  

He’d seen everything. Given the intel gap and Yagyū’s wildcard factor, their loss wasn’t surprising.  

But now, Team USA was cornered.  

Already outmatched in overall strength, they had zero room for error.  

"Kiko. Dood."  

After consoling his teammates, Reinhardt turned to his most trusted allies.  

"The next match… is yours."  

"Leave it to us, Ralph!"  

The ponytailed Kiko Balentien grinned, ever the optimist—a trait that kept him calm under pressure.  

Beside him, the dreadlocked Dood Ogden nodded firmly.  

As USA’s No. 3 and No. 4, their placement in Doubles 1 showed how crucial this was.  

Originally, Reinhardt’s plan was simple:  

• Hopkins secures the first win.  

• Balentien/Ogden clinch the second.  

• He delivers the final blow. 

But with Hopkins’ loss, Team USA was already on the brink.  

Under tournament rules, two of their remaining matches had to feature middle schoolers.  

And with Elvises—their strongest middle schooler—already defeated, their other juniors stood no chance against Japan’s high schoolers.  

"Please… let their Doubles 1 lineup mirror ours."  

Only then would Team USA have a sliver of hope.  

"Next up: Doubles 1!" The umpire announced.  

"USA representatives: Dood Ogden (12th grade) & Kiko Balentien (10th grade) vs. Japan representatives: Kazuya Tokugawa (11th grade) & Sōzō Mōri (10th grade)!"  

"Players, prepare yourselves!"  

Team USA’s eyes locked onto Japan’s two tall, imposing figures.  

"…Good."  

Reinhardt exhaled in relief.  

This was the best-case scenario.  

Not only had Japan fielded two high schoolers, but none of their true monsters—Byōdōin, Oni, Duke, or Tanegashima—were in sight.  

That meant Japan’s remaining slots would include only one middle schooler besides Ryoma.  

If Team USA could win two of the next four matches, they might still pull off a miracle in the final junior showdown.  

"Let’s go, Kiko."  

Ogden, recognizing the opportunity, motioned to his partner.  

"Yeah, yeah~"  

Balentien’s carefree smile never wavered. His natural optimism made him immune to pressure—exactly why Reinhardt had groomed him as the next team leader.  

"Tokugawa Kazuya… Mōri Sōzō…?"  

As they left, Reinhardt studied Japan’s bench—only to find their coach napping in his chair.  

"This is just…"  

Indignation flickered in his chest, but resignation quickly smothered it.  

With a roster that stacked, he’d be relaxed too.  

His gaze returned to the scoreboard, lingering on the Japanese players’ ages.  

"So this is a training match for them?"  

If true, Japan’s arrogance knew no bounds. Yet Reinhardt felt only relief—that arrogance was USA’s lifeline.  

Just as he turned away—  

"Hm?"  

A prickling sensation made him glance back.  

His eyes met those of Japan’s captain—Ryoma Fuji.  

The boy gave a polite nod, but Reinhardt felt something deeper in that gaze.  

"What does he know?"  

"Are these high schoolers… not ordinary either?"  

He scrutinized Tokugawa and Mōri again, searching for anything unusual.  

But they looked… normal.  

"I’m overthinking this."  

The first loss had shaken him.  

"Dood and Kiko won’t lose."  

Both were elite singles players. As a doubles pair, their chemistry made them even deadlier.  

"Relax, Ralph." He told himself.  

"This match… is already ours."  

Chapter 465: Fierce Battle – The Secret to Breaking Luck  

"Best of three sets."  

After the coin toss determined the serving order, the umpire announced: "First set, USA’s Obande to serve!"  

Thud. 

Thud. 

Thud.  

All eyes turned to the tall, athletic Black player at the baseline as he bounced the ball with measured precision.  

"Alright... let’s begin."  

Obande’s grip tightened, his eyes sharpening as he launched the ball into the air—  

CRACK!  

A laser-straight serve rocketed toward the Japanese side.  

"A line drive?"  

Tokugawa’s brow lifted slightly. The trajectory suggested an intentional deep push, forcing them to defend the baseline.  

Tap.  

With a swift, controlled slice, Tokugawa redirected the ball toward Obande’s original position.  

"Oh?"  

Obande’s lips twitched in surprise. So he adjusted immediately.  

Of course, Japan’s team had analysts. His height and leaping ability were no secret. This counter was expected—but that didn’t make it any less impressive.  

"Too bad."  

As the ball approached, Obande smirked. "This is doubles."  

Whoosh!  

A golden blur shot past him—Barrinton.  

"Nice try, but that slice won’t cut it!"  

His racket flicked outward, executing a textbook drop shot.  

Ping!  

Yet before the ball could bounce twice, Marui lunged forward, his racket jabbing beneath it like a dagger.  

Fwip!  

"Close one!" Marui exhaled, sending the ball back.  

"You’re celebrating too soon."  

Barrinton’s grin widened.  

Above him, Obande soared—arms spread like wings, embodying his "Birdman" moniker.  

"This point... is mine!"  

BANG!  

The smash tore through the air, dust erupting from the court before the ball even landed.  

A kill shot. Unreturnable.  

—Or it should’ve been.  

THUD.  

A racket appeared out of nowhere, intercepting the bullet-like projectile.  

"What?!"  

Obande and Barrinton froze.  

But instead of a rebound, the ball... plopped against the net, rolling pathetically to Marui’s feet.  

"15–0!"  

"Aww..." Marui scratched his head, feigning disappointment.  

Yet the Americans’ faces darkened.  

"That reaction speed..." Barrinton’s pulse spiked. He tracked Obande’s smash?!  

"Just as I thought." Obande’s gaze turned razor-focused. "No one Japan fields is ordinary."  

From Irie’s mind games to now this—underestimating them was fatal.  

The next two minutes became a relentless exchange.  

Marui managed to return five of Obande’s smashes, but the U.S. duo’s coordination secured the game.  

"Game! USA leads 1–0!"  

"That’s our DuDu!"  

"Unstoppable smashes!"  

"Crush them!"  

The crowd roared, electrified.  

Meanwhile, Marui wiped sweat from his brow. Each return had demanded split-second reflexes, draining him.  

"Brute-forcing against top players won’t work."  

During the changeover, Tokugawa shook his head.  

"Heh." Marui grinned sheepishly. "I wanted to measure the gap."  

This was his first—and possibly last—World Stage appearance. He’d be damned if he held back.  

"Observe their habits." Tokugawa’s voice was calm. "Patterns hide in their swings. Find them, and you break their game."  

"Hmm..."  

Marui nodded, though the advice felt abstract.  

"As if!"  

A U.S. player scoffed upon overhearing. "Obande’s smashes aren’t some puzzle to solve!"  

Others sneered, dismissing Tokugawa’s words as empty bravado.  

But Barrinton’s focus never wavered. This guy’s different.  

"Second game! Japan’s Tokugawa to serve!"  

Tokugawa’s serving stance was unorthodox—his left arm bent backward, perpendicular to the ground.  

BOOM!  

The ball erupted in a prismatic swirl, colors flickering mid-flight.  

"This spin—?!"  

Barrinton’s racket swung... and whiffed.  

"15–0!"  

"30–0!"  

Two serves, two misses.  

"The rotation’s internal," Reinhardt called. "Ignore the surface; read the core."  

On the third serve, Barrinton closed his eyes—  

CRACK!  

—and blasted it back.  

"He did it!"  

"That’s our Lucky Kiko!"  

But their cheers died as Marui materialized at the net, driving the ball into the corner.  

"40–0!"  

"Game! Japan, 1–1!"  

The sets escalated—  

2–1. 

3–2. 

4–3. 

4–4.  

A grueling 30-minute deadlock.  

Yet as the score hit 5–4 in the U.S.’s favor, their players exchanged knowing smirks.  

"Right on schedule."  

Reinhardt’s gaze locked onto Barrinton.  

This was where their "Lucky Kiko" awakened.  

"Your serves are good," Barrinton taunted as Tokugawa prepared. "But predictable now."  

Plink!  

His return hit the net tape—then bounced back onto Japan’s side.  

"0–15!"  

"It’s here."  

The U.S. team grinned. "Kiko’s [Lucky Streak]!"  

Luck?  

Skeptical murmurs spread. At this level, luck was a myth—unless it wasn’t.  

Plink!  

A gust blew Barrinton’s shot in.  

Tick!  

A pebble deflected the ball sideways.  

"0–40!"  

"Sorry." Barrinton smirked. "My luck’s just that good."  

His next shot rolled along the net cord—a tighter, more erratic version of Marui’s "Walk on the Wire."  

"No."  

Marui’s teammate Jackal frowned. "This is different. Even he can’t control it."  

Then—  

Silence.  

The ball stopped mid-air, hovering beneath the net as if time froze.