456-460

Chapter 456: The Tennis Sniper, Akutsu Appears!  

"Who the hell is this guy?! He’s insane!"  

Outside the court, the Higa Middle School players—dressed distinctly from the others—whispered among themselves.  

Vice-captain Kai nodded at Hirakoba’s comment. "No doubt. This Fernandez guy is easily top three in Spain’s lineup."  

Back in Japan’s U-17, only a handful could suppress Kite. And now, after weeks of training, Kite had grown even stronger since the ranking matches.  

Yet despite that, he was being completely dominated by this Spanish middle schooler.  

But what shocked them even more was how effortlessly this blond stranger was toying with Fernandez. It almost looked like he wasn’t even trying.  

"To crush Fernandez this easily… He must be a top player from one of the other Big Four teams," Kite murmured, narrowing his eyes.  

"The Big Four?!" Hirakoba gasped. "Spain’s a semifinal-level team. Who’d be bold enough to come here and provoke them?"  

Though they hadn’t qualified for Spain’s main roster like Kite had, their time here had shown them just how stacked the team was. Even the middle schoolers were monsters—though none could match Kite’s level.  

"Maybe it’s a scouting mission," Kai mused. "Pretending to challenge them while actually gathering intel."  

They’d done similar things back in Kyushu—disguising themselves as players from other schools to provoke matches and collect data. It was part of how Higa had dominated the regional tournaments.  

"If that’s the case, it’s a stupid move," Kite said flatly. "Spain’s real strength is beyond what outsiders realize."  

The more he trained with them, the more he respected their depth. Even excluding their terrifying head coach, the high schoolers alone were absurdly strong. In Kite’s mind, Spain was the true favorite to win this World Cup.  

If this guy was here to provoke them, he was in for a world of pain.  

Spain had several hot-headed, xenophobic high schoolers who wouldn’t tolerate disrespect.  

THWACK!  

Another clean winner shot between Fernandez’s legs. The Spanish prodigy stood frozen, racket trembling in his grip.  

"I… I lost."  

Romeo Fernandez closed his eyes, humiliation burning through him. Never in his life had he been so thoroughly outclassed. His signature techniques—useless.  

The other Spanish middle schoolers stared at the blond stranger with a mix of awe and dread.  

"Hey, you—"  

One of the Spaniards finally spoke up, voice tight. "This is private training grounds. We don’t welcome intruders."  

Like Kai, they assumed he was a scout from another team, here to test Spain’s strength.  

Given how secretive their captain, Medanore, had been since his return—even within the team—it was a fair suspicion.  

"Is… Ryoga Echizen here?"  

Reinhardt lowered his racket, his usual sunny smile returning. "I’m a friend. I need to talk to him."  

The moment the name left his lips, the Spaniards stiffened.  

Ryoga Echizen.  

That name was almost taboo here. Rumors said he was injured, recuperating under strict orders from the head coach—no disturbances allowed.  

And now this stranger was asking for him outright?  

Definitely a spy.  

"Sorry," one replied carefully, wary of Reinhardt’s skill but disarmed by his friendly demeanor. "The person you’re looking for isn’t here."  

"Yeah," another added. "If you really want Echizen, you’ll have to go through our coach or captain."  

"I see."  

Reinhardt’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes sharpened.  

Normally, he’d never resort to something this reckless. But this was personal—and the only hope for the U.S. to defeat Japan tomorrow.  

"Then I’ll just have to wait for your captain to show up."  

He lifted his racket, pointing it at the crowd.  

"Until then… let’s see what Spanish tennis is made of!"  

"You arrogant—!"  

The Spaniards erupted in fury.  

But despite their rage, none stepped forward. Fernandez’s crushing defeat had left them shaken.  

"Huh?"  

"Spain’s a Big Four team, right? Why’s no one taking the challenge?"  

"Guess they’re not as strong as people say."  

Unlike Reinhardt, many in the crowd were scouts from other nations. With Germany likely facing either Switzerland or Spain in the finals, they’d come to assess Medanore—the man who’d once rivaled Germany’s Volk as a rookie.  

Now, seeing a top player challenge Spain, they couldn’t resist stirring the pot.  

"Damn it…"  

The Spaniards’ faces darkened at the taunts. Some gritted their teeth, ready to take the humiliation head-on.  

"You’ve got nerve."  

A cold voice cut through the noise.  

Everyone turned to see three high schoolers in Spanish jackets approaching.  

The left had sly, fox-like eyes; the right had a buzzcut and a piercing glare. But the one who commanded attention was the unshaven teen in the middle.  

"It’s him!"  

"Rodrigo Roca Loida—the ‘Tennis Sniper’!"  

"Isn’t he Spain’s No. 6?"  

"Was. Some new guy—Echizen, I think—beat him. He’s No. 7 now."  

Even with the demotion, Loida’s reputation was fearsome. The crowd watched him with wary respect.  

"Don’t know what game you’re playing," Loida sneered, "but this is Spain’s turf. If you’re here to pick a fight… you better be ready to get your head blown off."  

Rodrigo Roca Loida, 17. 

Spain U-17 No. 7.  

Nicknamed [Tennis Sniper] for his ability to land lethal shots from 40 meters. His ruthless demeanor and zero-tolerance policy made him one of the most feared players on the team.  

He raised his racket, pointing it at Reinhardt.  

"I’ll make it simple. Return my serve, and I’ll take you to Echizen."  

The Spaniards paled.  

Not at the promise—but at the first part.  

Return his serve?!  

"Oh no…" One high schooler muttered, "This might actually kill someone."  

That wasn’t hyperbole.  

Loida had literally killed an opponent before—not directly, but the sheer force of his shot had sent the guy crashing into a railing, triggering cardiac arrest.  

And now he was hinting at his infamous [Headshot] serve.  

"Deal."  

Reinhardt just smiled.  

He wasn’t afraid of strong opponents—only of failing to find Echizen. If this got him closer, so be it.  

And if he got to test Spain’s strength along the way?  

Even better.  

"Good!"  

Loida laughed—loud, brash, and laced with barely contained fury.  

Then, without warning, he threw the ball up and smashed it with terrifying speed.  

The crowd flinched.  

This wasn’t a normal serve.  

This was a warning shot.  

If it hit Reinhardt’s head, the consequences would be—  

"Hope you’re ready to pay for your arrogance!"  

Loida’s racket became a blur as he slammed the ball forward.  

BOOM!  

The sound was deafening.  

For a split second, the court seemed to darken as the ball streaked like lightning straight at Reinhardt’s skull.  

Danger.  

Extreme danger.  

Kite and the Higa players instinctively backed away. Spectators behind Reinhardt scrambled aside.  

All eyes locked onto the blond, bracing for the moment the ball caved his head in.  

Some shut their eyes.  

Others grimaced, already picturing the blood.  

"Heh."  

Reinhardt just chuckled.  

"Fast. Powerful. But not unreturnable."  

WHOOSH!  

The ball passed through his head—  

No, his afterimage.  

"What?!"  

Loida’s eyes widened.  

That reaction speed…  

That movement…  

Impossible!  

THWACK!  

Before he could process it, Reinhardt had already repositioned and crushed the return.  

"Tch!"  

Loida’s instincts screamed at him to dodge.  

The shot was too fast—faster than most pros could manage.  

This guy wasn’t just strong.  

He was elite.  

"Too bad for you," Loida grinned, abandoning his own promise as he charged forward, racket raised for a brutal counter.  

"You’re facing Rodrigo Roca Loida!"  

CRACK!  

His racket met the ball with a force that shattered the air.  

Dust exploded, obscuring him from view.  

The crowd recoiled. Even the Spaniards winced, certain Reinhardt had fallen for Loida’s trap.  

But then—  

WHOOSH!  

A figure flew out of the dust cloud like a ragdoll.  

THUD!  

Loida hit the ground hard, rolling several times before finally stopping.  

SCRREEE—  

His racket—now with a gaping hole—skidded after him.  

"Holy…"  

The crowd went dead silent.  

Loida… had been one-shotted.  

"Y-You…"  

Loida trembled, struggling to rise.  

"I’m… not done…!"  

WHOOSH!  

Another ball whizzed past the crowd—  

THWAP!  

—and slammed into Loida’s gut, sending him stumbling back.  

"Guh—!"  

Everyone whirled toward the source.  

A pale, white-haired boy with wild, spiked-up hair stood there, racket resting on his shoulder.  

"You—that damn brat?!" Loida wheezed.  

"Shut it, trash."  

The boy—Akutsu Jin—glared coldly.  

"Garbage belongs in the dump."  

Then his sharp gaze locked onto Reinhardt.  

"Right?"  

Chapter 457: A 100-Meter Snipe – Medanore’s Deterrence  

"Akutsu Jin!"  

Outside the court, several members of the Spanish team froze at the sight of the ash-haired boy.  

"Him?" Fernández’s eyes flashed with wariness.  

Just a month ago, Akutsu hadn’t even been part of the Spanish team. But days prior, he’d suddenly acquired Spanish citizenship and joined their ranks.  

Though it was the head coach’s decision, not everyone was pleased—especially No. 9, Felipe.  

And so, the predictable unfolded.  

The hot-tempered Spanish player publicly humiliated Akutsu, trying to put the newcomer in his place.  

But Felipe had gravely misjudged Akutsu’s nature—and overestimated his own strength.  

In the end, the Spanish team watched in shock as Felipe was left bloodied on the court.  

Akutsu, with his ruthless playstyle and overwhelming power, seized the No. 9 spot.  

Yet no one expected him to strike now—let alone target No. 7, Rodrigo, and leave him severely injured.  

"Is he insane?"  

Watching Akutsu stride onto the court with unbridled arrogance, one Spanish player narrowed his eyes. "Felipe was one thing, but Rodrigo? That guy’s lethal within 40 meters. This is suicide."  

Their fear of Rodrigo outweighed their wariness of Akutsu.  

To them, Akutsu had merely taken advantage of Rodrigo’s weakened state. Once the latter recovered, Akutsu would face brutal retaliation.  

But Akutsu couldn’t care less.  

He raised his racket, pointing it at Reinhardt.  

"Don’t disappoint me."  

Since leaving Japan’s U-17, Akutsu had trained relentlessly—his intensity so extreme even Kite felt the pressure.  

After joining Spain, he’d challenged and crushed one elite after another.  

To him, Felipe and Rodrigo were relics of a bygone era. Their only worth was as stepping stones.  

Now, he’d found his true prey.  

Akutsu’s instincts screamed that this man was a monster—stronger than even Spain’s top five.  

Perfect.  

Reinhardt studied the wild, predatory boy before him.  

This was no ordinary middle schooler.  

"Fine," Reinhardt conceded.  

He hadn’t come as a scout, but if this was how things unfolded, so be it. Testing Spain’s top talents wasn’t a bad idea.  

The two took their positions.  

"You serve."  

Reinhardt remained polite.  

Akutsu didn’t hesitate. He tossed the ball high, muscles coiling like springs beneath his fitted shirt.  

BANG!  

The serve exploded forward.  

Fernández and Seda tensed. Even after seeing Akutsu play before, his raw physicality still stunned them.  

But just as the crowd’s excitement peaked—  

WHOOSH!  

A yellow blur streaked across the sky—  

—and CRASHED into Akutsu’s serve mere inches from Reinhardt’s face.  

The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, billowing Reinhardt’s jacket.  

"What—?!"  

Eyes darted toward the source.  

On the fourth-floor window of a distant building stood another Spanish player.  

"That distance… over 100 meters?!"  

"Are you kidding?! He sniped Akutsu’s serve from that far?!"  

"Wait—is that… Mars?"  

"Of course. Who else could do that?"  

Mars de Colon.  

Age 17.  

Spain’s No. 4 high school player.  

A sniper with unparalleled long-range precision. Though low-key, his terrifying shots had broken countless challengers.  

"So it’s him."  

Reinhardt recognized the legend.  

"Rumors say his max range is 178 meters—four times this distance."  

As the U.S. captain, Reinhardt had studied every top player. Mars’ reputation was well-earned.  

This 100-meter pinpoint strike wasn’t just skill—it was a warning.  

Spain knew who he was.  

And this shot was their way of saying: Back off.  

"Captain Reinhardt."  

A cheerful voice cut through the tension.  

A blond teen with a blue headband stepped forward, smiling.  

"Vice-Captain Román!"  

"Idiot, he’s vice-captain now!"  

"Who cares? He’s the real leader. He just let Medanore have the title."  

The Spanish team buzzed with reverence.  

Froilán Román.  

Age 17.  

Spain’s former captain—now vice-captain by his own choice. His presence signaled Spain’s official stance.  

And he’d just called Reinhardt by name.  

"Wait… the U.S. captain?!"  

"That’s Ralph Reinhardt?!"  

The crowd erupted. No one expected the "reckless intruder" to be the famed American leader.  

Román handed Reinhardt an envelope.  

"This is from him."  

Reinhardt’s expression darkened.  

So.  

He wouldn’t even meet him in person.  

Their agreement was void.  

"Why?"  

Though he knew better than to show emotion, Reinhardt couldn’t hide his frustration.  

"The answer’s inside." Román smiled. "You’re welcome here, but this is Spain’s training time. If you want a match, wait until after the World Cup. I’ll gladly oblige."  

The Spanish team swelled with pride.  

Reinhardt exhaled.  

"My apologies for the intrusion."  

With that, he took the letter and left.  

The anticlimactic exit left the crowd baffled. They’d expected a clash of titans—not this.  

"HEY!"  

Akutsu’s snarl froze everyone.  

He glared at Reinhardt’s retreating back.  

"You think you can just walk away?!"  

Then, at Román:  

"And you—who asked you to interfere?!"  

Román sighed.  

Akutsu was the one player his charisma couldn’t reach. Between the language barrier and the boy’s feral temperament, diplomacy was impossible.  

How did the coach even recruit him?  

"Akutsu," Román tried, "save your energy for the tournament."  

"You giving me orders now?"  

Akutsu’s glare could kill.  

Román rubbed his temples. This was like reasoning with a hurricane.  

Before things escalated further—  

"Enough."  

A cold voice sliced through the air.  

The crowd parted as a tall figure approached.  

Brown hair framed a pale, almost sickly face. His presence alone suffocated the atmosphere.  

"C-Captain Medanore!"  

Antonio Dá Medanore.  

Age 17.  

A prodigy with pro-level skills, once hailed as Europe’s top junior. Two years ago, he’d crushed Volk.  

Now, after his ordeal, his aura was even more oppressive.  

His icy gaze pinned Akutsu in place.  

"If you want a fight, I’ll give you one."  

Akutsu stiffened.  

Román he could ignore. But Medanore?  

Even Ryōga feared this man.  

Akutsu had challenged him once before.  

The result?  

For days afterward, he’d moved like a wounded animal, instinctively shielding his body.  

That trauma had fueled his relentless training.  

Now, facing Medanore again, Akutsu’s defiance flickered.  

"Tch."  

With a final glare, he stormed off.  

Reinhardt, meanwhile, didn’t look back.  

Once back at the U.S. team’s hotel, he opened Ryōga’s letter.  

Post-Scene:  

Román approached Medanore.  

"Thanks for stepping in. But you know Akutsu—he just hates being controlled."  

Medanore nodded.  

"That boy’s talent is rare. I intervened so he wouldn’t be broken before the tournament."  

Román blinked.  

"Broken? Akutsu’s not like Rodrigo."  

"You’re wrong."  

Medanore watched Reinhardt’s distant figure.  

"That American captain… is far beyond ordinary pro level."  

Román’s breath hitched.  

Chapter 458: Round Two, Japan vs. USA  

"Hey, Ryoga… why aren’t you going to see him?"  

Inside a distant building, the tall, strikingly handsome young man named Mars glanced curiously at the dark green-haired youth beside him.  

That youth was none other than Echizen Ryoga—the key figure Reinhardt had been searching for, the one who could secure victory for Team USA.  

"Nah, I’ll pass." Ryoga shook his head.  

"Why?" Mars frowned, puzzled. "If you don’t meet him now, won’t you regret it? I can tell Reinhardt’s a good guy."  

"He is an excellent leader," Ryoga admitted. "Without him, Team USA wouldn’t be ranked this high. The team wouldn’t be this united, either."  

"But…" He paused, then sighed. "If we meet, I’ll just regret it even more."  

With that, Ryoga turned and walked away, leaving Mars standing there, watching his retreating figure with a thoughtful expression.  

The Next Day – 8:00 AM 

The crowd had gathered once again around Melbourne’s Australian Open stadium. The group stage had ended the day before, and now, the tournament had advanced to the second round—where the competition grew fiercer and the stakes higher.  

Most of the top teams, including the Big 4, had smoothly progressed. However, there were exceptions.  

The host nation, Australia, despite their home advantage, had been eliminated. So had Greece, ranked 10th in the world and considered a strong contender for the semifinals.  

What shocked everyone even more was that both teams had been knocked out by the same two opponents. One of them was Switzerland, the world’s No. 2 team and a Big 4 powerhouse.  

But the real stunner? Even Switzerland had only advanced as the runner-up of their group.  

As a result, after the matches concluded, representatives and fans from various countries turned their attention to today’s showdown—Japan vs. USA.  

Court No. 7 – Australian Open Annex 

Though not as large as the main stadium, this court was still spacious enough to hold nearly a thousand spectators. By 8:00 AM, the stands were already packed.  

Many were eager to catch a glimpse of the dark horse team that had defeated world No. 2 Switzerland.  

"Team USA’s luck this year is just awful," muttered one Australian fan to his friend. "They’re ranked fifth in the world, and now they’re up against Japan—this year’s freak anomaly."  

"Yeah… things don’t look good for them," his companion, a young white man, agreed. "Switzerland already lost. No matter how strong Team USA is, their captain can’t possibly be stronger than a pro."  

To outsiders, Amadeus’ defeat had shattered Switzerland’s backbone. At the same time, it had skyrocketed Japan’s reputation—placing them on par with the Big 4.  

"I wonder how long Team USA will last. Hopefully, they don’t get swept 3-0 like Switz— Huh? What’s wrong?"  

The fan was cut off when his friend suddenly tugged his sleeve. Turning, he saw a group of young men in star-spangled jackets walking past them.  

At the front was a handsome young man with a calm, friendly smile. But behind him, aside from a few exceptions, most of the team wore unmistakably hostile expressions.  

"Are these guys…?"  

"Team USA?!"  

The fan’s face paled. Without another word, he quickly shut his mouth and pretended to look elsewhere—though he couldn’t help but steal nervous glances at the passing players.  

"Tch."  

One of the Americans—a blonde-haired boy with wild, spiky hair—let out a cold snort. The fan immediately felt a searing glare lock onto him, freezing him in place.  

Only after Team USA had passed did he finally exhale in relief, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  

"Who the hell was that guy? He was terrifying!"  

"No idea," his friend replied. "But judging by his position, he’s probably one of their middle schoolers."  

"A middle schooler? You’ve gotta be kidding me!"  

The fan’s eyes widened. He’d been around tennis long enough to know that the pressure he’d just felt wasn’t something a kid could emit.  

"Anything’s possible here," his friend said with a shrug. **"This is the world stage—where each country’s best talents compete. Don’t underestimate middle schoolers. The guy who beat Amadeus yesterday? Also a middle schooler from Japan."**  

"What?!"  

"A middle schooler beat Amadeus?!"  

The fan looked like he’d just heard the most outrageous tabloid rumor.  

"Don’t believe me?" His friend smirked. "Look over there. They’re here."  

The fan turned and saw a group of teenagers in black-and-red jackets, led by a sharp-eyed black-haired boy, walking toward them.  

Compared to Team USA, Japan’s squad radiated calm confidence. Neither their high schoolers nor middle schoolers showed any sign of tension—as if this match meant nothing to them.  

"Yeah…" The fan nodded slowly. "Team Japan’s confidence says it all. Team USA’s definitely the underdog here."  

It was an undeniable fact: Traditional powerhouses were falling one by one to Japan. But the idea of a middle schooler defeating a pro was still too shocking to process.  

Taking a deep breath, the two fans braced themselves for what promised to be a clash of titans—the strongest teams below the Big 4.  

Match Start 

"The second-round match between Team USA and Team Japan will now begin."  

"Players, please take your positions."  

As the referee’s voice rang out, the two teams stepped onto the court. At the forefront stood Ishikawa and Reinhardt, facing each other.  

"The rumors were true," Reinhardt said, studying the boy before him. "Japan’s strongest player really is a middle schooler."  

His gaze shifted past Ishikawa, landing on the blonde high schooler and the fiery redhead behind him. Reinhardt’s instincts were sharp—he could feel the pressure emanating from both.  

His pre-match worries had been correct. Japan, like Germany, had multiple players with pro-level strength.  

For Team USA, this was terrible news.  

Without Ryoga, Reinhardt was their only pro-level player. No matter how confident he was in his own abilities, taking on three opponents of that caliber felt hopeless.  

"All I can hope for is that Japan’s coach didn’t field their strongest lineup for this round."  

Reinhardt sighed inwardly.  

While teams did sometimes hold back in early rounds, he knew that if he were facing the world’s No. 5 team, he wouldn’t take any chances.  

"Hello."  

Reinhardt stepped forward, extending his hand.  

"Hello."  

Ishikawa nodded.  

He had no intention of underestimating the young man before him. After all, in the original timeline, Reinhardt had defeated Amadeus himself. In terms of overall strength, Team USA was absolutely Big 4 material.  

But unfortunately for them, Ryoga had abandoned them.  

Had things gone differently, with both Echizen brothers and Reinhardt leading the charge, Team USA might’ve even stood a chance against Germany.  

Now, however, the world’s fifth-ranked team found themselves in an awkward position.  

To the untrained eye, Reinhardt hid it well. But Ishikawa—who had *defeated Amadeus and unlocked the Seventh Consciousness (Manas)*—saw right through him.  

Ishikawa’s mental perception was already unparalleled. With Truth-Seeking Eyes and Omniscience, his insight bordered on absolute.  

Now, with Manas further enhancing his perception, even top-tier pros couldn’t match his observational skills.  

"Hm?"  

Reinhardt, sensitive to such things, felt an odd sensation the moment their eyes met—as if all his secrets had been laid bare.  

"Ishikawa Shin…"  

He silently mouthed the name before nodding.  

"Let’s both give it our all."  

"Agreed." Ishikawa replied. "Let’s begin."  

With that, the two captains led their teams off the court. After a brief break, the referee announced:  

"The first match will be Doubles 2."  

"Team USA: Alan Hopkins (3rd Year HS) & Loki Elwes (3rd Year MS) vs. Team Japan: Inui Jyousei (3rd Year HS) & Yagyu Kojirou (3rd Year MS)."  

"Players, prepare yourselves."  

Team USA’s Strategy 

"The vice-captain’s leading the charge?"  

Some of Team USA’s members looked surprised. "Isn’t putting him in doubles a waste?"  

Alan Hopkins was, without a doubt, the second-strongest player on the team after Ryoga’s departure. In terms of skill and reputation, he was Reinhardt’s right-hand man.  

Most had expected him to play singles.  

"Just as we predicted," Japan’s strategist, Inui, adjusted his glasses. "Team USA is desperate to secure at least one doubles win."  

Ishikawa’s overwhelming strength made him an unstoppable force—one even Reinhardt wouldn’t challenge lightly.  

That meant Team USA had to win at least one doubles match. But no one expected them to field Hopkins, their second-best player.  

"Their strategy is obvious," Yanagi noted, eyes half-lidded. "They’re going all-out early—trying to secure the first three matches and avoid a drawn-out battle."  

It was a bold move, but it made sense. Japan’s coach, Mikuni, hadn’t placed Byoudouin or Oni in doubles.  

To outsiders, Team USA already had a 70% chance of winning this match. The only question was whether Japan’s players could withstand Hopkins’ onslaught.  

Team USA’s Confidence 

"Inui Jyousei?"  

On Team USA’s side, the dark-skinned Obando raised an eyebrow. "I don’t remember seeing him play before."  

"The middle schooler’s had some decent matches," the androgynous Valentin mused, eyeing the bespectacled orange-haired player. "But the high schooler… Japan’s really bold, fielding a new player in the round of 16."  

"This is our chance," Obando grinned. "On paper, we’re weaker. But if we play our cards right, we can turn the tables."  

Team USA’s strategy was simple: strike hard and fast.  

Sometimes, the simplest plans worked best.  

To them, this match was already 70% in their favor.  

But Reinhardt wasn’t so sure.  

When he’d studied Inui, the bespectacled player had caught him looking—and the amused glint in his eyes sent a chill down Reinhardt’s spine.  

"Inui Jyousei…"  

He took a deep breath.  

His instincts screamed that this match wouldn’t go as smoothly as they hoped.  

"Alan…"  

Reinhardt watched his vice-captain’s back.  

"It’s all up to you now."  

Match Begins 

With the crowd’s eyes locked onto them, the four players took their positions.  

No small talk. No hesitation.  

After a quick coin toss to decide serves, the players assumed their stances.  

"Best of three sets."  

The referee’s voice cut through the silence.  

"First set: Team USA’s Elwes to serve."  

The stadium fell completely quiet.  

Chapter 459: The Sun’s Prodigy vs. The Trickster  

Thwack! 

Thwack! 

Thwack!  

As the referee’s voice rang out, the crowd’s attention shifted to the tall, golden-haired boy standing on one side of the court.  

“Loki Elves.”  

Outside the court, Mitsuya, Japan’s team strategist, spoke up: “He’s one of the top middle schoolers on the U.S. team. In the final showdown between the East and West Coast championships, his team took first place.”  

“If that’s the case, he must be quite the formidable player.”  

Beside him, Tanegashima grinned. “Out of 300 million people in the U.S., rising to the top isn’t easy.”  

A country’s tennis population was one of the key factors determining its overall strength—and the U.S. far surpassed Japan in that regard. Winning the national championship there was undoubtedly harder than dominating Japan’s middle school tournaments.  

In a way, this boy—Loki Elves—was one of the leading figures among American middle schoolers.  

With his golden hair fluttering in the wind, he wore a stars-and-stripes jersey, his shoulders adorned with tattoos of skulls and sun symbols.  

“Japan’s team, huh?”  

Elves lifted his head, a cold glint flashing in his eyes. “Let’s see if you’re really the tough opponents Captain Ralph made you out to be.”  

Whoosh!  

With that thought, he tossed the ball into the air, his gaze locked onto the silver-blue-haired boy across the net.  

“Consider this my greeting to you!”  

BANG!  

A deafening crack echoed as the ball shot forward like a blazing bullet, streaking across the court in an instant. A deep red flash—then thud—the ball landed right near the service line.  

“A bullet serve?!”  

In the stands, Hiyoshi and Momoshiro instinctively widened their eyes.  

The shot resembled the fast serves they were familiar with, but Elves’ version was clearly faster and more powerful.  

“Incredible explosive power,” Yuushi remarked, nodding. “From the looks of it, this Loki Elves is like Kyoujurou—a player with overwhelming offensive strength.”  

As he spoke, his gaze shifted to Yagyu.  

Back in the U-17 camp, he could still gauge his doubles partner’s strength. But after the shuffle matches, the gap between them had widened beyond measure.  

In the past, a straightforward, power-based serve like this would’ve been Yagyu’s worst nightmare.  

Swish!  

Yet, in the blink of an eye, Yagyu moved.  

Not only did he read the ball’s trajectory—he was already in position to return it. With precise technique, he deflected the bullet-like serve with ease.  

“Nice return.”  

Elves gave an approving nod. “If you can handle my serve, then you’ve earned the right to face me in the next phase.”  

Tap! Tap!  

The moment he finished speaking, he lunged forward, his figure blurring into a streak of golden afterimages.  

“This feeling…”  

The invisible pressure radiating from Elves sent a shiver down the spines of the Fudomine middle schoolers in the stands.  

“His playstyle… it’s just like my brother’s,” Tachibana Sumire murmured, wide-eyed.  

She knew her brother’s aggressive, no-holds-barred approach better than anyone—and this Loki Elves was clearly targeting Yagyu with the same intensity.  

“Pre-match analysis painted the U.S. team in a negative light,” Mizuki interjected. “But if I had to guess, this guy’s here to prove their strength.”  

In terms of tennis, the U.S. team was far from weak.  

Before the World Cup, they had surpassed England to claim the fifth spot in global rankings—the strongest contender outside the Big Four.  

Their captain, Reinhardt, was an ambitious leader who had originally aimed for nothing less than the championship.  

But no one expected Japan—this monstrous dark horse—to emerge out of nowhere.  

From exhibition matches to now, they had defeated both the world’s No. 1 and No. 2 teams. Though neither had been an all-out battle, everyone knew: Japan had risen to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Big Four.  

In comparison, the U.S. team was undeniably a step below.  

Compounding their struggles was Reinhardt’s failed recruitment plan, leaving them weaker than anticipated.  

But players like Loki Elves—America’s prodigies—had no intention of surrendering. Accepting defeat before even stepping onto the court wasn’t in their nature.  

Though the U.S. team’s strategy hinged on securing the first three matches, Elves and the others were determined to prove their worth to the world.  

BANG!  

Chasing down the ball, Elves unleashed a ferocious strike.  

His target was clear: the middle schooler on the other side. His logic was simple—if he could suppress this tricky opponent, the rest would fall to the high schoolers.  

In a match like this, where middle and high schoolers were mixed, the real decider was always the high schoolers’ battle.  

And as if acknowledging this unspoken rule, neither Hopkins nor Irie intervened in the duel.  

Thud!  

Yagyu swung his racket, returning the shot.  

The impact reverberated through his grip, the force rippling outward. Back in the national championships, a shot like this would’ve overwhelmed him.  

But after the U-17 training camp, his wrist and grip strength had undergone rigorous refinement.  

Though he wasn’t a power player by nature, his fundamentals were now solid enough to hold his own.  

“Not bad.”  

Elves noted Yagyu’s seamless returns, the rhythm unbroken.  

Tap! Tap!  

He accelerated again, charging toward the net like a predator closing in on its prey.  

This was his style—relentless, overwhelming, crushing his opponent with sheer force.  

BANG! 

THUD! 

BANG! 

THUD!  

The exchanges grew faster and fiercer. To the average spectator, their swings were now a blur—the sound of the ball striking the racket lagging behind the actual motion, creating a disorienting disconnect between sight and sound.  

“This guy’s pretty good!”  

Watching from the U.S. team’s side, Valentin let out an impressed whistle. “Wasn’t this Japanese kid supposed to be a technical player? How’s he keeping up with Loki’s offense?”  

“His physique is solid,” Dou Dou Obande countered, shaking his head. “His skin’s noticeably tanned—he must’ve trained under extreme conditions to build up his strength.”  

“True,” Reinhardt agreed. “He didn’t lose ground against Greece’s Heracles either. In that match, he even pulled off some signature power shots.”  

“These Japanese players… damn.”  

Valentin sighed, trailing off as if remembering something bitter.  

BANG!  

Suddenly, Elves surged forward, unleashing a pinpoint strike. The ball rocketed toward Yagyu’s backhand side like a cannonball.  

“15-0!”  

The ball ricocheted out of bounds as Yagyu came to a stop, exhaling deeply.  

Even for him, this level of intensity was pushing his limits. After all, fast-paced power tennis wasn’t his forte.  

“Nice one!” 

“That’s our Loki! Finish him off!”  

The U.S. team’s supporters erupted in cheers.  

“Kyoujurou.”  

Outside the court, Chitose turned to his partner. “If it were you, could you suppress Yagyu this quickly?”  

Yagyu was strong—no doubt about it.  

In Chitose’s eyes, though Yagyu had once been seen as secondary to Rikkai’s “Big Three,” his “Phantom” technique had elevated him far beyond expectations.  

During their U-17 practice match, the two had fought cautiously—Yagyu using illusions, Chitose wielding the Zone.  

But the match had ended inconclusively due to weather, leaving Chitose with a deep respect for Yagyu’s abilities.  

Now, at the World Cup, Chitose had to admit: a player like Yagyu, with his limitless adaptability, was perfectly suited for this stage.  

So seeing him placed in the second doubles slot came as no surprise.  

“Me?”  

Kyoujurou raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. “I’ve never played him, but to suppress him at this level? It wouldn’t be enough.”  

“I thought so.”  

Chitose nodded solemnly. “He’s probably testing his opponent. The question is—how will he respond?”  

As one of Japan’s top middle school doubles pairs, Chitose knew they might end up as sacrificial pawns in future matches.  

But he refused to accept that role.  

So in every match, he studied, strategized, and immersed himself—almost like an extension of his unfinished duel with Yagyu.  

BANG!  

Elves served again.  

Having secured the first point, he dialed up the tempo, charging the net like a beast on the hunt.  

BANG! 

THUD! 

BANG! 

THUD!  

Their movements grew even faster, but Elves held the clear advantage. In a direct clash—especially one demanding split-second reflexes and explosive power—this was his domain.  

BANG!  

Another point.  

“30-0!”  

BANG!  

The third point.  

After nearly 20 exchanges, Elves breached Yagyu’s defenses once more.  

“40-0!”  

“WOOO!!” 

“U-S-A! U-S-A!”  

The crowd roared, their earlier doubts about the U.S. team completely shattered by Elves’ dominance.  

The mood had shifted—now, hope surged through the spectators. The belief that America could defeat Japan and advance to the quarterfinals burned brighter than ever.  

BANG!  

Elves served again.  

“Yagyu Hiroshi.”  

His voice was sharp, his gaze piercing. “If you keep playing like this, don’t blame me for ending it here.”  

Elves wasn’t foolish.  

He knew Yagyu—the same player who had faced Greece’s high schoolers—was no pushover. But in his mind, tennis was a battle of wills.  

A zero-sum game.  

He would stay vigilant, but he’d never pass up the chance to crush his opponent outright.  

BANG! 

THUD! 

BANG! 

THUD!  

Another rapid exchange.  

Elves’ relentless assault pinned Yagyu in a corner, leaving him no room to counter.  

“Time to end this.”  

Sensing his opponent’s dwindling options, Elves’ eyes gleamed with determination.  

HUM!  

A scorching red aura erupted around him as he accelerated, closing in on the net in a flash. Without hesitation, he smashed the ball down with a brutal volley.  

“Game over.”  

BANG!  

The ball landed right on the line—proof that even now, Elves’ precision was flawless.  

“YES!” 

“That’s the point!” 

“So much for Japan’s ‘miracle team’!”  

The U.S. fans erupted in triumph.  

Elves had dominated this game, while his opponent seemed utterly outmatched. A player like Yagyu wouldn’t even make the cut for the U.S. U-17 team.  

WHOOSH!  

But then—  

The ball, which should have been out of reach, suddenly curved mid-air.  

Before anyone could react, it arced back toward Yagyu, who was already poised for the perfect strike.  

ZING!  

A streak of pale blue light shot across the court—straight between Elves’ legs.  

Silence.  

The entire stadium froze.  

Chapter 460: The Terrifying Trickster – The Deciding Match Between Middle Schoolers  

"Laser... Beam!"  

With one hand high and the other low—like a fencer poised for a thrust—Yagyu Hiroshi calmly spoke as he swung his racket toward his opponent.  

Silence.  

The court remained deathly still.  

The American players, in particular, wore expressions of utter shock. No one had expected that what should have been a guaranteed point had twisted into something so unbelievable.  

"Uh…"  

Even the referee on the high chair hesitated for a moment before finally calling out, "40-15!" as he stared at the clear white mark left between Elves' legs.  

"This guy…"  

Valentin and Obando exchanged glances, their eyes wide with surprise.  

"A ball-manipulation technique?"  

Reinhardt narrowed his eyes.  

If he recalled correctly, several players on Japan’s team had mastered this skill—middle schoolers like Tezuka and Chitose, as well as their captain, Ishikawa.  

So, in a way, it wasn’t entirely unexpected that Yagyu could pull it off too.  

But things were far more complicated than they seemed.  

Reinhardt knew full well how difficult it was to master such a technique at this level. Elves was no pushover—for Yagyu to redirect a shot of that caliber with spin alone spoke volumes about his skill.  

"Just how the hell did these Japanese players develop techniques like this?" Valentin muttered, shaking his head.  

"Yeah," Obando agreed solemnly.  

Whether it was the ball-manipulation or that laser-like return, both were terrifyingly effective.  

Elves was a player renowned for his reflexes and explosive power. Yet even he had been caught off guard—proof of just how fast Yagyu’s shot had been.  

"That guy, Yagyu…"  

In the stands, Yanagi adjusted his glasses with a resigned sigh.  

Next to him, Marui and Jackal exchanged knowing glances, sensing the subtle tremor in their teammate’s hands.  

As his longtime doubles partners, they understood immediately.  

"Out of all the ways he could’ve scored," Marui said quietly, "he just had to use Yanagi’s signature move."  

"Right?" Jackal chuckled. "In a way, he’s giving his partner some spotlight on the world stage."  

Competition within Japan’s team was fierce.  

Though Yanagi was undoubtedly skilled, his straightforward style couldn’t match Yagyu’s versatility. As a result, he hadn’t made the cut for the official roster.  

And with the group stage over, only seven starters and one reserve would be selected for future matches. In a team overflowing with talent, breaking through was nearly impossible.  

Now, even without fully morphing into Yanagi, Yagyu’s Laser Beam was executed with near-flawless precision—perhaps even surpassing the original.  

"Spotlight? More like a headache," Yanagi retorted, though his tone lacked any real irritation. If anything, there was a hint of pride in his voice.  

He shot a knowing glance at Yagyu.  

"That guy’s about to get serious."  

He knew Yagyu better than most.  

The trickster never fought without a plan. Though not a data player like himself, Yagyu preferred to analyze his opponents first, adapting his style to counter theirs with chilling efficiency.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

On the court, the golden-haired Loki Elves bounced the ball methodically, his sharp eyes locked onto his opponent.  

As one of America’s top middle schoolers, his usual fiery temperament had been tempered by the stakes of this world-stage match.  

Under normal circumstances, he would’ve bulldozed through with sheer aggression. But now, he remained eerily composed.  

"He’s studying me. Planning to switch styles to counter me?"  

Elves wasn’t stupid. The moment he cooled down, he saw through Yagyu’s game.  

"Not a bad plan," he muttered, catching the ball in his palm. A cold smirk curled his lips. "But too bad for you—my style can’t be countered."  

BANG!  

His next serve exploded like a gunshot.  

The ball tore through the air, leaving visible ripples in its wake.  

"There it is!"  

One of the American middle schoolers gasped. "Loki’s Bullet Rush Serve!"  

"If his last serve was like a pistol," another added excitedly, "this one’s a damn sniper rifle!"  

"Heh," a third sneered. "That Japanese guy’s gonna freak when the ball hits his racket."  

The others grinned, already picturing Yagyu’s racket flying from his grip—or worse, his arm buckling under the force.  

Swish!  

But Yagyu moved.  

His observational skills were razor-sharp, honed by studying serves like Ishikawa’s and Ochi’s. To him, this speed was nothing extraordinary.  

Before the ball even landed, he adjusted his stance. The moment it touched down, his figure blurred—rippling like water—before solidifying into a black-capped, stern-faced boy.  

"Slow as the Forest."  

Tap.  

The moment his racket connected, the destructive force behind Elves’ serve visibly dissipated.  

Then, under the stunned gazes of the American team, the ball floated gently over the net like a falling leaf.  

"W-What kind of shot was that?!"  

One of the American middle schoolers blurted out in disbelief.  

"Impressive technique," Hopkins murmured, his eyes narrowing.  

As the team’s forward, he recognized the sheer mastery behind that drop shot.  

"With this, he completely negated Loki’s serve advantage. In singles, Loki would already be at a disadvantage."  

But this was doubles.  

And for the U.S. team, determined to secure the first three matches, Hopkins wasn’t about to let his middle schooler fight alone.  

Tap.  

He intercepted the ball with a light return, diffusing the crisis—but deliberately refrained from further interference, leaving the court to the two middle schoolers.  

From Japan’s side, Irie sighed.  

"Their player is being overly cautious."  

In a true "soldier vs. soldier, general vs. general" match, Hopkins’ intervention had tipped the scales, making it harder for Yagyu to overpower Elves.  

Tap! Tap!  

Elves quickly regained his footing, but Yagyu was already moving again. His racket flashed in a near-invisible arc.  

"Fast as the Storm!"  

BOOM!  

The ball transformed into a raging whirlwind, blasting past the net in an instant.  

"Fūrin Kazan?!"  

Marui and Jackal gaped. "Don’t tell me he can mimic Sanada’s new techniques now too?!"  

Sanada had only recently mastered this move—and yet, Yagyu had already replicated it?  

"His perception and mimicry are on another level," Yanagi explained. "He grasps the essence of techniques at a glance. With minimal practice, he can approximate them."  

This was the talent that made Yagyu so unpredictable.  

During the U-17 elimination matches, Yanagi had only beaten Yagyu because of their deep familiarity. But now, after the mountain training camp, even he found Yagyu’s growth unsettling.  

BANG!  

Another explosive impact.  

Elves had countered the storm-like shot head-on.  

Hum.  

Then, the black-capped "Sanada" flickered again—his form dissolving into ripples before reshaping into a golden-haired, buzz-cut teenager in a black jacket.  

Whoosh!  

Without hesitation, he lunged forward, intercepting the ball mid-air with a super jump before smashing it down.  

"Now it’s Kyoujurou?!"  

The Fudomine players straightened in their seats.  

Sumire’s eyes widened in disbelief.  

If she hadn’t known this was an illusion, she would’ve sworn it was her brother standing there.  

"His presence, his aura—it’s identical," Mizuki mused, twirling a lock of hair. "But more importantly, even Kyoujurou’s reflexes, explosive power, and playstyle are perfectly replicated."  

BANG! 

BANG! 

BANG!  

The two launched into a blistering exchange, neither letting the ball touch the ground as they closed in on the net.  

"T-This is…!"  

Spectators from other countries—especially the middle schoolers—could only stare in disbelief.  

This level of speed and precision… from two middle schoolers?!  

"Damn it…"  

Elves gritted his teeth mid-rally. "He’s even mastered this kind of aggressive playstyle?"  

Before the match, Reinhardt had briefed the American middle schoolers on Japan’s players. Yagyu’s profile highlighted his ability to mimic others’ appearances and styles.  

Back then, Elves hadn’t cared.  

In his mind, imitation was a cheap trick—a shallow replication that could never capture the true essence of a player. Real strength came from within.  

But now?  

He was struggling.  

For a moment, he truly felt like he was facing off against a golden-haired, ferociously aggressive opponent—completely different from Yagyu’s usual self or the black-capped "Sanada" from earlier.  

"I’ll admit," Elves growled after another intense rally, "you’re damn good."  

If someone could freely switch styles and techniques to counter him, it was undeniably troublesome.  

"But in a straight fight—I don’t lose to anyone!"  

HUM!  

His aura erupted like flames, the air around him distorting from the heat.  

"It’s here!"  

The American middle schoolers tensed with excitement. "Loki’s ultimate move—Child of the Sun*!"*  

Obando and Valentin nodded in approval.  

In this state, Elves’ reflexes and explosive power skyrocketed. In direct confrontations, he was nearly unstoppable.  

Even they, as high schoolers, would struggle to withstand his onslaught.  

"It’s over," Valentin said simply. "Once Loki activates this, the match is decided."  

No one could stand against the blazing Child of the Sun—the very power that had led him to dominate the U.S. championships.  

"Heh."  

But Yagyu’s lips curled into a smirk.  

Facing Elves’ overwhelming pressure, he deliberately slowed his swing.  

"Huh?"  

The sudden shift in rhythm threw Elves off-balance. A cold realization struck him, and his eyes widened.  

Tap.  

Just as he feared, Yagyu delivered a delicate drop shot.  

The abrupt change from ferocious exchanges to this gentle touch left the audience momentarily dazed.  

Tap! Tap!  

Elves recovered instantly, charging forward with a snarl.  

"I’ll give you this—your skills are impressive," he spat, eyes blazing. "But underestimating me was your fatal mistake!"  

Swish!  

His racket swung down, poised to obliterate the ball the moment it bounced.  

Skid…  

Except—it didn’t bounce.  

Instead, the ball rolled back toward the net, glued to the ground.  

"…What?"  

Elves froze.  

Even Hopkins, standing at the net, felt his pupils contract in shock.  

"Zero-Shiki Drop Shot."  

On the other side of the court, the figure in the blue-and-white jacket adjusted his oval glasses calmly.  

"…I see."  

Reinhardt’s gaze sharpened.  

"So his illusions aren’t about one-on-one counters—they’re about overwhelming the opponent with multiple styles."  

At this moment, he knew.  

In this battle of middle schoolers, America had already lost.