451-455

Chapter 451: The Seventh Consciousness – Manas  

The clash of light and darkness erupted in an instant.  

A blinding radiance flooded the entire court, forcing everyone to shut their eyes—and in that moment, Amadeus reached a profound realization.  

His opponent was strong.  

Not just strong—this was a power that transcended ordinary limits. If the match continued like this, his chances of losing would only grow.  

And so, the Swiss team’s captain steeled himself. Deep down, he was ready to risk everything.  

"Watch closely."  

As the tennis ball hurtled toward him, Amadeus slowly closed his eyes.  

Drip.  

A sound like water droplets hitting the ground echoed in the silence.  

Time itself seemed to freeze.  

"W-what just happened?!"  

Outside the court, players from both teams—along with spectators from other countries—stared in shock. An indescribable force seemed to strike their hearts, leaving them breathless.  

Hummm!  

A ripple of energy surged through the air, spreading rapidly in all directions.  

Then—  

Amadeus' eyes snapped open.  

His amber irises now burned with a golden flame, and an overwhelming pressure radiated from his entire being.  

It was as if a god had descended upon the court.  

In the blink of an eye, Amadeus appeared in front of the ball—moving at a speed beyond human comprehension.  

"What the—?!"  

"Is this… a higher dimension of tennis?!"  

Gasps of disbelief filled the air.  

Thwack!  

The crisp sound of the racket striking the ball rang out—but the ball itself had vanished from sight. Only the most skilled players, like Japan’s Byoudouin and Oni, or Switzerland’s Tasta, caught a glimpse of what happened.  

A golden flash erupted beside Ryoma.  

"15-15!" the umpire announced.  

The court fell into an eerie silence.  

"What… just happened?"  

Even the Swiss team hesitated before celebrating, staring at their captain in awe. His aura now carried an almost divine presence.  

"Captain Amadeus…"  

Federer, Lambert, and the others were stunned. This was a complete departure from the match they had been watching.  

"S-so… this is the captain’s true strength?"  

Younger players like Henri and Arno gazed at their leader with newfound reverence.  

Meanwhile, Tasta’s eyes darkened as he turned toward their coach—an elderly man sitting calmly with an unreadable expression.  

He already knows.  

Tasta had a suspicion.  

Thud. Thud. Thud.  

Amadeus bounced the ball methodically, his body wreathed in a faint golden aura. Unlike the shadowy energy from before, this radiance exuded sheer dominance.  

"He was hiding this kind of technique?!" Duke muttered, his face grim.  

He had expected the Swiss captain to be formidable—but this was on another level entirely.  

"This feeling…" Byoudouin narrowed his eyes. There was something oddly familiar about Amadeus’ power.  

"Oh?"  

Even Japan’s coach, Mikuni, sat up straighter, scrutinizing Amadeus with newfound interest.  

"Fascinating."  

"To think someone on the Swiss team has actually reached this realm. If I recall correctly, this path is just as perilous as ours—a trial by fire."  

His gaze shifted to the Swiss coach, Qin Onigiyohha—an octogenarian who had once dominated the tennis world. The old man met Mikuni’s eyes and gave a faint, knowing nod.  

"I see."  

Mikuni’s bushy eyebrows twitched. "So the legend from fifty years ago… has finally found a successor."  

Qin Onigiyohha was a living myth, much like Echizen Nanjiro. But his reign had been even more absolute—a decade of unchallenged supremacy in European tennis.  

"If this really is that power…"  

Mikuni’s lips curled into a smirk as he glanced at Ryoma.  

This could get interesting.  

The Awakening of Manas 

With his golden aura blazing, Amadeus served again. The ball became a streak of light, moving faster than the eye could follow.  

"Incredible speed."  

Ryoma strained his senses, barely catching a glimpse of the golden trail.  

Boom!  

The ball landed precisely on the baseline and shot past him before he could react.  

"30-15!"  

Another serve. Another golden flash.  

"40-15!"  

"He’s unstoppable!"  

"This is pro-level tennis! This is why he’s the captain!"  

The Swiss team erupted in cheers. Amadeus’ dominance was absolute—Ryoma couldn’t even touch the ball.  

Boom!  

The next serve exploded on impact, sending a shockwave of dust and wind crashing into the walls.  

"Game! Switzerland leads 1-0! Change ends!"  

The crowd roared. The Japanese team, meanwhile, was deathly silent.  

"The vice-captain… can’t even return it?"  

Hiyoshi and the others were stunned. Ryoma was their strongest player—if even he was being overwhelmed, what did that say about the gap between amateurs and true professionals?  

"That golden flame… what is it?" Mukushi, ever analytical, focused on the energy surrounding Amadeus.  

"It’s hard to describe," Yuushi admitted. "His tennis feels like it exists in a different dimension."  

Players with sharp eyesight—like Kikumaru, Sengoku, and Saeki—rubbed their eyes in discomfort.  

"Too many afterimages," Kikumaru muttered. "Worse than Akazawa’s 'Phantom Ball.'"  

"Maybe it’s ultra-high-level spin?" Marui suggested.  

"Or something deeper," Fuji mused. "If his technique has reached perfection, the ball could have multiple layers of rotation."  

But if that were the case, why couldn’t Ryoma counter it?  

"The golden light isn’t just spin," Tokugawa said suddenly. "It’s Asura’s Path."  

The team froze.  

"Asura’s Path?!"  

Amadeus, hearing this, smirked. "So the Japanese team knows about this realm too?"  

His golden flames intensified, distorting the air around him with heat.  

"It really is Asura’s Path?!" Mitsuya’s eyes widened.  

Thwack!  

Ryoma finally returned the ball—but Amadeus wasn’t fazed.  

"A good serve," he said, his voice calm. "But that’s all."  

His racket flashed gold, and the ball streaked across the court like a comet.  

"Sorry," Amadeus said, smirking. "But I’ve already seen your future."  

In his golden eyes, countless versions of Ryoma appeared—each with a different swing. But one by one, those possibilities shattered like glass.  

Ryoma’s chance of returning the ball?  

Zero.  

Thwack!  

Yet—the sound of a return echoed across the court.  

"What?!" Amadeus’ smile vanished.  

Ryoma stood firm, his racket gripping the ball.  

"Your power isn’t Asura’s Path, is it, Amadeus?" Ryoma’s eyes gleamed. "You took a different fork in the road."  

Boom!  

His return shot past Amadeus like lightning.  

"I knew it."  

Coach Mikuni’s lips curled.  

"What he awakened isn’t Asura’s Path—it’s the Seventh Consciousness."  

"Manas."  

Chapter 452: The Eighth Consciousness – The Astonishing Ten-Body Domain!  

"15-0!"  

The umpire’s call silenced the stadium.  

The cheers for Switzerland and Amadeus cut off abruptly.  

"Amadeus… just lost a point?"  

Federer, Lambiel, and the other Swiss high schoolers stared in disbelief.  

Meanwhile, Tasta’s gaze locked onto the ball still spinning violently in the corner. His eyes darkened with unease.  

That level of spin…  

It was terrifying—far beyond what even most professionals could achieve. But that wasn’t what unsettled him.  

What truly shocked him was how this Japanese middle schooler had dismantled Amadeus’ golden-flame state.  

If he wasn’t mistaken… that technique was something their team’s legendary coach had mastered in his youth.  

"The Manas consciousness… was seen through?"  

On the coaching bench, the Swiss head coach’s expression flickered with surprise.  

Manas—the seventh layer of human consciousness, beyond sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and thought.  

"All human suffering, distractions, and misperceptions stem from Manas," Jean Hono’uji mused silently. "It is the root of chaos and the unknown. But if harnessed, it allows one to refine errors in perception—to find the single, flawless solution amidst disorder."  

Memories surfaced—his younger self, a rising star in European tennis, journeying to the distant East. There, he had encountered a style known as Asura.  

The image of that red-clad player had faded with time, but the match remained etched in his mind. It had been the most crushing defeat of his career… and the birth of his obsession with Manas.  

Yet now, decades later, a middle schooler stood on the court, wielding something even more profound.  

"Alexander!"  

The old coach’s gaze sharpened on Amadeus. **"You haven’t yet tapped into Manas’ full potential. Remember my words—only by facing your fragility can you climb higher!"**  

Amadeus was special. Born in a war-torn nation, he carried a rare purity in his love for tennis. That made him the ideal vessel for Manas.  

Thud!  

Ishikawa’s serve tore across the net, a silver-white streak of lethal precision.  

Amadeus’ eyes narrowed. Without Manas, he would’ve had no chance against this. But now?  

His fighting spirit burned brighter.  

"I see it."  

In an instant, Manas dissected the ball’s trajectory, spin, and every possible countermove. Flaws in Ishikawa’s stance, even his own potential missteps, flashed through his mind—all filtered away, leaving only the optimal return.  

Crack!  

His racket whipped forward, sending the ball in a razor-sharp arc that kissed the baseline.  

"Incredible!"  

The crowd gasped. This was pro-level play at its finest.  

Yet—  

Swish!  

Ishikawa appeared at the landing point impossibly fast.  

"What?!"  

The Swiss team stiffened. Amadeus’ shot had been flawless—yet Ishikawa intercepted it like it was nothing.  

For the first time, Amadeus felt the pressure of facing an elite pro. No matter how brilliant his plays, his opponent countered effortlessly.  

But instead of frustration, his resolve hardened.  

"Show me your full strength, Japan’s strongest!"  

Golden flames erupted around him, his aura locking onto Ishikawa. Nothing would escape his sight now.  

Then—  

"Two Ishikawas?!"  

The crowd’s jaws dropped.  

Two identical figures stood on the court, differing only in stance. Both felt undeniably real.  

"No matter what tricks you use," Amadeus growled, "I’ll win!"  

Manas’ insight enveloped both figures—  

—only for two more Ishikawas to materialize.  

"Four?!"  

Thwack!  

The ball rocketed past Amadeus before he could react.  

"30-0!"  

"H-How?!"  

Swiss players exchanged stunned looks.  

"Illusions?" Lambiel muttered.  

"No," Tasta cut in grimly. "All four were real. Any one of them could’ve struck."  

The team froze.  

Four identical players? Unless Ishikawa had triplets—each equally skilled—this made no sense.  

"Amala-vijñāna," the old coach suddenly said.  

Every head turned.  

"The Eighth Consciousness?"  

Jean’s voice carried decades of weight. "Alexander wields Manas, the Seventh. But this boy… has touched the Amala-vijñāna."  

"So… Ishikawa’s power is stronger?!" Henry blurted.  

"Consciousness has no hierarchy," Jean corrected. "The Seventh and Eighth are merely different paths. What matters is mastery."  

But internally, he knew: while Manas was perilous, Amala-vijñāna was near-impossible to attain. Few who sought it returned whole.  

How did this boy conquer it?  

Still, four bodies were manageable for Amadeus—if he fought smart.  

Crack!  

Ishikawa served again.  

When Amadeus returned it, three more Ishikawas appeared.  

"Predictable," Amadeus thought, shifting tactics. No direct clashes—he’d outlast his opponent’s stamina.  

Then—  

A fifth figure materialized.  

"What?!"  

Six.  

Seven.  

"Eight?!"  

Jean’s composure cracked.  

Eight bodies—even a pro would struggle.  

But the nightmare wasn’t over.  

Nine.  

Ten.  

"T-Ten-Body Domain?!"  

The coach shot to his feet, voice trembling.  

"This… is Arayashiki?!"  

Chapter 453: Awakening Inner Fear – Three Consecutive Wins in the Group Stage  

Thwack!  

In an instant—light erupted.  

Amadeus, who had been utterly confident in his ability to read his opponent’s moves, froze in disbelief.  

"T-ten… ten afterimages?!"  

His mind reeled. No matter how highly he had rated Ryoma, he never expected the boy to reach such a terrifying level.  

He didn’t know what Mumetsu (No-Self) was, but he could sense its overwhelming power. Each additional afterimage represented an exponential leap in skill—yet Ryoma had just jumped from four to ten in a single breath.  

"Arayashiki…?"  

Amadeus also caught his coach’s stunned murmur.  

"The evolution of Mumetsu," the old man said grimly. **"While Mumetsu dominates ordinary matches, it doesn’t tap into the deepest layers of consciousness. Arayashiki… is the true path to destruction."**  

Destruction.  

A forbidden power.  

The Swiss team tensed. Their coach’s word was absolute—if he called it dangerous, then Ryoma had crossed into territory reserved for the world’s elite.  

"So…" Lambert whispered, "Japan’s captain has truly mastered a forbidden technique?"  

A 12-year-old, standing at the threshold of the pros?  

Unthinkable.  

Yet here he was.  

The Unstoppable Onslaught 

"Ryoma Shin."  

Amadeus tightened his grip on his racket, his earlier confidence replaced by dread.  

But fear didn’t break him—it forged him.  

His amber-and-gold eyes sharpened.  

Thwack!  

A pale yellow streak exploded at his feet.  

"Game! Japan leads, 1-1!"  

"H-he can’t even… touch it?"  

Federer and Lambert stared, stunned.  

This wasn’t just a fluke.  

Ryoma was dominating their captain—a professional.  

Thwack! "Game! 2-1!"  

Thwack! "3-1!"  

Thwack! "4-1!"  

The score climbed ruthlessly. Amadeus, despite his resolve, was being erased.  

Ten afterimages.  

Ten possible futures.  

Even for a player of his caliber, tracking seven was the absolute limit—and Ryoma had shattered that ceiling.  

Thwack! "5-1!"  

By the sixth game, Amadeus was gasping, sweat dripping as Ryoma stood untouched, not a drop of fatigue on him.  

"This monster…"  

The Swiss team’s last hope—stamina—was a joke.  

The Abyss of Fear 

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

Ryoma bounced the ball slowly, each thud hammering into Amadeus’ pulse.  

Swish—  

The serve flew, dark energy rippling like ink in water.  

Amadeus braced—  

—and the world shattered.  

Ruins.  

Smoke.  

The acrid stench of war.  

"My… hometown?"  

This was his deepest nightmare—the war-torn streets he’d escaped through tennis.  

Memories surged:  

—A child, clutching a racket as bombs fell.  

—A teenager, dismissed for his origins.  

—A man who’d buried his past, only for it to resurrect here.  

"An illusion…?"  

But the pain felt real.  

Letters flashed before him—words he’d written years ago:  

"I have nothing left but tennis."  

A life defined by loneliness.  

A soul forged in battle.  

"Dark Shot: Mugen (Infinite)?"  

A technique that weaponized fear itself.  

Most players would break.  

But Amadeus clenched his teeth—  

—and shattered the illusion.  

The Final Strike 

Reality snapped back.  

The scoreboard glared: 40-0.  

Match point.  

Ryoma served again, darkness coiling around the ball.  

Amadeus roared, swinging with everything—  

—only for flames to erupt inside him.  

Thud.  

His knees hit the court.  

"W-what…?"  

His body burned, strength draining like sand through fingers.  

"Your will is strong," Ryoma said calmly. "But uncontrolled desire… consumes you."  

The umpire’s voice rang out:  

"Game and match! Japan’s Ryoma Shin wins, 6-1!"  

Silence.  

Then—chaos.  

The Swiss team’s unbeatable captain…  

Had fallen.  

Chapter 454: Group Stage Champions, A New Opponent  

"Alexander (the captain)... lost?!"  

Outside the court, the Swiss team stood frozen in disbelief.  

To them, Amadeus was nothing short of a god. His status as a professional player was the very reason Switzerland held firm as the No. 2 team among the Big Four.  

It was also what filled them with pride.  

Frankly, in this World Cup, the only team they truly feared was Germany. Every other opponent was just a minor obstacle in their path.  

Yet now, brimming with confidence and fielding their strongest lineup, they had suffered three consecutive defeats against Japan—a team ranked twenty spots below them.  

Ranbir, Henri, Federer, Pugh...  

These were Switzerland’s finest players, the kind who would be undisputed aces in any other team.  

And with Amadeus—a true professional—leading them, they were sure they could even give Germany a run for their money.  

But reality had dealt them a brutal blow.  

No one could have predicted such a crushing defeat. If not for witnessing it firsthand, they might have thought the scores were reversed.  

But this was the undeniable truth.  

Switzerland had lost—utterly and decisively. And in the final singles match, their captain had been completely overwhelmed.  

"Ishikawa... Shin."  

Gasping for breath, his stamina nearly depleted, Amadeus forced his head up, his eyes locking onto his opponent.  

This was humiliating.  

He had been certain that after tempering his mind in the illusions, his mental strength had evolved. If he unleashed it fully, he might have stood a chance against Ishikawa’s Ten Bodies Technique.  

But with just one serve, Ishikawa had shattered that delusion.  

Strong. 

Too strong.  

In that moment, Ishikawa’s presence seemed even more enigmatic. The way he stood there, calm and unshaken, made Amadeus suspect something terrifying—  

"What if... he’s still holding back?"  

The thought sent a chill down his spine.  

He had never met someone so composed, so deeply concealed. And the most horrifying part?  

He was only twelve.  

No one in tennis history could compare.  

If nothing went wrong, the future of the sport would be under his rule.  

"That is... if he can defeat him."  

Taking a deep breath, Amadeus recalled a sharp-eyed, bald figure.  

"Only then will he truly hold the key to dominating tennis."  

Unlike Amadeus, Germany’s [Philosopher of Victory] was a top-tier professional. In this summer’s German Open, he had even defeated the world No. 1, Novak Brynner.  

Right now, in this World Cup, he was the undisputed god, an insurmountable peak for all others.  

And tennis history was littered with prodigies hyped by the media, only to be crushed by veterans on the verge of retirement.  

"Hmm."  

But when Ishikawa turned his gaze toward him, their eyes meeting, Amadeus shuddered again.  

For a split second, he felt as if his thoughts had been completely laid bare.  

"No... not an illusion!"  

Clenching his fists, a terrifying realization struck him:  

"He’s hiding even more power than I thought. Maybe... not even he can stop him."  

"Hurry up, hurry up!!"  

In the stands, a group of youths clad in star-spangled jackets rushed in through the upper entrance. Leading them was a pretty-faced boy with a topknot, urging them forward.  

"I heard Switzerland already lost twice! This is the third match—Amadeus was forced to use a substitution!"  

Chico Ballentine.  

One of the key players of the U.S. team.  

The others were also top-tier American players. They had just finished their match against India and rushed over as fast as they could.  

"No need to rush."  

A broad-faced, freckled blond boy chuckled.  

"Amadeus is a pro. Even if he can’t beat Japan’s captain, he’ll at least drag it out."  

Alan Hopkins.  

The U.S. vice-captain, a powerhouse in his own right. Earlier, he had crushed India’s strongest player, Taran Sharma, sending him straight to the hospital.  

Rumors said Sharma’s condition was critical—proof of just how terrifying this smiling young man really was.  

"Alexander Amadeus... is a professional."  

A black teen with dreadlocks tied up like a broomstick added,  

"No matter how strong this ‘Ishikawa’ guy is, there’s no way he’d win in under 30 minutes, right?"  

"Uh—"  

But just then, the tall blond at the front suddenly stopped.  

"What’s wrong, Ralph?" Ballentine asked.  

"It’s over."  

The blond—Ralph Reinhardt, captain of the U.S. team—spoke grimly.  

"Amadeus lost."  

"WHAT?!"  

"Impossible!"  

The Americans froze.  

Amadeus?!  

The only high schooler in this World Cup with a professional singles ranking, second only to Germany’s Volk.  

Even with their faith in Reinhardt, none of them could confidently say he could defeat Amadeus. And if he did win, it would take an insane amount of time.  

But this match... how long had it even been?  

Had 20 minutes even passed?  

The speed of this defeat was unreal. If they hadn’t seen it themselves, they wouldn’t have believed it.  

Then their eyes landed on the electronic scoreboard.  

"1-6?!"  

Hopkins’ eyes narrowed, a deep sense of dread settling in.  

Just earlier, he had crushed India’s captain. As Sharma was being carried off, he had turned back and warned him—  

"Japan’s team is terrifying. Especially that Ishikawa... he’ll make the U.S. pay."  

At the time, Hopkins had dismissed it as bitter ramblings.  

But now?  

After witnessing Ishikawa dismantle Amadeus, all his arrogance vanished.  

"Ishikawa Shin."  

From above, Reinhardt’s gaze locked onto the black-haired boy on the court.  

"The Group B match between Switzerland and Japan concludes here."  

The referee’s voice rang out sternly.  

"Japan wins, 3-0."  

The atmosphere grew heavier.  

Only in one corner of the stands did the Japanese reserves celebrate.  

"Switzerland... lost."  

Even if this was just the group stage, the other nations’ representatives wore grave expressions.  

Because everyone knew—Switzerland had fielded 85% of their strongest lineup.  

The only one missing was their No. 2, Tasta.  

But with three straight losses, even Tasta’s presence wouldn’t have changed the outcome.  

In fact...  

Had Tasta played, he might not have won against Japan’s other two aces either.  

Oni Juujirou had already proven himself against Greece’s captain, Zeus. And while Byoudouin hadn’t shown his full strength yet, no one doubted the former No. 1’s ability.  

"Looks like they’re this year’s ultimate dark horse."  

Reinhardt’s usual cheerful demeanor was gone, replaced by solemnity.  

He could already foresee the finals—how the U.S. might face Japan in the quarter or semifinals.  

And if an incomplete Japan could crush Switzerland’s full-strength roster, what hope did they have against Japan at full power?  

Even with his confidence in the U.S. lineup, Reinhardt couldn’t guarantee victory.  

Worse yet, his trump card, Ryoga Echizen, had vanished without a trace.  

This shattered Reinhardt’s plans, leaving him scrambling in every match.  

"Let’s go."  

As the Americans settled into the stands, Reinhardt shook his head.  

"We don’t have time to waste here."  

With that, he turned and left.  

"Ralph, he..."  

Ballentine was stunned.  

"It’s just one match. Even we could’ve beaten Switzerland!"  

The others—Hopkins and the dreadlocked Dudu Obando—could only smile wryly.  

While Ballentine wasn’t wrong (beating Switzerland was part of their strategy), saying it out loud was... bold.  

"Maybe his mind isn’t on the match right now."  

Glancing at Reinhardt’s retreating figure, Hopkins sighed.  

"Let’s head back too. No need to make things harder for Ralph."  

The others nodded.  

They all knew Reinhardt had been clashing with the coaching staff lately. Only his irreplaceable skill and leadership kept him as captain.  

Otherwise, he’d have been replaced long ago.  

So the team, led by Hopkins, did their best to uphold Reinhardt’s authority. Normally free-spirited, they had been unusually disciplined lately.  

They didn’t want to jeopardize his plans.  

But...  

As he watched Reinhardt leave, Hopkins’ eyes gleamed with sharp understanding.  

Because he had a guess—what Reinhardt was about to do next.  

"WE WON!!!"  

As the U.S. team departed, the Japanese reserves stared in awe at their returning captain, erupting in cheers.  

But more than anything, their gazes toward Ishikawa were filled with even deeper reverence.  

Before this, even after defeating Byoudouin, Oni, and Q·P, Ishikawa hadn’t been seen as a true professional.  

In their minds, the gap between pro and amateur was still vast.  

But this match changed everything.  

By defeating Amadeus, Ishikawa wasn’t just considered a pro—he had proven it.  

The most obvious sign?  

The flurry of camera flashes now aimed at him.  

To the media, Ishikawa was already the next big star. His absurd age alone had them brainstorming sensational headlines.  

But to their disappointment, Ishikawa ignored them entirely.  

Standing behind Coach Mikuni, he left with the team without a word.  

This only elevated him further in the eyes of Switzerland’s coach, Amadeus, Tasta, and the rest.  

"Without a doubt... the only one capable of stopping Germany’s ten-year reign is this boy’s Japan."  

The old coach’s murmur was met with silent nods.  

Of course, Switzerland wasn’t giving up.  

This was just the group stage. The real battle—the single-elimination rounds—lay ahead.  

With Switzerland placing second in their group, they had still advanced.  

They still had a chance.  

As long as they didn’t face Germany or Japan in the next draw, they could turn things around.  

But fate had other plans.  

That afternoon, as the Round of 16 was finalized, the matchups were announced.  

Switzerland avoided Japan... but drew Germany instead.  

Meanwhile, Japan’s next opponent was...  

"Unbelievable luck!"  

In a Melbourne hotel room, the U.S. team stared grimly at the match list.  

Their next opponent?  

Japan.  

The same team that had just crushed the world No. 2.  

No one could muster any joy.  

"Wait."  

Ballentine suddenly looked around.  

"Where’s Ralph?"  

The others blinked.  

Right—with the draw decided and Japan looming as the tournament’s fiercest dark horse, they needed their captain’s guidance.  

But Reinhardt was nowhere to be seen.  

"Him?"  

Hopkins exhaled, a knowing smile on his face.  

"He’s out finding a way to beat Japan."  

Chapter 455: Reinhardt’s Move  

The U.S. team, one of the top squads in the Americas and among the best in the world, was shrouded in gloom as they advanced to the round of 16 in the World Cup.  

Their opponent?  

Japan.  

In the past, they wouldn’t have given Japan a second thought. But this time, Japan had topped their group and advanced to the next round—defeating the world’s second-ranked team, Switzerland, in a dominant performance.  

The U.S. team was on high alert.  

Some even treated the upcoming match as if it were the finals. Yet, at this critical moment, their captain—the one man who could unite the team—was nowhere to be found.  

Ralph Reinhardt had disappeared.  

Dusk, Outside a Hotel 3 km from the U.S. Team’s Lodgings 

A blond young man in a light blue jacket slowly approached the entrance.  

"Excuse me," he said to the front desk. "Is Echizen Ryoga staying here?"  

The receptionist blinked in surprise before shaking her head. "I’m sorry, but we can’t disclose guest information."  

Reinhardt—realizing his mistake—nodded apologetically. "My apologies. I’m a friend of his. Could you let him know that Ralph Reinhardt is here to see him?"  

The girl hesitated but eventually picked up the phone. After several rings, no one answered.  

"I’m sorry," she said. "There’s nothing more I can do."  

"It’s not your fault." Despite his frustration, Reinhardt kept a polite smile. "Thank you for your help. Here’s my number—if he returns, please call me."  

He handed her his card, which she accepted with flushed cheeks.  

Hotel policy aside, few teenage girls could resist a handsome stranger’s request.  

"Wait," she suddenly called out as he turned to leave. "If I remember correctly, the team’s players went to the outdoor tennis courts."  

Reinhardt’s eyes lit up. "Where exactly?"  

"Behind the hotel, in the recreational area."  

"Thank you." Without another word, he strode toward the courts.  

To anyone watching, this urgency was unlike the composed, level-headed captain of Team USA. But Reinhardt had no choice. Before facing Japan, he needed to find the missing piece of his plan—the one person who could secure their victory.  

His desperation wasn’t irrational. It was cold, calculated necessity.  

Because without him, they stood no chance.  

The Hotel’s Outdoor Tennis Courts 

Thud! Thud! Thud!  

The hotel’s courts were professional-grade, part of its high-end tennis-themed accommodations.  

At the moment, only a few were in use—but the matches drew crowds.  

On one court, a purple-haired boy with glasses darted after the ball.  

Kunimitsu Tezuka? No—this was Kite Eishirou, captain of the Hyotei Middle School team.  

The more he played, the more he realized the staggering skill of the world’s top players.  

How could a mere middle schooler from Spain push him this far?  

But the intense exchanges had sharpened his own abilities. Against Romeo Fernández—Spain’s prodigy—he hadn’t yet been outmatched.  

"Time to get serious," Kite muttered.  

With a flick of his wrist, the ball twisted midair like a striking cobra.  

"Big Boomerang!"  

His teammates gasped.  

"Kite’s signature move!"  

Among them, Hirakoba—a master of spin himself—stared in shock.  

The rotation was on another level.  

"Has he… mastered that kind of spin?"  

The ball’s serpentine trajectory left the audience stunned.  

"Insane!"  

"Is this really Spain’s level?"  

"Don’t be ridiculous. These are just middle schoolers."  

"Middle schoolers?!"  

Romeo, however, only grinned.  

"Nice shot."  

He swung—effortlessly returning Kite’s deadly spin.  

Thwack!  

The ball landed perfectly on the baseline.  

The crowd erupted.  

"Unbelievable!"  

Hirakoba and the others stared in awe.  

Romeo had not only countered Kite’s technique but done so with precision that left him frozen.  

His reflexes, insight, and skill were terrifying.  

"Again!" Romeo urged excitedly.  

Originally, he hadn’t planned to come with Team Spain. But after hearing about a middle schooler defeating Germany’s Perfect Quality in the exhibition match, he couldn’t resist.  

So he’d rushed over—and stumbled upon Kite.  

The match proved his instincts right.  

Kite was strong.  

But…  

"You’re still holding back, aren’t you?" Romeo challenged.  

The crowd tensed.  

Kite’s eyes narrowed slightly.  

He’d been found out.  

This guy was trouble.  

After his humbling encounter with that monster (Ryoma), Kite had learned patience. Like a snake, he bided his time, honing his fangs in the shadows.  

He knew that without connections or overwhelming strength, he’d never get far.  

But now, before the real battles even began, he’d run into a beast like Romeo.  

Old Kite would’ve lashed out.  

Now?  

He stayed calm.  

"Let’s call it here," Kite said flatly. "I have a match tomorrow."  

Romeo frowned but nodded.  

Then—  

"Ala menoma…"  

A eerie whisper slithered through the air.  

Romeo’s expression darkened. His blue eyes turned icy.  

Kite stiffened.  

That feeling again.  

His gaze snapped to the crowd—landing on a small, masked boy with ash-white hair.  

"Seda."  

Kite’s jaw tightened.  

This brat was behind his previous emotional outbursts.  

And now, he was targeting Romeo.  

Without hesitation, Kite walked off the court.  

Seda’s eyes narrowed.  

He’d been found out.  

With Kite gone, no one dared challenge Romeo—until a voice cut through the silence.  

"I’ll play."  

The crowd turned.  

A blond man in a light-blue shirt stepped forward, racket in hand.  

Laughter broke out.  

"Seriously? This isn’t a kids’ game!"  

Romeo hesitated. "You sure, old man?"  

Reinhardt didn’t answer. He just walked onto the court.  

Romeo sighed. "Fine."  

As the guest, Reinhardt served first.  

"Ready?"  

Romeo smirked. "Bring it."  

Crack!  

The ball vanished.  

Romeo’s eyes widened.  

Too fast!  

He swung—but the ball spun away at the last second.  

0-15.  

Silence.  

Then—chaos.  

Romeo gritted his teeth. "Again!"  

But no matter how hard he fought, Reinhardt countered everything.  

Minutes later, sweat dripped from Romeo’s face. His breath came in ragged gasps.  

The crowd was speechless.  

Romeo—Spain’s untouchable prodigy—was being toyed with.  

"Who… are you?" he panted.  

Reinhardt didn’t answer.  

Because the answer was obvious.  

This man was on a completely different level.