belamy20

436-440

Added 2025-06-23 16:48:19 +0000 UTC

Chapter 436: Singles 3 – Atobe vs. Gōlgia

"T-this power?!"

The Australian team stared in shock as Fitzgerald and Hophman’s rackets were knocked clean out of their hands by a single shot.

"A… a gravity-warping tennis dimension?!"

Fitzgerald’s pupils trembled.

For a split second, he had felt an overwhelming, crushing force—one eerily similar to the pressure Duke had unleashed earlier.

Which meant…

This middle schooler, Tōyama Kintarō, had truly awakened a pro-level tennis ability—an "otherworldly" power!

Exchanging a glance with Hophman, Fitzgerald saw the same stunned realization in his partner’s eyes.

They hadn’t just lost.

They’d been utterly outclassed.

Noah’s Calculations – A Crushing Blow

"So this is how it is…"

Noah’s expression darkened. Despite his meticulous planning, two consecutive losses had left Australia in an embarrassing position.

But it wasn’t entirely his fault.

Who could’ve predicted that Duke "The Destroyer" Watanabe—formerly of France’s elite—would be placed in doubles?

And Duke’s strategy had been flawless.

His raw power alone could’ve been countered by Australia’s "Iron Wall Defense." But instead of brute force, Duke had played mind games, keeping Fitzgerald and Hophman constantly on edge, waiting for his inevitable strike.

That psychological pressure alone had weakened them by 20-30%.

Add Tōyama’s relentless aggression and Duke’s surprise drop shot at the end?

This wasn’t just a loss—it was a masterclass.

Noah sighed.

"No amount of strategy can bridge a sheer gap in strength."

At this point, even the most optimistic fan knew—Australia’s chances of a comeback were slim to none.

Gōlgia’s Resolve – The Last Stand

Thud.

A heavy footstep echoed as a lone figure stepped forward.

"Gōlgia?!"

The Australian team turned, stunned by the fierce aura radiating from their most volatile player.

Despite two devastating losses, his fighting spirit hadn’t dimmed at all.

Fitzgerald opened his mouth, wanting to say, "It’s over."

But the words died in his throat.

As captain, he couldn’t surrender—not when one of his own still stood ready to fight.

"We’re not done yet."

Gōlgia’s voice was calm but firm. He turned to a dazed blonde player.

"Crawford. Warm up. Now."

"R-right!"

Amun Crawford snapped to attention, grabbing his racket and rushing off.

The rest of the team watched Gōlgia in awe.

This wasn’t the same arrogant hothead who mocked his teammates.

This was a leader—one who refused to let them fall without a fight.

Atobe’s Debut – A King’s Challenge

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A rhythmic bounce of a tennis ball drew all eyes to Japan’s side.

A tall, regal figure with lavender-gray hair strode forward, his presence commanding silence.

"Next up, Singles 3!"

"Australia’s J.J. Gōlgia (3rd Year) vs. Japan’s Atobe Keigo (3rd Year)!"

Gōlgia’s eyes narrowed.

"Him?"

He’d expected a high schooler. Instead, he faced the middle schooler who’d tied Noah in chess.

Atobe, meanwhile, remained composed.

This was his World Cup singles debut—no safety net, no senior to rely on.

Just his skills against one of Australia’s best.

The Match Begins – A Battle of Wits

"Game set, one match! Japan’s Atobe to serve!"

Thwack!

Atobe’s first serve was flawless—a laser-guided missile that kissed the intersection of the sideline and service box.

"What a serve!"

Even Australia’s players gaped.

"Textbook precision… and that speed?!"

Gōlgia, however, was already moving.

"Not bad." He returned it cleanly. "But show me your real power, middle schooler."

Atobe smirked.

Oh, I will.

Mind Games – The Illusionist at Work

The rally intensified.

Atobe’s shots were calculated, each one forcing Gōlgia into awkward positions.

15-0!

A razor-sharp crosscourt winner.

30-0!

A drop shot so delicate it barely grazed the net.

Gōlgia gritted his teeth.

He’d tried playing defensively, but Atobe’s insane court vision picked apart every weakness.

"Enough."

Gōlgia’s eyes burned.

If defense failed?

He’d attack.

Atobe’s Masterstroke – The Zero Bounce

Whoosh!

Atobe arched back, racket poised like a executioner’s blade.

Gōlgia braced, ready to crush the return—

Tap.

The ball landed…

And didn’t bounce.

It skidded, rolling harmlessly along the baseline as Gōlgia swung at empty air.

"GAME, JAPAN! 1-0!"

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

Gōlgia could only stare at the ball, his mind struggling to process what just happened.

"How…?"

Chapter 437: Ruthless – The Emperor’s Terrifying Aura

"Game!"

"Japan leads, 1-0! Change sides!"

The referee’s call finally broke the stunned silence gripping the court.

"W-what kind of serve was that?!"

Mark and Miluke, Australia’s serving specialists, gaped in disbelief. Even they were floored by Atobe’s flawless technique.

"That was undeniably world-class," Fitzgerald muttered, his expression grim.

Precision. Speed. Technique. And now, an unstoppable serve. If not for his age, no one would believe Atobe was just a middle schooler.

"He’s already at elite level," Hopman said, his dark face tense. "Japan’s middle schoolers… how are there so many monsters among them?"

The rest of the Australian team wore equally grave expressions.

Three matches in, and Japan had fielded three middle schoolers—each playing pivotal roles. Any one of them could easily be a core player in a mid-tier national team.

"This year’s Japanese squad… is terrifying."

Their eyes then flicked to the baseline, where a brooding figure stood with a stormy glare.

J.J. Garcia.

One of Australia’s strongest singles players—yet also its biggest wildcard. Known for his defiance, Garcia had clashed with teammates (even Fitzgerald) without hesitation.

But since yesterday, something had changed.

He’d trained relentlessly. Taken responsibility. Acted like a true representative.

"What’s going on in that head of yours?" Fitzgerald frowned.

As one of the few who knew Garcia’s full story, this sudden shift baffled him. If anything, self-sabotage or outright forfeiting would align more with Garcia’s grudge against their federation.

"Is this pride? Or something else?"

—Whoosh!

Garcia’s serve cut through the air like a bullet.

"Atobe Keigo." His eyes locked onto his opponent. "Let me show you the might of Australian tennis."

—Boom!

The ball rocketed across the net.

Atobe reacted instantly, but the moment his racket connected, his grip nearly buckled under the sheer force.

"This power—?!"

His wrist twisted subtly, redirecting the ball with controlled finesse.

But Garcia was already charging forward like a predator—relentless, brutal.

—Bam!

Another savage strike.

Atobe barely managed a return before Garcia closed in again, his aggression unyielding.

"H-he’s overwhelming Atobe-sama?!"

The Ice Prince’s supporters paled. This was the first time they’d seen him cornered so early.

"That high schooler’s offense is insane!"

"He’s exploiting every ounce of speed, power, and explosiveness to dominate the tempo."

"Well, he is a starter for the world’s #18 team…"

Meanwhile, Australia’s bench erupted.

"That’s Garcia for you! Unstoppable!"

"Keep this momentum! Crush him in one go!!"

The crowd’s roars crescendoed, the pressure crashing onto Atobe like a tidal wave.

Yet his face remained eerily calm—no frustration, no panic. Just icy composure.

"He’s too composed," Noah noted, blind eyes narrowing. Even from the stands, he sensed it—Atobe wasn’t truly cornered.

—Ping!

A crisp shot rang out.

Noah stiffened.

He hadn’t heard Garcia’s return.

"0-15!"

The umpire’s call made Noah’s breath hitch.

"Brother… missed it?!"

"W-what just happened?!"

Australia’s players stared at the fresh ball mark beside Garcia’s feet.

"I… couldn’t move?"

Garcia himself was stunned. He’d seen the ball—yet his body refused to react.

"Did he… find my blind spot?"

A chill ran down his spine. He’d known Atobe’s insight was sharp, but this precise?

"Enough holding back."

Garcia’s aura sharpened, his resolve solidifying.

"He’s serious now," Fitzgerald murmured.

—Bam!

Garcia’s next serve was a declaration of war. He stormed the net, his presence feral—a rabid beast unleashed.

—Crack!

Atobe struck back, his shot threading through Garcia’s defenses like a scalpel. Ice pillars materialized mid-air—

—Shatter!

But Garcia broke them with sheer will.

"I have no blind spots!"

His glare was a challenge, a demand for submission. His next shot aimed straight at Atobe’s body—a brutal, no-mercy strike.

"Look out!!"

Japan’s players tensed. The ball’s velocity alone spelled danger.

This was Garcia’s style: break opponents physically and mentally. No fancy tricks—just raw, dominating force.

He could already picture Atobe flinching, his spirit crumbling—

—Thud.

The ball landed neatly between Garcia’s feet.

Again.

"Wha—?!"

His body locked up. Not just hesitation—his very nerves refused to obey.

A searing gaze pinned him in place.

Atobe’s eyes—piercing, all-seeing—peeled him apart layer by layer.

"Guh…"

For the first time, Garcia swallowed hard.

"N-no!" He clenched his teeth. "I won’t be intimidated by some middle schooler! Not even Volk could shake me!"

—Bam!

Third serve.

Third freeze.

"0-40!"

"H-huh?!"

"Is Garcia-san… under some kind of spell?!"

Australia’s team was baffled. Even Fitzgerald couldn’t decipher what was happening.

"Absolute… blind spot?" Noah whispered, horrified.

This surpassed his worst expectations.

An inescapable weakness. Even pros, once exposed, fell irreversibly.

"No wonder Germany’s Siegfried stood no chance…"

His fists tightened as he turned toward his brother—now drowning in dread.

—Game after game, the slaughter continued.

"Game! Japan leads, 2-0!"

"Game! Japan, 3-0! Change sides!"

"Game! Japan, 4-0!"

"Game! Japan, 5-0! Change sides!"

Five straight games. Garcia—Australia’s fiercest warrior—was reduced to a panting, stumbling wreck.

"…Am I losing?"

As they switched sides, Garcia’s mind drifted.

Maybe this is for the best.

The Australian academy had discarded Noah after his blindness. This loss would humiliate them—a fitting revenge.

But another voice screamed inside him.

No.

He’d vowed to carry Noah’s dream. To conquer the world for him.

Surrender meant betraying everything—his brother, his pride, the decade of sweat he’d poured into tennis.

"I… won’t fall here!"

—Whoosh!

Garcia’s aura ignited, surpassing its previous limits.

His racket rose, pointing squarely at Atobe—a silent challenge.

"Oh?" Atobe’s lips curled. "So the peasant finally dares raise his head before the emperor?"

His tone was languid, utterly unfazed.

"This guy’s arrogance is unreal!"

Australia’s bench bristled. Garcia had just broken through—how could Atobe act so dismissive?

—Hummm!

Golden light erupted around Atobe, his presence swelling into an oppressive, regal force.

"T-this is… his true power?!"

Fitzgerald’s voice cracked.

The Emperor had finally unveiled his throne.

Chapter 438: The Finale – Atobe’s Script

"Golden Aura?"

The Australian team stiffened as they sensed the overwhelming pressure radiating from Atobe. Instinctively, their hearts raced.

"Tch—"

Mark McGregor and Miruku Milman, both middle schoolers, sucked in sharp breaths.

This was unreal.

How could someone their age exude such dominance? Even mastering just one aspect of tennis—serves, footwork, or technique—required inhuman effort and relentless training.

Yet here was Atobe Keigo of Team Japan, displaying flawless, all-around prowess—speed, power, technique—everything was perfected.

And this still wasn’t his full strength? Only now was he getting serious?

"Hmph."

On the court, Gōlgiā narrowed his eyes.

A suffocating weight pressed on his chest, an unfamiliar frustration creeping in. As a top-tier high school player, he had never felt this helpless in a match.

"Bring it on."

Taking a deep breath, Gōlgiā tossed the ball high and smashed it across the net.

"Even if it costs me everything... I won’t lose this!"

With his resolve steeled, Gōlgiā abandoned all defense, throwing himself entirely into offense.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Three consecutive strikes—each fiercer than the last. His gaze sharpened, burning with raw determination.

BOOM!

Suddenly, the ball kicked up a thick cloud of dust upon landing, engulfing Atobe.

Swish!

Through the haze, a pale-yellow streak shot past.

Atobe remained calm. His eyes locked onto the trajectory, his racket already swinging for a counter—

—But then, something shifted.

Behind the ball, Gōlgiā’s figure materialized, his piercing stare radiating an almost physical hunger for victory.

"His mental energy... evolved?"

Atobe’s grip tightened.

After facing countless elites, he knew—once a player’s mental fortitude crossed a certain threshold, their game transformed entirely.

The same technique, pre- and post-breakthrough, were worlds apart.

Yet Atobe didn’t panic. He adjusted mid-swing, following through—

—Only for the ball to swerve unnaturally, dodging his racket.

"What—?"

Before he could react, another figure flickered into view.

Atobe’s eyes widened.

"Him?!"

Amid the swirling dust, beside Gōlgiā’s aggressive silhouette, stood a blue-haired boy in an Australian team jacket.

The same boy Atobe had met yesterday—playing chess alone by the shore.

THUD!

The ball blasted past Atobe, landing cleanly at the baseline.

"15–0!"

The crowd erupted.

"He scored!!"

"Finally—Gōlgiā’s counterattack begins!"

"Keep this momentum! End it here!"

Cheers roared through the stadium as Atobe’s gaze fixed on Gōlgiā.

"An illusion?"

Had he imagined that boy?

"No."

Atobe’s eyes snapped open.

There, behind Gōlgiā, the blue-haired youth reappeared—Noah J. Gōlgiā.

That analytical, all-seeing gaze… Atobe recognized it instantly.

"So…"

A realization struck him.

This was Gōlgiā’s breakthrough—carrying his brother’s dreams, his team’s pride, forging a new path by merging their styles.

Gōlgiā’s aura had deepened, his once-fierce eyes now shrouded in an unfathomable haze.

CRACK!

Another serve.

This one was sharper, more deceptive—far harder to read than before.

"This serve…"

Fitzgerald, Australia’s captain, froze. Even as a doubles specialist, his singles insight was elite. And this serve… felt familiar.

"No doubt about it." Mark McGregor muttered, awed. "That’s Noah’s serve—the sharp angles, the spin, the mind games."

He and Noah had been rising stars together. But Mark knew—next to Noah’s genius, his own talent paled.

Noah had been Australia’s brightest hope, hailed as the future leader who’d carry them into the world’s top eight—maybe even the Big Four.

Until tragedy struck.

Noah, the master tactician with flawless court vision… lost his sight.

Overnight, his future vanished.

Expelled from the academy, Noah’s absence left a void in Australian tennis.

"Noah… the legend?"

Milman, only a second-year, had never seen Noah in his prime.

"Yeah." Mark nodded grimly. "That’s his tennis. Gōlgiā’s inherited his brother’s dream."

"They can win this." Fitzgerald clenched his fist. "With both of them combined, they’ll break through."

Atobe might’ve outclassed Gōlgiā alone.

But now? This was a different match.

Gōlgiā was no longer fighting solo. With Noah’s insight merged into his play, Atobe’s ability to target weaknesses was neutralized.

BAM!

Another point—Gōlgiā exploited a blind spot, firing a ruthless cross-court winner.

"What a shot!"

Duke’s eyes widened. "Brilliant timing, technique—everything!"

Even Byōdōin gave a nod of approval.

Gōlgiā’s bold, precision strikes had Atobe scrambling.

"30–0!"

The scoreboard ticked in Australia’s favor.

For the first time, Gōlgiā allowed himself a smirk. He was regaining his rhythm, his confidence surging.

BAM!

"40–0!"

BAM!

"Game! Australia leads 1–5!"

Gōlgiā roared, pumping his fist. In the stands, Noah mirrored the gesture, his chest swelling with pride.

Just as Gōlgiā channeled Noah’s tennis, Noah felt his brother’s spirit—raw, relentless, unyielding.

And with that unity, Gōlgiā turned the tide.

Next game, he shattered Atobe’s "Tannhäuser Serve", then unleashed Noah’s signature "Raging Hound" style to claim another point.

BAM!

"Game! 2–5! Change sides!"

The gap closed. Gōlgiā screamed, unleashing all his pent-up fury.

"AUSTRALIA! AUSTRALIA! AUSTRALIA!"

The crowd’s chants surged like tidal waves, threatening to drown Atobe under their weight.

Spectators studied the Japanese prodigy. Gōlgiā had broken through under pressure—could Atobe do the same?

Most doubted it.

To them, this was Gōlgiā’s match now. With his unpredictable, aggressive play, Atobe’s defeat seemed inevitable.

—Then Atobe snapped his fingers.

Click.

The stadium fell silent.

Every eye locked onto him.

"The one who’ll win…"

Atobe smirked.

"—Is me."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Gōlgiā’s brow twitched. "This guy… does he ever stop being arrogant?"

BAM!

He fired another serve—blending raw power with Noah’s trickery. The ball split mid-trajectory, offering two possible paths.

Left? Or right?

A 50% guess.

But hesitation meant certain failure.

This was Noah’s "Unknown"—a technique exploiting human doubt.

SWISH!

Yet Atobe swung without hesitation.

BAM!

The ball rocketed back.

"He predicted it?!" Fitzgerald tensed.

"Tch." Mark scoffed. "Luck. No one reads 'Unknown' perfectly. He’ll slip up."

Probability said Atobe couldn’t keep this up.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

But he did.

Every. Single. Time.

"No way…" Milman gaped.

"Not luck." Mark’s voice turned grave. "He’s decoding Gōlgiā’s patterns."

Fitzgerald’s face darkened. "He’s seeing through everything."

On court, Gōlgiā’s confidence wavered.

Noah’s "Unknown"—his brother’s ultimate technique—had been cracked in just two games.

"Even if you read my shots…" Gōlgiā growled, serving again, "you can’t predict me!"

"Oh?" Atobe’s grin widened.

THUD.

Gōlgiā’s return plopped into the net.

"Fault. 0–15."

"A… mistake?" The Australians exchanged glances.

Gōlgiā frowned. Why had he messed up such a simple shot?

"Surprised?" Atobe tilted his head. "You were so focused, you didn’t even notice your own condition."

Gōlgiā’s breath hitched.

Looking down, his clothes were drenched. Sweat pooled at his feet, his limbs trembling from exhaustion.

THUD.

His knees buckled—only his racket kept him from collapsing.

"W-why?!"

Atobe’s voice was ice.

"That golden aura."

Noah, watching from the stands, paled.

Gōlgiā had broken through. But in his fervor, he’d missed the trap—Atobe’s "Imperial Presence" had been draining him all along.

"So…" Noah whispered, "the match was decided ten minutes ago."

A bitter smile touched his lips.

The master strategist… outmaneuvered at his own game.

"You win."

Yesterday’s unfinished match had reached its conclusion.

Chapter 439: Three Consecutive Wins, Facing the World No. 2

Bam!

Thud!

Bam!

Thud!

On the court, two figures clashed in an intense duel.

Garcia’s movements were erratic, but his sheer willpower kept him in the game. Despite the grueling rally, he stubbornly matched his opponent’s rhythm.

"I won’t lose. I absolutely won’t lose!"

Garcia steeled himself.

At this stage, technique and strength no longer decided the match—only mental fortitude could tip the scales.

And unfortunately for him, his opponent was a master in that regard. The boy’s endurance and mental resilience were inhuman, and the match was unfolding entirely on his terms.

Garcia knew his body wouldn’t hold out much longer. He’d likely be worn down before the end.

But he refused to surrender. He gritted his teeth, determined to fight until the very last moment.

Snap!

Then, without warning, Atobe switched tactics—a flawless drop shot.

"Damn it!"

Garcia’s expression tightened. Sensing danger, he lunged forward.

"A drop shot?!"

"Garcia reacted! His speed is insane—how is he still moving like that?!"

"He made it! That’s our Garcia!"

The Australian team gasped, stunned by the sudden turn of events.

Fortunately, Garcia’s reflexes were sharp enough.

"His willpower is terrifying in this state!" Fitzgerald murmured, deeply moved.

It was hard to believe someone like Garcia could push himself this far for the sake of his team.

When two tigers fight, the brave one wins.

Garcia, willing to risk everything to lead Australia into the Top 16, had already proven himself as a true leader.

Swish!

But then—

Atobe leaped into the air, already poised for a smash. He had anticipated Garcia’s response.

"You bastard…"

Garcia glared up, bracing himself. "No matter where you aim, I’ll return it!"

His resolve was unshakable, a fortress guarding Australia’s last hope. His ironclad willpower was awe-inspiring.

Bam!

But the next instant—

Atobe’s smash struck Garcia’s racket handle with pinpoint precision.

Crack!

Before Garcia could react, the impact sent his racket flying.

Swish!

Then, as the crowd watched in shock, Atobe jumped again, smirking as he raised his racket high.

"Behold—the pinnacle of my artistry!"

Boom!

The ball rocketed down, landing squarely between Garcia’s legs before skidding across the court.

"Game, set, and match!"

"Japan’s representative, Atobe Keigo, wins with a score of 6–2!"

For a moment, silence.

Then—explosive cheers erupted from the Japanese supporters.

"H-how…?"

Outside the court, Amon Crawford—who had been warming up as instructed—stood frozen, having just witnessed Atobe’s final strike.

He’s too strong.

Garcia, one of Australia’s top players, had lost. And with this defeat, Australia’s chances of advancing were crushed.

"This concludes the Group B match between Australia and Japan!"

"Japan wins 3–0!"

"It’s over…"

Noah sighed from the stands.

Garcia had fought valiantly, but the outcome was inevitable. It wasn’t that his brother was weak—his opponent was simply too strong.

"Atobe Keigo…"

Noah’s face darkened with wariness.

From what he knew, Atobe was only fifth in Japan’s current lineup. Behind him were monsters like Shiraishi and Yanagi.

In terms of middle school talent, this year’s Japanese team was in a league of their own.

"And even among their top players…"

Names flashed through Noah’s mind: Ishikawa, Byoudouin, Oni. He’d never seen them play, but his instincts told him they wouldn’t lose to anyone.

"No doubt about it."

"This year’s World Cup is going to be historic. And if I remember correctly…"

"Tomorrow morning, Japan faces Switzerland. That guy will definitely play, right?"

If Japan topped their group, the shockwaves would rival their 3–0 victory over Germany in the exhibition match.

Meanwhile, in a hotel in Melbourne…

In a private training room, a shirtless, muscular young man with dark skin narrowed his eyes as he watched the match replay.

"Just as predicted… This dark horse is too strong."

"Indeed."

Behind him, an elderly man in a coarse vest nodded. "They are the biggest wildcard in this year’s World Cup."

"Well, Alexander?" The old man glanced at him. "Are you sure you want to take that step?"

"Absolutely."

The young man’s voice was firm.

The two were none other than Alexander Amadeus, captain of Switzerland (ranked No. 2 in the world), and their head coach, Jean Onigashira.

After witnessing Germany’s crushing defeat in the exhibition match, Amadeus had felt an urgent pressure.

Ishikawa’s overwhelming victory over Q·P had shaken him to the core.

Coach Onigashira, sensing the shift, decided to pass on a secret technique he’d mastered in his youth. Now, only the final—and most dangerous—step remained.

"I’ll ask one last time."

Onigashira’s aged eyes sharpened. "If your consciousness gets lost in the mental abyss, the damage will be irreversible."

"So…"

"Amadeus, do you still accept?"

His usual gentleness was gone, replaced by an intimidating aura.

"I do."

Amadeus remained calm.

If he faced that boy tomorrow without a trump card, his chances of winning were slim.

For his team’s victory—and for his own tennis—he had to master this ancient technique.

Elsewhere, in the Spanish team’s hotel…

A masked boy watched the match replay with a grim expression.

"Another 3–0 victory."

He turned to his bespectacled companion. "Kuroda, you said Japan has four or five players as strong as Atobe?"

"Yes." Kuroda nodded. "Thanks to him, Japan’s middle schoolers are on another level."

"Him?"

The boy—Ceda—pictured Ishikawa’s face. Then, curiosity flickered in his eyes.

"What about you? Have you faced him?"

"…Yes."

Kuroda’s body stiffened for a split second before he regained composure. But Ceda, with his keen perception, didn’t miss it.

"I see."

Ceda nodded slowly.

The arrogant, overconfident version of himself from days ago was gone. One look from Ishikawa had humbled him.

At first, Ceda had wanted revenge.

But after seeing the footage of Ishikawa vs. Q·P, he abandoned the idea.

That guy was on another level.

Even now, the mere thought of facing him made Ceda’s hands tremble.

But there was a more pressing issue—Spain’s team now had four elite middle schoolers, including Kuroda.

So Ceda struck a deal with Kuroda, targeting a certain vulnerable player.

"Though… if Marcal’s sister finds out, I’m done for."

He turned back to Kuroda.

"You’re sure Ryoga’s injury will keep him out?"

"Without a doubt."

Kuroda’s tone was flat.

His goal was simple: let Ceda—a mental warfare specialist—disrupt Spain’s team dynamics. Ideally, a few players would be sidelined, opening a spot for him.

But Kuroda hadn’t expected Ceda to aim so high—targeting Ryoga, the boy with otherworldly skills who had once fought Ishikawa to a standstill.

"Spain’s U17 team is going to be… interesting."

Kuroda smirked inwardly.

Later that day…

Australia suffered another 3–0 loss, this time to Switzerland. Their morale shattered, and Group B’s advancing teams were confirmed: Japan and Switzerland.

Now, the question was—who would take first place?

Most still favored Switzerland.

After all, the Big 4’s reputation was formidable, their rankings leagues above the rest.

But some believed in Japan.

Their ace—the captain who had crushed Q·P—was yet to play.

The Next Morning, 8:00 AM…

The final day of group matches had arrived.

For many teams, the pressure was gone—their advancement already secured.

But not for Japan and Switzerland.

As the two teams entered the court from opposite sides, their fans roared:

"SWITZERLAND!"

"JAPAN!"

The cheers, though loud, paled in comparison to yesterday’s overwhelming atmosphere.

Still, Switzerland’s supporters were numerous. As a Big 4 team, their fame dwarfed Japan’s. And with Alexander Amadeus—one of only two active pros in the tournament—leading them, their chants never ceased.

But then—

Amadeus himself stepped forward, locking eyes with Japan’s black-haired representative.

"Ishikawa."

Amadeus spoke first, his deep gaze unwavering. "I heard your team is called… ‘The Demon King’s Army’?"

"That’s right." Ishikawa smiled.

"Let me guess." Amadeus smirked. "Byoudouin’s squad is ‘The Emperor’s,’ and Oni’s is ‘The Oni’s.’ Their names reflect their styles and abilities."

"So…" His eyes gleamed. "Does that mean your power is tied to this ‘Demon King’ title?"

What did "Demon King" truly signify?

That was what Amadeus wanted to know.

"Nothing so dramatic."

Ishikawa chuckled. "It’s just a nickname. But if I had to explain…"

He tilted his head slightly.

"It probably comes from the fact that I defeated every single one of them."

Silence.

Amadeus’s pupils contracted.

"Every… single one?"

His gaze flicked to the sidelines—to the blond man with the white headband.

"Byoudouin… You actually lost to him?"

For the first time in years, Amadeus felt something rare:

Doubt.

Chapter 440: Dominance from the Start – The Aces’ Supreme Coordination

Even as he stepped into his team’s rest area, Amadeus couldn’t shake Ishikawa’s words from his mind.

"As expected…"

"He’s already invincible within the Japanese team."

"Even Byoudouin lost to him. And after that match against QP… It’s hard to believe he’s only twelve."

Lifting his head, the Swiss captain—a professional player—stared at Ishikawa with undisguised wariness.

"Relax, relax."

A blond figure sauntered to the court’s edge, grinning. "Peter-senpai, let’s give our captain some peace of mind by securing the first win, yeah?"

"Don’t push it, Henri."

A bespectacled, brown-haired teen stepped forward, adjusting his glasses with a wry smile. "If Alexander hears you, I’m not taking the heat for it."

Peter "The Virtuoso" Randpic.

17 years old.

A top-tier player in Switzerland’s U-17.

Renowned for his flawless technique, he carried himself with effortless confidence—so much so that it practically oozed from his pores.

His partner, Henri Nobel III, was a 14-year-old prodigy dubbed "The Aristocratic Genius", Switzerland’s strongest middle schooler.

Together, Randpic and Henri were hailed as the Swiss team’s ultimate doubles pair.

"I didn’t expect Switzerland to field these two for doubles."

On the sidelines, Japan’s strategist Mitsuya frowned. "Their coordination is so refined, they’ve even broken through the [Synchro] of the Umino brothers."

A ripple of unease spread through the Japanese team.

If true, the only hope for Japan would be to send in Byoudouin or Tokugawa—maybe even both.

"Now, commencing the Doubles 2 match."

The announcer’s voice boomed:

"Representing Switzerland: Peter Randpic (3rd year high school) & Henri Nobel III (3rd year middle school)."

"Representing Japan: Tachibana Kippei & Chitose Senri."

"Players, prepare."

"…What?"

Mitsuya’s head snapped up, certain he’d misheard. He turned to Ishikawa, stunned. "Captain, this—"

"It’s fine."

To his shock, Ishikawa simply smiled. "Tachibana and Chitose are more than capable of handling this."

Mitsuya gaped.

Had anyone else said that, he’d have dismissed it as delusional.

But this was Ishikawa.

Against all logic, Mitsuya’s instincts told him to trust the statement. Then he remembered—ever since the team assignments were finalized, Tachibana and Chitose had been training in isolation.

Under Ishikawa’s personal guidance.

"So… in just a few days, they’ve improved that much?"

The rest of the team had the same thought, their gazes shifting to the two middle schoolers. Their auras were sharper, more refined—exuding a quiet, commanding presence.

"Interesting."

Tokugawa gave a slight nod.

After his grueling match against Germany’s pro-level Becker, his understanding of the World Cup had deepened. Now, he was intensely curious—what was Ishikawa’s plan here?

"Middle schoolers?"

On the Swiss side, Henri—a strikingly handsome teen with three beauty marks beneath his left eye—arched a brow.

"What?" Randpic smirked. "You get to play as a middle schooler, but others can’t?"

"…Fair."

Henri chuckled.

Opponents didn’t matter. His goal was unchanged: secure this win for Switzerland.

With that, the four players met at the net. No small talk—just a curt nod before the umpire flipped the coin.

"Yes!"

Henri grinned as they won the serve.

"Nice."

Randpic adjusted his glasses, his calm demeanor belying his razor-sharp focus.

Yet both Tachibana and Chitose could feel the dismissive air radiating from their opponents.

Neither reacted.

"Cool as ice, huh?"

Henri bounced the ball at the baseline, studying their formation. "No wonder the captain said Japan’s middle schoolers aren’t to be underestimated."

"Game set, one-match decider."

The umpire’s voice rang out:

"Switzerland’s Nobel III to serve. First game!"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Henri leisurely dribbled the ball, then smirked.

"Let’s see just how ‘unpredictable’ you really are."

Boom!

A textbook-perfect serve streaked across the court, landing sharply at Tachibana’s forehand service line.

"Solid serve."

Tachibana’s eyes tracked every rotation. The speed alone could catch lesser players off-guard.

Swish!

His racket flashed down the instant the ball landed—

"Idiot!"

A Swiss player sneered. "If he thinks Henri’s serve is just about speed, he’s in for a rude awakening."

Henri’s serves hid vicious spin variations—comparable to Greece’s Heracles’ [Innocent Tail], a technique that preyed on hesitation.

But then—

Crack!

Tachibana’s swing accelerated mid-motion, intercepting the ball the moment it rebounded—before the spin could fully manifest.

"That reaction speed?!"

Randpic’s eyes narrowed.

From his position at the net, he saw it clearly—no fancy footwork, just pure, unadulterated speed.

Henri’s serve, designed to exploit split-second delays in judgment, had been brute-forced into submission.

Thud!

Henri barely managed a return, his face tightening.

"How?!"

He’d layered the spin meticulously, ensuring the ball would warp unpredictably after the bounce. Yet Tachibana’s savage return had crushed all rotational energy.

Gritting his teeth, Henri angled his racket for a delicate drop shot—

Whoosh!

But Tachibana was already charging the net, a lion closing in on prey.

Bam!

A laser-lined drive shot rocketed past Randpic.

"0–15!"

"…He outplayed Peter at the net?!"

The Swiss team stiffened.

Randpic, their net-play specialist, had just been dominated in a straight-up volley duel.

"Is this guy really a middle schooler?"

Even Randpic couldn’t help the thought.

Tachibana’s aggression, his raw power—the vibrations still tingled in his palms.