411-415

Chapter 411: The King of Two Consecutive Defeats – Ishikawa vs. Q·P  

"Ugh!"  

The referee on the high chair twitched his eyelids repeatedly as he stared at the shattered court. But in the end, he announced the score: "40-0!"  

Silence.  

The entire stadium remained eerily quiet. The German team, in particular, looked as if they had seen a ghost, their eyes fixed on the red-haired boy who was now gasping for breath after returning the ball.  

Had he really just interfered in a professional-level match?  

And that destructive power—was that something a middle schooler could actually achieve?  

"Hah… hah…"  

On the court, Tōyama’s chest heaved violently. His grip on the racket trembled uncontrollably from sheer excitement.  

Yet, despite his exhaustion, his face was alight with exhilaration—the thrill of attempting something he had once thought impossible.  

"H-How…?!"  

On the opposite side, Becker—a player with genuine professional-level skill—couldn’t hide his shock. His eyes widened in disbelief.  

That had been his finishing move. How could a middle schooler return it?  

"No!"  

"This can’t be real!"  

"It’s impossible!"  

His emotions spiraled out of control, stripping away the composed demeanor expected of a professional player.  

"It’s over."  

From the German team’s side, strategist Q·P shook his head slightly. "I didn’t expect him to master the Hypergravity Tennis Dimension."  

Bismarck, too, was stunned. But beneath his surprise, a complicated mix of envy stirred within him.  

Hypergravity Tennis Dimension.  

Mastering this path didn’t just guarantee a player’s entry into the professional league—it could elevate them to the absolute top tier.  

This was one of the very paths Bismarck had desperately sought but failed to grasp.  

"That kid is impressive," Volk admitted with a nod. "But let’s not forget—that last [Dark Strike] from the high schooler, Tanegashima, significantly weakened Becker’s technique. Otherwise, the middle schooler wouldn’t have been able to return it."  

In short, it was a combination of factors—Tanegashima’s ability and Tōyama’s perfect timing—that allowed them to defeat an overconfident Becker.  

And this match proved one thing: Even professionals aren’t invincible.  

Thud. Thud. Thud.  

On the court, Tōyama bounced the ball rhythmically. Having returned a pro’s ultimate shot, he was brimming with excitement.  

Whoosh!  

He tossed the ball high into the air, leaped up, and swung his racket with a mighty roar:  

"SUPER MEGA FANTASY VOLCANIC ERUPTION BALL!!!"  

BOOM!  

The ball shot down like a meteor, crashing toward the opponent’s side with terrifying force.  

"It’s over!"  

The German middle schoolers shuddered at the sheer power of the serve. They knew Klaus—already mentally shaken—stood no chance of returning it. Even a player with normal mental fortitude would struggle, let alone someone with the emotional maturity of a five-year-old.  

Klaus’s face twisted with panic and confusion. A strange, overwhelming impulse surged within him, as if a sinister whisper echoed in his ears.  

His expression flickered between fear and fury, his eyes gradually bloodshot.  

"RAAAAH!"  

Finally, that inner voice overpowered his fear. To everyone’s shock, he charged forward and swung his racket with reckless abandon.  

"Klaus, NO!"  

"Stop! You’ll destroy your arm!"  

The German team’s warnings came too late.  

CRACK!  

A deafening explosion tore through the air as the ball rocketed back like a cannon shot, landing squarely in Tōyama’s backhand zone before he could even land.  

"Out!"  

"Game, set, match!"  

"Japan’s Tanegashima Shūji and Tōyama Kintarō win, 6-4!"  

"Hah…"  

As the referee’s call echoed, Tōyama broke into a cold sweat. He hadn’t expected Klaus to return that serve.  

Swish!  

His gaze snapped up, locking onto Klaus’s eyes.  

"Huh?"  

A chill ran down his spine.  

"His eyes… they’re terrifying!"  

The childish fear and naivety from before were gone. Instead, Klaus’s gaze was sharp—unnervingly so.  

It was like facing a completely different person.  

"You’re strong, Tōyama Kintarō," Klaus said, his voice no longer muffled but clear and firm. "But next time, I won’t lose to you."  

With that, he turned and walked away without even glancing at Becker.  

The German team exchanged bewildered looks.  

But Volk, their captain, smiled faintly. "The shadow from his childhood trauma… has finally been broken."  

"Indeed."  

Even the usually frosty Q·P allowed a slight smile.  

Yes, Germany had lost this match.  

But in a way, they had gained more than they lost. They had tested Japan’s strength and resolved Klaus’s lingering weakness.  

Besides, this was just a warm-up.  

Neither Volk nor Q·P cared about superficial victories.  

But not everyone shared their perspective.  

Most of the German team—and representatives from other countries—were stunned by the results.  

"The nine-time World Cup champions… lost twice in a row?"  

"Is Japan really that strong?"  

"At this rate, they might be the biggest dark horse of this year’s tournament!"  

Whispers spread through the stands as rival teams eyed Japan with newfound wariness. After all, this wasn’t just any team Germany had lost to—it was Japan, a squad that had never been considered a top contender.  

"Hey…"  

South Africa’s Noaferi muttered, "What if Germany loses three warm-up matches in a row?"  

Captain Golpei blinked. His instinct was to dismiss the idea—this was Germany, after all. A three-match losing streak was unthinkable.  

But the images from the first two matches replayed in his mind.  

Maybe the reigning champions weren’t as invincible as they seemed.  

"Wait!"  

Golpei’s eyes suddenly widened as he spotted movement from the German team’s side. "Don’t tell me… he’s playing next?"  

The others followed his gaze.  

A tall, composed figure stepped forward—none other than Germany’s strategist and second-in-command, Q·P.  

His sharp eyes scanned the Japanese team before locking onto a black-haired boy in their midst.  

The two exchanged a brief, knowing smile.  

Then, the stadium speakers crackled to life:  

"The third warm-up match will now begin."  

"Germany’s representatives: Q·P (11th grade) and A. Frankensteiner (9th grade)."  

"Japan’s representatives: Tōno Atsukyo (12th grade) and Ishikawa Shin (7th grade)."  

"Players, prepare yourselves."  

The announcement reignited the German fans’ spirits.  

"Q·P is playing?!"  

"Well, if Becker played, it makes sense for him to step in too."  

"Still… what a shame."  

Someone sighed. Another fan scoffed, "What, were you expecting Volk to play?"  

"…Good point."  

The first fan reluctantly nodded. Volk, as Germany’s ace, would never appear in a mere warm-up. And Q·P, as their second-strongest, already represented the pinnacle of high school tennis in this tournament.  

To them, Japan’s dream of a three-match winning streak was pure delusion. This was the nine-time World Cup champion Germany. Not even Switzerland, the world’s second-ranked team, could pull off such a feat—let alone Japan.  

At best, they were a dark horse. But breaking into the Big Four? Impossible.  

What they didn’t know was that Germany had originally planned for Volk to play the final match. But Q·P had requested a change—he wanted to face Japan’s strongest player.  

Because to Q·P, the boy who had immobilized Seda—a player who had unlocked the Olympus Aura—with just a glare… was undoubtedly Japan’s true No. 1, surpassing even Tanegashima.  

Facing him would reveal Japan’s real strength.  

Of course, Q·P would have preferred to play Tōyama after that explosive performance. But he was confident that if Germany and Japan clashed again in the tournament, he’d get his chance.  

"Let’s go, Frankensteiner."  

Q·P strode onto the court without another word. Behind him, a sharp-eyed, square-jawed boy followed silently.  

On Japan’s side, Ishikawa turned to his purple-haired, sharp-featured teammate with a smile.  

"Tōno-senpai, it’s our turn."  

Tōno forced a stiff smile under the mixed gazes of his teammates—some teasing, some pitying—and followed reluctantly.  

Noticing his unease, Ishikawa chuckled. "Relax, senpai. Your job is simple: just focus on their middle schooler."  

"Their middle schooler?"  

Tōno’s eyes gleamed with renewed determination.  

"Leave him to me!"  

At the net, the four players faced off.  

But to everyone’s surprise, the matchups were unconventional—each team’s high schooler and middle schooler were paired against the opposite.  

"No way…"  

South Africa’s Noaferi gaped. "Is Q·P seriously targeting their middle schooler?!"  

As a top-tier player, Q·P should have been asserting dominance over the entire court. To focus so intently on a middle schooler was… unexpected.  

"What are you talking about?" Golpei snapped. "That ‘middle schooler’ isn’t just anyone—he’s Japan’s No. 1!"  

"N-No. 1?!"  

Noaferi and the others stared in disbelief. "Captain, you’re joking, right?!"  

"If he’s No. 1, that means he’s even stronger than that Tanegashima guy?!"  

"That’s exactly what it means," Golpei said grimly. "At first, I thought Tanegashima was hiding his strength—that his rank should’ve been higher. But Q·P’s reaction tells me otherwise."  

The team fell silent.  

If Q·P—a player of his caliber—was taking a middle schooler this seriously, then the boy’s status as Japan’s No. 1 wasn’t just for show.  

"But… he’s only twelve!" Noaferi protested.  

At fourteen, he was a decent player in South Africa’s U-17 team. But compared to middle schoolers from powerhouse nations, he was painfully average.  

Yet here was a twelve-year-old, standing on equal footing with a pro-level player like Q·P.  

It defied all logic.  

After a brief exchange, the teams flipped for serve and took their positions.  

The referee checked both sides, then nodded to Germany.  

"First game, Frankensteiner to serve!"  

"Heh."  

The short-haired German middle schooler smirked, his gaze locking onto Tōno.  

"Even though I’m paired with Q·P-senpai, and the outcome doesn’t really depend on me…"  

His eyes sharpened.  

"I won’t just roll over and lose!"  

Whoosh!  

He tossed the ball high, his focus zeroing in on a spot 20 centimeters to Tōno’s backhand side.  

Beep… beep…  

Like a computer calculating trajectories, his racket snapped down—sending the ball precisely where he’d planned.  

Crack!  

A golden streak flashed across the court.  

Tōno froze mid-swing, his racket halting in shock.  

"H-How?!"  

His eyes widened.  

This kid had just targeted his weakness on the very first serve?!  

Chapter 412: The Sanctioned Tohno, Phantom-Like Footwork  

"That Tohno-senpai… couldn’t even react?"  

From the stands, the Japanese middle schoolers stared in shock. This was Tohno Atsukyo, after all—formerly the No. 8 player in their U-17 elite squad.  

Sure, their opponents were Germany.  

But the serve had come from a middle schooler. By all logic, Tohno should’ve been able to return it easily.  

"This kid’s perception is abnormal."  

Tohno’s expression darkened. Taking an early loss grated on his short temper, and all he could think about was paying the brat back.  

But then—  

His gaze flickered toward Ishikawa, who was calmly walking toward the baseline. The moment their eyes met, Tohno’s simmering rage instantly cooled. Under the bewildered stares of the crowd, he lowered his head and obediently moved toward the net.  

"15-0!"  

The umpire’s call snapped the audience out of their daze. Their attention shifted to Frankensteiner, the German middle schooler on the opposite side.  

"Heh."  

The boy smirked, taunting Tohno with a mocking eyebrow raise. "Scared already? Don’t worry—this is just the appetizer. The main course is coming."  

This match was proving his theory right:  

The Japanese high schoolers weren’t all that strong.  

If they were, they wouldn’t have fielded such an unbalanced pair—a skilled middle schooler paired with a mediocre high schooler.  

In fact, Frankensteiner was starting to doubt the intel on Japan’s so-called "12-year-old strongest player."  

A kid who had suppressed monsters like Mouri and Ochi to claim the top spot?  

It made no sense.  

Whoosh.  

Tossing the ball again, Frankensteiner’s eyes scanned Ishikawa like a machine, analyzing every detail.  

"Japan’s No. 1, huh? Let’s see what you’ve got."  

Thwack!  

He aimed for a precise spot—calculated based on Ishikawa’s height, reach, and his own match experience—a placement designed to maximize pressure.  

Boom!  

The ball rocketed toward its target, landing exactly where he predicted.  

"See that?" Frankensteiner’s eyes gleamed with confidence. "That’s the skill of A. Frankensteiner—Germany’s 'Tennis Machine!'"  

But then—  

Ping!  

A blur of yellow light exploded at his feet.  

"Wha—?!"  

His reflexes kicked in—he tried to swing, but—  

"I… can’t move?!"  

His body locked up, frozen in place.  

Only when the ball rolled to a stop beside him did his muscles finally obey again.  

Gulp.  

Swallowing hard, he looked up at the deceptively harmless black-haired boy across the net.  

Fear flashed in his eyes.  

This guy… was on another level.  

Not someone I can afford to provoke.  

Taking a deep breath, Frankensteiner forced himself to refocus, shifting his target to the purple-haired high schooler instead.  

"Good."  

From the sidelines, Bismarck nodded in approval. "He adapts quickly—doesn’t fixate on unbeatable opponents. That’s why he leads Germany’s middle schoolers."  

In terms of raw talent, Frankensteiner and Siegfried were close. But what Germany needed was stability—and Frankensteiner delivered.  

Meanwhile, Q.P. remained silent, signaling his intent to keep testing Japan’s limits.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

At the baseline, Frankensteiner bounced the ball, locking onto Tohno.  

"If I crush their high schooler, this match is mine."  

Boom!  

Another laser-precise serve shot forward.  

"Tch."  

Tohno scoffed, swinging his racket with a sharp backhand. "Same trick won’t work twice!"  

"Returned?" Frankensteiner’s brow twitched, but he didn’t hesitate, charging toward the net.  

Unlike Bismarck and Becker, he wasn’t underestimating Japan. Even as a pawn, he’d prove why he was called the "Tennis Machine."  

Beep! Beep!  

His eyes locked onto Tohno, targeting weaknesses like a video game’s auto-aim.  

"I see your flaws."  

Crack!  

A sniper-shot return streaked toward Tohno’s blind spot.  

The ball landed, and Tohno’s body stiffened—but only for a split second before he forced himself to recover, barely returning the shot.  

"Damn, he’s tough."  

Frankensteiner’s eyes narrowed.  

Tohno’s reflexes, instincts, and judgment were all top-tier. If not for Ishikawa’s presence, anyone would assume Tohno was the ace here.  

Gritting his teeth, Frankensteiner pressed harder, bombarding Tohno with machine-like precision.  

Boom! Boom! Boom!  

Tohno dug deep, but the relentless assault was wearing him down. He knew—if he kept defending, he’d break.  

So he switched tactics.  

Crack!  

His next shot suddenly accelerated, throwing Frankensteiner off rhythm.  

"Hmph. Cheap tricks."  

Though caught off guard, Frankensteiner still reached the ball in time, sending it back—  

Only to feel a chill crawl down his spine.  

Whoosh.  

Tohno’s eyes gleamed with predatory intensity.  

"Time to flip the script… Huh?"  

Just as he coiled to unleash his "Execution" technique—  

Ishikawa turned his head slightly, giving a subtle shake.  

"…Right."  

Exhaling, Tohno aborted the kill-shot, opting for a simple drop volley instead.  

Plop.  

The crowd blinked in confusion.  

They’d all sensed Tohno’s murderous intent—so why had he held back?  

"Interesting."  

Q.P.’s sharp eyes lingered on Ishikawa.  

Tohno was clearly being restrained.  

But why?  

This wasn’t a man who’d shy away from brutal tactics—not on the world stage.  

"15-30!"  

The umpire’s call snapped Q.P. back to reality.  

Boom!  

Ishikawa served again—another effortless point.  

"15-40!"  

Frankensteiner’s jaw tightened. Feeling played, he doubled down, launching a ferocious offensive against Tohno.  

Boom! Boom! Boom!  

His machine-like precision forced Tohno into a desperate retreat, each shot chipping away at his stamina.  

"Something’s off."  

On Japan’s bench, the players exchanged uneasy glances.  

"Tohno’s not fighting like himself," muttered Akutsu.  

"Yeah," added Marui. "He hasn’t used his signature moves at all."  

"Can’t blame him," Mitsuya sighed. "If his best techniques are banned, it’s no surprise he’s struggling."  

"But why?" Kintarou scratched his head. "Why’d Ishikawa tell him not to use those scary shots?"  

"Pride, maybe?" Sanada mused. "Winning through violence isn’t honorable."  

"No."  

Byoudouin cut in sharply. "This is just a warm-up. That brat’s using Germany’s middle schooler to pressure Tohno."  

"Exactly."  

Atobe and Oshitari nodded.  

They’d seen this before—Ishikawa was forcing Tohno to evolve.  

Without his "Executions," Tohno had to adapt, refine his footwork, and sharpen his instincts.  

Boom! Boom!  

On the court, the battle raged on.  

Frankensteiner wasn’t even sweating—his stamina, honed under Germany’s elite training, was inhuman.  

Tohno, meanwhile, was gasping for air, his movements growing sluggish.  

"Heh."  

Frankensteiner smirked, lining up his finishing blow.  

"This point is mine!"  

At this rate, he’d lose the game once Ishikawa served again—but in his one-on-one against Tohno, he’d won.  

"Dammit!"  

Tohno’s teeth clenched as the ball whizzed toward his weak spot.  

If this kept up, he’d lose.  

"If only I could use my Executions…!"  

Before the match, Ishikawa had forbidden him from using his violent techniques.  

But now—  

"Tohno-senpai."  

Ishikawa’s voice echoed in his mind.  

"What’s left of your tennis… if you take the Executions away?"  

"Is this really your limit?"  

Whoosh.  

Tohno’s eyes sharpened.  

"No."  

"My tennis isn’t this weak!"  

Flash!  

His body blurred, moving with phantom-like speed.  

"Wha—?!"  

Frankensteiner’s eyes bulged.  

Tohno reappeared at the ball’s landing point, striking it with perfect precision.  

Bang!  

The ball ricocheted past Frankensteiner, who stood frozen in shock.  

"GAME! Japan leads 1-0! Change ends!"  

"W-What was that?!"  

Frankensteiner trembled.  

"That speed… It wasn’t human. It was like… a ghost!"  

Chapter 413: QP Steps In—The True Duel Begins  

"Frankensteiner couldn’t keep up with his opponent’s movements?"  

"That was too fast! His movements were like a ghost—I couldn’t even track them!"  

"This guy… Did he just evolve under Frankensteiner’s pressure?!"  

Outside the court, the German team’s representatives wore expressions of disbelief. None of them had expected this Japanese high schooler to achieve a breakthrough mid-match.  

"Damn it!"  

On the other side, Frankensteiner’s face darkened. He had been certain of victory, never anticipating his opponent could unleash such speed.  

"No… It’s not just speed."  

Frankensteiner quickly realized—the angle and trajectory of that last shot had been sharp and unpredictable. Clearly, his opponent’s technique had leveled up as well.  

Frustration burned inside him. The urge to reclaim dominance grew stronger.  

Soon, the players switched sides. With the serve now in his hands, Tohno stood at the baseline, lightly bouncing the ball. His delicate features twisted into a sly smirk.  

"Execution Method:…"  

As he spoke, Tohno tossed the ball high, rose onto his toes, and swung his racket in a sharp, downward strike.  

Ping!  

The ball shot forward with fierce spin, hurtling straight toward Frankensteiner.  

"Huh?"  

A sudden, intense sense of danger prickled at Frankensteiner’s instincts. He remembered the intel on his opponent—a dangerous player with ruthless techniques. This shot put him on high alert.  

Swish!  

Frankensteiner instinctively stepped back, putting distance between them. His guard was up, expecting the ball to rocket toward his face or stomach at any moment.  

Fwip!  

But then—the ball veered inward at a sharp angle, bouncing lightly before rolling harmlessly to the side.  

"A… fake?!"  

The crowd froze.  

"Nice shot."  

On Japan’s side, several players nodded in approval. Tohno had completely abandoned his usual vicious style.  

Not only that—his timing with the speed shift had been flawless, completely fooling even Frankensteiner’s sharp perception.  

"Things just got interesting."  

In the stands, the more skilled representatives from other countries smirked. Germany’s middle schooler was being outplayed by Japan’s high schooler. The first clash had ended in Japan’s favor.  

But everyone knew—this exchange wouldn’t decide the match. The real outcome rested with two others.  

If this continued, one of those two hidden players would have to step in.  

Ping!  

Tohno served again.  

QP, now receiving, didn’t counter aggressively. He simply returned the ball with a basic stroke, as if just doing his job.  

Tap-tap!  

At the net, Frankensteiner moved with urgent precision, his expression tense. He knew—this was one of the few chances QP would give him.  

If he seized it and crushed his opponent, all would be well. But if he failed… QP wouldn’t let it slide.  

With that in mind, he focused, dashed forward, and swung hard.  

Thud!  

The ball rocketed toward a calculated dead angle—precise, robotic, just as Frankensteiner’s style demanded.  

"Good speed… but too predictable!"  

Swish!  

A haughty, mocking voice rang out as a purple-haired figure—Tohno—appeared at the ball’s landing point.  

Fwip!  

His racket sliced sharply, wrist flicking upon contact.  

Whoosh!  

The ball spun like a top, shooting forward with violent rotation.  

"He predicted my shot?!"  

Frankensteiner’s face paled. Sensing the threat, he sucked in a breath and lunged.  

"You’re strong… but I won’t lose!"  

With a silent vow, he raised his racket, intercepting the ball mid-flight—  

Pfft!  

—Only for the ball to pierce straight through his strings like paper.  

"Wha—?!"  

Frankensteiner turned to stone.  

Thump!  

The ball hit the ground, kicking up dust before bouncing high.  

"40-0!"  

The crowd erupted in shock—even Japan’s team stared at Tohno in disbelief.  

"I never knew Tohno-senpai had techniques like this outside of his Execution Methods?" Mouri muttered, stunned.  

"True."  

Kanjou nodded. But this wasn’t just a sudden improvement—it traced back further. That humiliating defeat a month ago had lit a fire in Tohno. Forced to abandon his brutal style under pressure, he’d honed new skills.  

The "Demon Step" earlier, this spin technique now—both were the results.  

Meanwhile, Frankensteiner, once in control, had been dragged into Tohno’s rhythm. The pressure from QP only made it worse, fraying his focus.  

Ping!  

Another spin shot sealed the point.  

"40-0!"  

"It’s over. Frankensteiner’s completely suppressed."  

The German middle schoolers grimaced. Round one belonged to Japan.  

But some smiled. Now, they’d finally see the true power of Germany’s finest masterpiece.  

Tap. Tap. Tap.  

At the baseline, Tohno bounced the ball, his gaze skipping past Frankensteiner to lock onto the tall figure behind him.  

"Germany’s No. 2, huh?"  

A glint flashed in Tohno’s eyes as his lips curled.  

"Let’s see if you live up to the hype."  

Whoosh!  

He tossed the ball high, stretched upward, and swung—  

Ping!  

A yellow streak blurred past.  

Too fast!  

Before most could react, the ball was already at QP’s feet, kicking up with a violent topspin—aimed straight at his face.  

"This shot?!"  

The crowd gasped. Even Japan’s team stiffened. Had Tohno forgotten the restrictions? Was he slipping back into his old ways?  

The ball closed in—yet QP’s face remained impassive.  

"Is he frozen?!"  

"No way—this is QP we’re talking about!"  

"But if he doesn’t move—!"  

Then—QP swung.  

Not at the ball.  

To the side.  

"Huh?"  

Tohno’s smirk vanished.  

Ping!  

A crisp impact echoed.  

"What?!"  

"He hit it?!"  

"How?!"  

The crowd was lost.  

"As expected of QP."  

On Germany’s side, Bismarck nodded. "He saw through it instantly. His perception rivals the pros."  

"Just a double spin shot."  

Becker crossed his arms. "Japan’s player is naive."  

Ping!  

A yellow streak exploded near Tohno’s backhand—his racket still on his forehand side.  

Stunned, he couldn’t even voice his frustration.  

QP hadn’t just read his move—he’d countered with a composite shot of his own.  

"Tch!"  

Tohno exhaled sharply. "So this is Germany’s No. 2?"  

That wasn’t even QP’s full strength.  

But Tohno wasn’t afraid. His role here was over. The real battle wasn’t his to fight.  

Ping!  

He served again, scoring off Frankensteiner.  

"Game!"  

"Japan leads, 2-0!"  

"Seriously?!"  

"Germany’s losing again? What’s going on?!"  

The crowd’s mood soured. Many weren’t even German—they’d just bandwagoned onto the nine-time champions.  

Yet here they were, watching a team ranked below Japan drop two straight matches. Now, even with their No. 2 on the court, they were struggling.  

Whispers spread.  

Was the ranking wrong? Was Germany overrated?  

"Boo!"  

"Boo!"  

"Boo!"  

The jeers swelled, crashing over the German players.  

Frankensteiner’s body locked up. Even after forcing himself to move, sweat slicked his palms.  

"Q-QP-senpai…"  

He turned, voice shaky. "What… do we do?"  

"You’re overthinking."  

QP’s tone was calm. "Play your game. Don’t follow their tempo."  

"R-right…"  

Frankensteiner nodded, relieved.  

Like Tohno, he knew—this was beyond him now.  

"Game 3 begins!"  

The referee’s voice cut through the tension.  

"Germany’s QP to serve!"  

Whoosh.  

QP tossed the ball—  

Ping!  

—And struck.  

The serve looked ordinary, nothing compared to Tohno or Frankensteiner’s.  

Boom!  

But as it neared the ground, crushing pressure erupted, kicking up a dust storm that swallowed half the court.  

"This serve?!"  

Frankensteiner’s breath hitched. The dust-choked area felt like a dead zone—one he couldn’t enter.  

What would Japan’s player do?  

Would their so-called "No. 1" shatter here? Or—?  

Ping!  

A clean strike rang out.  

Swish!  

A yellow streak shot past.  

Frankensteiner’s eyes widened.  

"When did he—?!"  

He hadn’t even seen the return.  

Chapter 414: The Superhuman Duel, Radiance of Fortitude  

"Whoosh!"  

The tennis ball whizzed past Frankensteiner before he could even react. His racket twitched, but his body froze mid-motion.  

Too fast.  

And worse—the ball carried a ferocious, unnatural spin, something even his machine-like precision couldn’t decipher.  

"So this…"  

Germany’s No. 1 middle schooler felt a chill crawl down his spine. Their duel had ended before it even began—crushed in an instant.  

"Is this his real strength?"  

A fleeting afterimage of the ball burned into his vision as it vanished.  

That was his last thought before—  

"Finally… it begins."  

On the opposite baseline, Q.P. locked onto the incoming shot. His racket rose smoothly, poised to counter the razor-sharp trajectory.  

BOOM!  

The moment the ball neared, a crushing pressure erupted, kicking up a storm of dust around Q.P.  

"Tch."  

Spectators from other nations tense up, their expressions darkening.  

"Is this… the prelude to a pro-level match?"  

An oppressive aura hung over the court. All eyes fixated on Q.P.’s dust-shrouded figure—  

CRACK!  

A golden flash tore through the haze, the ball rocketing back toward Ishikawa’s side with equal ferocity.  

BOOM!  

Another explosion of dust.  

Then—  

Ping!  

The ball landed dead-center on Ishikawa’s baseline, perfectly aligned with the previous mark.  

"That control…!"  

Japan’s players paled.  

Meanwhile, Germany’s camp—Becker, Bismarck, and others—leaned forward, eyes alight.  

"Now we’ll see… just how far he’s grown."  

If Borg was the undisputed king of U-17—a force of absolute dominance—  

Then Q.P. was a different kind of monster.  

A bottomless well of potential, honed by Germany’s cutting-edge training. Even his teammates didn’t know how deep his power ran.  

"Pfft. Big deal."  

South Africa’s Noffy scoffed from the stands. "I could hit the same spot too."  

Whack!  

His captain, Gaupe, smacked him upside the head. "Idiot. This isn’t practice." His voice dropped to a growl. "Against pros, ‘precision’ isn’t just about aim—it’s about pressure. One wrong move, and that ball would’ve ripped the racket from your hands."**  

Noffy’s smirk died.  

The rest of the team stiffened, noticing the flicker of fear in Gaupe’s eyes.  

"Wait… Captain actually knows this?"  

BANG!  

Before they could dwell, Ishikawa’s return shot blasted back—same speed, same spot, same ruthless precision.  

"The center?!"  

South Korea’s Kim Taewoo jolted upright.  

"Again." His captain, Lee Seungbu, exhaled sharply. "He’s not backing down an inch."  

Germany’s bench frowned.  

Ishikawa’s response was a mirror image of Q.P.’s attack—same intensity, same flawless execution.  

CRACK!  

When Q.P.’s racket met the ball, his eyebrow twitched—a rare crack in his ice-cold demeanor.  

"This weight… this spin—?!"  

His gaze snapped up, locking onto Ishikawa’s calm smile.  

"He analyzed my shot’s mechanics… and replicated it instantly?"**  

A spark of tension ignited in Q.P.’s chest.  

This boy—his instincts were terrifying.  

BOOM!  

Q.P.’s next return slammed into the exact same spot, the ball’s imprint perfectly overlapping the last.  

"Impossible!"  

Japan’s Shiraishi, Inui, and others tensed.  

"Is this really that impressive?" Mouri muttered. "Plenty of us can hit the same spot twice."  

"No."  

Mitsuya adjusted his glasses, voice grim. "If we used ‘Hawk-Eye’ to measure, those two shots would be 100% identical—down to the millimeter."  

"Wha—?!"  

Even Tezuka and Yukimura froze.  

Perfect overlap?  

Not even AI-powered ball machines could achieve that.  

"Quality of Perfect."  

Inui flipped through his data book. "Germany’s ‘perfect specimen’—trained under scientific perfection since age five. By six, he was crushing middle schoolers in official matches."  

"S-Six?!"  

Choutarou and others gaped.  

Even prodigies like Tezuka and Yukimura hadn’t reached that level until nine or ten.  

"In other words," Mitsuya continued, "Q.P. has practiced this shot tens of thousands of times. It’s etched into his muscle memory."**  

BANG!  

Q.P.’s next shot landed flawlessly, merging with the previous marks.  

Germany’s players exhaled.  

"As expected."  

Borg crossed his arms. "This will be a battle of technical mastery."**  

His gaze lingered on Ishikawa.  

Twelve years old.  

Yet he’d topped Japan’s ranks, crushing elites like Byoudouin and Oni.  

Whatever the outcome—this boy deserved respect.  

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  

The rally escalated, each shot faster, sharper, deadlier.  

Then—  

SLASH!  

Q.P. unleashed a killer stroke, eyes scanning for weaknesses.  

"Hm?"  

Ishikawa’s lips curled.  

"Fine. I’ll give you a free sample."  

His racket tilted, slicing the ball at a razor’s angle.  

"A drop shot?!"  

Q.P.’s vision sharpened, tracking every rotation—  

FLASH!  

A blinding white light erupted, searing into his retinas.  

"Guh—?!"  

His body locked up, stunned.  

THUD.  

The ball bounced behind him.  

"0-15!"  

Silence.  

Germany’s bench stared in disbelief.  

"Q.P.… fell for that?"** Becker choked.  

Even his most refined techniques had never worked on Q.P.  

Yet Ishikawa’s *"Daybreak"*—a simple optical trick—had?  

"True skill isn’t about flashy techniques."  

Borg’s voice cut through the murmurs. "It’s about timing and adaptation. A master needs only the right move… at the right moment."**  

Becker and Bismarck exchanged wry smiles.  

Easier said than done.  

In all of Germany, only two could claim that level—Borg himself… and maybe Q.P.  

Now, it seemed, Ishikawa had joined that tier.  

"That was… ‘Daybreak’?" Choutarou blinked.  

"Yep." Atobe and Oshitari nodded.  

They’d seen it countless times in middle school.  

"But it’s just a light-refraction trick. How’d Q.P. fall for it?"  

"The same move," Tokugawa interjected, "is worlds apart when used by a pro."  

Japan’s players straightened.  

Right.  

Ishikawa had bested Byoudouin, Oni, and even Ryoga.  

If anyone could challenge Germany’s genius—it was him.  

BANG!  

Q.P. retaliated with a serve so fast, even Tohno only saw a blur.  

"15-15!"  

The German turned away without a glance, dismissing Tohno entirely.  

"You—!"  

Tohno’s grip tightened, but he swallowed his pride.  

Against monsters like these, his "Executions" were useless.  

Better to let the aces duel.  

BOOM!  

Q.P. served again—another untouchable bullet.  

But this time—  

WHOOSH!  

Ishikawa’s return blazed back, another "Daybreak" erupting.  

Q.P. closed his eyes—and countered flawlessly.  

"Come, Ishikawa."  

His racket pointed forward, gaze piercing. "Show me your true power."**  

Tap… tap…  

Silence.  

Then—  

The sound of a ball rolling behind him.  

"Wha—?!"  

Q.P. looked down.  

The tennis ball sat at his feet.  

His head snapped up, eyes widening at Ishikawa’s smug grin.  

"That was… Fortitude?"**  

Chapter 415: The Power of Three Lights – The Path to the Ultimate  

"Wh-what just happened?"  

On the German team’s side, players exchanged confused glances. No one could make sense of what had just unfolded.  

"The 'Pinnacle of Perfection'...?" Bismarck muttered, visibly stunned.  

"Mm." Becker, standing beside him with his arms crossed, narrowed his eyes.  

During the exhibition match earlier, it was that boy—Ryoma’s younger rival, Kintarō Toyama—who had ultimately pushed him to his limits. He couldn’t forget the sheer power behind that technique.  

"What even is the 'Pinnacle of Perfection'?" Siegfried frowned.  

From what he’d seen in the previous match, it was clearly a formidable ability—one that allowed a mere first-year like Kintarō to stand toe-to-toe with a top-tier player like Becker.  

And yet…  

Both Borg and QP seemed to regard this mysterious power with extreme gravity.  

"The 'Pinnacle of Perfection' awakens latent mental strength," Borg finally explained, his voice measured. "When refined, this power evolves into something greater—manifesting in three forms."  

His expression turned solemn.  

"The 'Radiance of Love'—born from pure joy in tennis. The 'Radiance of Sorrow'—realization of one’s limits. And finally…"  

"Fortitude," Bismarck finished, eyes sharpening. "So the Japanese player wields the rarest form—the 'Radiance of Fortitude'?"  

"Fortitude… Fortitude!!"  

On the court, QP lowered his head, shadows masking his eyes as the word echoed in his mind.  

Swish!  

In an instant, Germany’s No. 2 regained his composure, moving to the next serve position as if the lost point meant nothing.  

"Heh."  

Tohno smirked inwardly. "Still playing the cold, unshakable genius act? Pathetic."  

In his eyes, once Ishikawa got serious, the match was already tipping in Japan’s favor. QP’s stubbornness was just a last-ditch effort to save face.  

Boom!  

But the moment QP served, Tohno’s confidence shattered.  

A shockwave of pressure rippled through the air—freezing him in place like a statue.  

"30-30!"  

"Tch!"  

Tohno’s face twisted. He’d known QP was strong, but being utterly helpless against him was a bitter pill to swallow.  

Yet QP didn’t even glance his way.  

To Germany’s strategist, the court now held only two players: himself and Ishikawa.  

And though he hid it well, a keen observer might’ve caught the faintest flicker in his usually icy demeanor.  

"Oh?"  

In the stands, Camille of France tilted his head, intrigued. "How interesting. Even Germany’s so-called 'Masterpiece' isn’t immune to emotion."  

"What do you mean?" His teammates, Battler and Moro, blinked.  

"A hunch."  

Camille stroked his racket lovingly, as if caressing a lover’s arm rather than cold strings. "Let’s just say… QP is about to get serious."  

"Serious?!"  

"You’re joking!"  

The two stared. That last serve had been unreturnable—even they doubted they could’ve handled it. And yet Camille claimed QP was still holding back?  

Had anyone else said it, they’d have laughed.  

But this was Camille.  

Boom!  

Another serve rocketed toward Ishikawa.  

Hummm!  

A brilliant white aura erupted around him, the ball repelled with terrifying force—blinking straight back at QP.  

Danger spiked through QP’s nerves.  

"So it is Fortitude."  

Yet instead of panic, something almost like excitement flashed in his eyes—too subtle for most to catch.  

Swish!  

He lunged, racket rising to meet the shot—  

CRACK!  

—And unleashed a counter so powerful, the shockwave made spectators recoil.  

"He blocked that?!"  

Japan’s team stiffened.  

"His physique… is monstrous," Oni muttered, eyes locked on QP.  

This wasn’t raw strength—it was precision. The kind that turned every ounce of muscle into a scalpel’s edge.  

"Good thing we’ve got our own monster," Irie quipped.  

Bam!  

Ishikawa’s return streaked toward QP’s blind spot, forcing a clumsy retrieval.  

"Incredible!"  

"Is this the Pinnacle’s power?"  

"No—his 'light' is stronger than that red-haired kid’s!"  

The crowd buzzed.  

But just as momentum seemed to favor Japan—  

Boom!  

QP aced another serve straight past Tohno.  

"Deuce (40-40)!"  

Silence.  

"Wh-what kind of strategy is this?!"  

"If Japan’s high-schooler can’t even touch QP’s serves, Germany can’t lose!"  

Under doubles rules, alternating receivers meant Tohno’s weakness became a glaring flaw. Unless Ishikawa single-handedly outplayed both Germans, this could drag on indefinitely.  

"Strange," Chitose mused. "Why not concede this game?"  

By the numbers, QP’s serves were untouchable—but if Ishikawa and Tohno dominated Frankensteiner’s serves, Japan could still win.  

Yet Ishikawa seemed fixated on battling QP head-on.  

Bam! Bam! Bam!  

The rally intensified.  

Point after point, Ishikawa’s Fortitude overwhelmed QP—yet the German adapted with eerie speed, his counters growing sharper.  

"He’s learning," someone realized.  

"Ridiculous! Is he trying to exhaust QP? That’s naive!"  

"Germany lost earlier because they underestimated Japan. Now the tables have turned."  

The narrative had flipped.  

Japan was now the favorite.  

"Odd."  

Bismarck’s eyes narrowed. "QP’s reactions are faster now."  

"Not an illusion," Becker said grimly. "I’ve always suspected… he’s never shown his true strength."  

In their few matches, QP had dismantled Becker’s best techniques within three returns.  

That wasn’t talent—it was genius.  

"QP’s been hiding his power?"  

The team stirred.  

"You’re kidding!" On Japan’s side, Tachibana scowled. "He’s already playing at a pro level!"  

"QP…"  

Byōdōin and Oni exchanged glances. Something was off.  

With each exchange, Ishikawa’s Fortitude should’ve worn QP down—yet its draining effect was fading.  

"It begins," Borg murmured, lips curving.  

No one understood QP’s potential better than him.  

"After witnessing 'Love' and 'Sorrow'… you’ve finally met a wielder of the third light."  

This sealed it.  

Germany’s tenth consecutive World Cup title was assured.  

Bam! Bam! Bam!  

The duel raged on.  

Ishikawa’s white aura blazed—but now, a similar glow flickered around QP.  

Bam!  

A sharp crosscourt shot from Ishikawa—  

Bam!  

—Met with an identical return from QP.  

"What?!"  

Japan’s elites tensed.  

"Since when…?" Tezuka and Yukimura’s eyes narrowed. "He’s mimicking Ishikawa’s moves?"  

"The 'Selfless State'?!" Mukahi and Shishido gasped.  

"No." Atobe’s voice cut in. "His energy signature’s all wrong."  

"Techniques are just tools," Mitsuya explained. "Elites can reverse-engineer any move after seeing it enough."  

"Meaning…" Byōdōin’s gaze sharpened. "He’s been analyzing Ishikawa’s 'Fortitude' this whole time."  

"Analyzing the Pinnacle of Perfection?!"  

"And replicating it?!"  

The idea was ludicrous—  

Yet QP was doing it.  

BOOM!!  

Without warning, QP fired a bullet-like shot—  

Ishikawa didn’t move.  

"Out! Advantage Japan!"  

"Thank god!" Japan’s first-years sagged in relief.  

But the veterans—Shiraishi, Irie, Tanegashima—were unnerved.  

That shot had been too fast.  

Even if it missed, QP’s adaptation was real.  

Bam!  

QP served again.  

This time, two distinct white auras flickered around him.  

CRACK!  

The dual energies fused—his power surged, momentarily overpowering Ishikawa’s Fortitude.  

Bam! Bam! Bam!  

With each strike, QP’s understanding deepened, his gaze piercing through the Radiance of Fortitude.  

"So this is 'Fortitude.'"  

Swish!  

Seizing his moment, QP lashed out—  

BOOM!!!  

The ball morphed mid-flight, swelling to the size of a boulder before crashing down toward Ishikawa like a meteor.  

Against such force, Ishikawa seemed tiny—a leaf in a hurricane.  

"Heh."  

Yet he smiled.  

Staring at QP’s now-perfected aura, he spoke softly:  

"Congratulations, senior. You’ve found the key to the ultimate door."  

"!!!"  

QP’s composure cracked.  

A horrifying realization struck him:  

Why had Ishikawa deliberately used 'Fortitude' in this drawn-out battle?  

"Don’t tell me—"  

His pupils shrank to pinpricks.  

(End of Chapter.)