belamy20

316-320

Added 2025-05-27 17:09:38 +0000 UTC

Chapter 316: The Deterrence of Byoudouin

Silence.

Every high schooler on the central court froze, their movements halting mid-action as they stared at the sudden appearance of the golden-haired young man. Their expressions were a mix of awe and deep-seated fear.

The middle schoolers took notice.

"Hey!"

Akutsu Jin, impatient as ever, barked at Kishimoto, "Get on the court. Our match isn’t over yet!"

"You?"

Kishimoto turned his head slowly, his gaze icy. "If you’re in such a hurry to lose, I’ll show you the difference between middle schoolers and high schoolers."

He was, after all, a former top-ten player of the U-17 elite squad.

His loss to Hara Genya—which he still chalked up to a "moment of carelessness"—had cost him his spot. But since becoming the 5th Court’s supervisor, he’d trained relentlessly, determined to reclaim his position.

Now, with his duties lifted, he could finally cut loose.

But not in front of Byoudouin.

Swallowing his pride, Kishimoto turned to the golden-haired figure. "Uh… Can I play a match against him?"

"Huh?"

The middle schoolers blinked in disbelief.

The man who had been snarling just seconds ago now stood there like a kid asking permission to go outside.

"Go ahead."

Byoudouin gave a slight nod.

He knew Kishimoto’s skills well—the guy should have no trouble handling a middle schooler. But these kids had been brought in by Ishikawa Kazunari, possibly even his own teammates.

Byoudouin was curious.

Just how strong were these middle schoolers?

The Match Begins

Thanks to Byoudouin’s presence, every high schooler in the vicinity flocked to watch. The middle schoolers, too, were eager—they had full confidence in Akutsu’s abilities.

Bam!

Kishimoto served.

As a former top-ten player, his serve was nothing to scoff at. The ball landed with a sharp crack, kicking up a gust of wind as it rocketed forward.

Wham!

But before the high schoolers could even react—

A silver-gray racket flashed.

Akutsu had already intercepted the ball the moment it bounced, smashing it back with brutal force.

"That speed?!"

Most high schoolers paled.

Akutsu’s reflexes were beyond their expectations.

Kishimoto, however, was no slouch either. He dashed forward, swinging his racket with precision—

Crack!

He returned it.

But his grip tightened the instant the ball made contact.

"This power?!"

His eyes widened.

This lanky middle schooler shouldn’t have such monstrous strength!

Gritting his teeth, Kishimoto fired back, but now, he was on guard.

This match was being watched by everyone. If he lost because of carelessness…

He’d never live it down.

The Tide Turns

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The rallies grew fiercer.

Kishimoto pushed the pace, trying to overwhelm Akutsu with sheer speed.

But after over a dozen exchanges—

He still hadn’t scored a single point.

Worse, he was the one feeling the strain.

"Tch."

Akutsu smirked, noticing Kishimoto’s labored breathing. "Hey, high schooler. Don’t tell me this is all you’ve got?"

"You little—!"

Humiliated in front of the entire camp, Kishimoto’s face twisted in rage.

"I was only using 60% of my strength to test you!" he snarled. "Since you’re asking for it, I won’t hold back anymore!"

Whoosh!

Dark energy surged around him as he unleashed his full power—a technique he’d once used to effortlessly counter Hara Genya’s smashes.

In this state, his focus, reflexes, and speed skyrocketed.

Maybe I can’t reclaim my spot yet…

But crushing a middle schooler?

Easy.

The Beast Awakens

Thud!

Yet—

Akutsu still reached the ball.

His body crouched low, limbs extended unnaturally, like a predator stalking its prey.

"What the—?!"

Kishimoto’s confidence wavered.

Before he could react—

Boom!

A gray-white aura erupted around Akutsu as he slammed the ball past Kishimoto’s defenses.

Clang!

The ball cratered the chain-link fence behind the court, leaving a visible dent.

"0-15!"

"H-he’s strong!"

The high schoolers gasped.

This was supposed to be a one-sided match—yet the middle schooler was dominating Kishimoto!

The Fall of a Former Elite

"Damn it!"

Kishimoto’s face darkened. He served again, charging the net immediately.

"Serve-and-volley?!"

The middle schoolers stiffened.

"That speed…" Oshitari muttered. "It’s faster than Shishido’s full sprint!"

"Naturally." Atobe smirked. "He is a high schooler. Physically, he’s on another level."

His gaze flicked to Akutsu.

"But then again… Akutsu isn’t your average middle schooler."

Akutsu had already activated Beast Mode, his gray-white aura swirling ominously.

Like a true predator, he lunged, returning the ball with a half-volley before sprinting to the net himself.

"What?!"

The high schoolers were stunned.

Not only was his reaction time insane—

He wasn’t even afraid of Kishimoto’s net dominance!

"Arrogant brat!"

Kishimoto swung, aiming for Akutsu’s feet to disrupt his rhythm.

But Akutsu didn’t even glance down.

With a casual flick of his wrist—

Bam!

He blasted the ball past Kishimoto.

"0-30!"

The court fell dead silent.

Kishimoto’s hands trembled.

This guy… is a monster.

The Aftermath

"Kishimoto’s done for."

Outside the court, Mitsuya of Court 3 shook his head. "He’s lost his nerve. No way he comes back from this."

"True."

Udon (Court 2’s supervisor) sighed. "Tennis is a mental game. If you lose confidence, you can’t even use 80% of your strength."

"Still…" A new voice cut in—smooth, amused. "If he hadn’t underestimated Akutsu, the score wouldn’t be this bad."

The two turned to see Shirashi Zuji, the No. 2 ranked player in Japan, leaning against the fence with a lazy grin.

"This year’s middle schoolers are something else," he mused, shielding his eyes from the sun. "The others aren’t pushovers either."

Mitsuya and Udon tensed.

With Kishimoto defeated, they were next in line.

But then their eyes flicked to Byoudouin, standing with his arms crossed nearby.

As long as he’s here…

These middle schoolers won’t get too cocky.

The Final Blow

"Gah… Gah…"

Kishimoto knelt on the court, drenched in sweat. The weight of countless judging stares made his face burn with shame.

"I-it’s not over!" he spat. "U-17 rules are best of three! Another match!"

"Oh?"

Akutsu’s smirk widened. "You’ve got guts. But if we go again… I won’t go easy on you, high schooler."

He emphasized the last word, his gaze deliberately sweeping over the crowd—lingering on Byoudouin.

Kishimoto flinched.

If they played again…

Akutsu would destroy him.

"Enough."

Byoudouin’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"You’ve embarrassed yourself enough. Get lost."

"Y-yes, sir!"

Without hesitation, Kishimoto scrambled off the court—literally crawling in his haste to escape.

Akutsu scoffed.

Pathetic.

The Challenge

"Today’s over."

Byoudouin’s tone brooked no argument. "Under my watch, you follow orders. No exceptions."

His gaze locked onto Akutsu.

"Got a problem with that?"

"Tch."

Akutsu glared back. "Don’t tell me what to do, or—"

"Or what?"

Byoudouin’s eyes turned glacial.

Akutsu’s instincts screamed danger.

"Bastard!"

Snarling, Akutsu hurled a serve straight at Byoudouin’s head—faster and fiercer than anything he’d used against Kishimoto.

"Akutsu, NO!"

The middle schoolers panicked.

They weren’t afraid of angering Byoudouin—they’d already lost respect for most high schoolers.

But this could get Akutsu expelled.

Yet—

Smack.

Byoudouin caught the ball with one hand.

Then—

Crunch.

He crushed it in his fist like a paper ball.

"…"

The entire court stopped breathing.

Akutsu’s eyes widened.

What… the hell is this guy?!

Chapter 317: The New U-17 Hierarchy – The Second Stop of the Expedition

"Is... is this guy even human?!"

The middle schoolers were stunned by Phoenix’s display of raw power.

It was hard to believe a person could grip a tennis ball with such force. Even Gin Ishida, the strongest middle schooler in terms of pure strength, paled at the sight.

"Too strong," he muttered, his expression grave. "His grip strength has to be over 80kg!"

The average adult male’s grip strength ranged from 40-50kg. Even trained athletes rarely exceeded 70kg.

80kg?

That was enough to crush an apple barehanded—effortlessly.

But this was a tennis ball.

And the way Phoenix had done it—casual, like sipping water—made Gin wonder if even his estimate was too conservative.

"I am Phoenix Nanjirou."

Phoenix’s cold gaze swept across the court. "I don’t care about the rest of you, but if you’re in the 5th Court, you follow my rules."

His eyes briefly locked onto Akutsu in the distance before adding, "If anyone has a problem with that, challenge me. Or get out."

"Tch."

Tezuka, Atobe, and Yukimura exchanged glances.

As the elite of their generation—leaders who commanded absolute respect in their own teams—being talked down to like this was unthinkable.

But the sheer pressure radiating from Phoenix, coupled with the terrified reactions of the high schoolers (including Kishimoto, the former 5th Court supervisor), told them one thing:

This man was not to be trifled with.

For now, they held their ground.

Meanwhile, all eyes shifted to Akutsu Jirou.

Especially the troublemakers from Higa—led by their scheming captain, Kite—who were practically salivating at the prospect of a fight.

"You—!"

True to form, Akutsu snarled and stepped forward.

"Easy there, wild child."

A lazy voice cut in.

A drowsy-looking teen with chocolate skin and snow-white hair—Marui Bunta—yawned. "That guy’s not like Kishimoto. Piss him off, and you’ll regret it."

Akutsu’s scowl deepened.

He didn’t need the warning. His instincts were screaming that Phoenix was dangerous.

But backing down now?

Not an option.

"One shot."

Phoenix’s voice sliced through the tension. He held up a single finger. "Kid, return one ball from me, and you can do whatever you want in this court."

"You bastard—!"

Akutsu’s blood boiled.

One ball?!

Who the hell did this guy think he was?!

Against Kishimoto, he hadn’t even gone all out. And now, this arrogant prick was treating him like some amateur?

Fine.

He’d make Phoenix eat those words.

"Ready?"

Phoenix didn’t wait for an answer. He positioned a ball at his shoulder—a casual stance that made the middle schoolers frown.

"That form…"

"He’s not even trying!"

"Akutsu’s top five in our generation! This guy’s in for a shock!"

While Phoenix was clearly strong, the middle schoolers were confident Akutsu could return one ball.

After all, outside of Ryoma, Akutsu stood among the elite:

Tezuka Kunimitsu (Supreme Dominion)

Yukimura Seiichi (Zero-Sense)

Atobe Keigo (The King’s Court)

Echizen Ryoma (Ten’i Muhai)

Akutsu Jirou (The Tyrant)

These five could hold their own against anyone in U-17.

"Arrogant prick."

"Does he think we’re scrubs?"

"Akutsu’s gonna humiliate him!"

The whispers died instantly as—

Crackle…!

Golden light erupted from Phoenix’s fingertips, engulfing the tennis ball.

"What the—?!"

"The ball’s… glowing?!"

Before anyone could process it, Phoenix swung.

Thud!

The ball morphed into a spinning oval of light, screaming toward Akutsu at terrifying speed.

"A glow shot? Pathetic."

Akutsu’s lips curled.

This was basic—the kind of serve coaches taught absolute beginners.

Did Phoenix really think so little of him?

"Hah!"

With a burst of gray-white aura—his Beast Mode—Akutsu lunged forward, racket poised to annihilate the return.

CRACK!

The impact echoed like a gunshot.

"He got it!"

"Yes!"

"That’s our guy!"

The middle schoolers erupted in cheers.

For them, Akutsu’s return was a symbolic strike against the high schoolers’ arrogance.

But Akutsu’s face twisted in shock.

"This weight—?!"

It felt like he’d just tried to stop a freight train.

His wrist screamed in protest as the ball’s monstrous force threatened to snap his bones.

"GRAAH—!"

Instinctively, Akutsu activated his ultimate form—Tyrant Mode—as black-red energy exploded around him.

BOOOOM!

The wall behind him cratered inward as an invisible force blasted through it.

The shockwave sent Akutsu flying, his racket reduced to splinters.

"No way…"

The middle schoolers’ cheers died in their throats.

This level of destruction…

It rivaled Ryoma’s match against Ten’i Muhai Ryoma at nationals!

"Wait—!"

Marui’s sharp eyes caught a flicker of yellow amidst the smoke.

The ball was still in play!

But Akutsu had nothing left.

The ball weakly tapped the net before dropping to the ground like a wounded bird.

"As expected of Phoenix-sama!"

"Hah! Serves the brat right!"

"Did he really think he could challenge him?!"

The high schoolers crowed in triumph, their earlier humiliation forgotten.

"Oi. Akutsu Jirou."

Phoenix’s voice cut through the noise. "You dead? If not, you’ve got five minutes to catch up. The rest of you—start running."

Without another word, he tossed his racket to Duke, kicked off his shoes, and began the day’s endurance training—barefoot.

Tezuka and the others immediately followed.

Atobe glanced at Akutsu—now shakily rising from the dust—before gritting his teeth and sprinting after them.

"All players," Kurobe’s voice boomed over the PA, "return to your designated courts immediately."

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

Any lingering slackness vanished as both high schoolers and middle schoolers threw themselves into training with newfound intensity.

"As ‘that man’ said," Kite adjusted his glasses, a cold glint in his eyes, "Japan’s U-17 is a den of monsters."

Coaches’ Office – U-17 HQ

"Phoenix never fails to impress."

Saito exhaled in relief. "Only he could’ve cowed those middle schoolers so effectively."

"Expected."

Kurobe remained calm. "But intimidation isn’t the goal. We have one month to mold them into world-class players."

The three coaches dove back into their data analysis, refining their training regimens.

One Hour Later – Training Grounds

Phoenix maintained a brutal pace, his bare feet slapping against the track. Behind him, the middle schoolers—faces red, lungs burning—struggled to keep up.

Even the high schoolers (except Duke) had dropped out.

"H-How…?"

Atobe—prideful of his stamina—couldn’t fathom how Phoenix was still accelerating.

And barefoot, no less!

"Distractions help ignore the pain," Duke panted as he caught up, grinning. "Oh, and a little secret—Boss is still in recovery mode."

"Recovery?!"

Before they could probe further, Phoenix shot Duke a warning glare. The big man chuckled and sped ahead.

Tezuka, Atobe, Yukimura, and even Akutsu (now back on his feet) exchanged glances.

If Phoenix wasn’t at full strength…

What kind of monster had injured him?!

Their minds conjured images of a towering, cold-eyed titan.

The thought sent a chill down their spines.

Gritting their teeth, they pushed harder.

Meanwhile – Heart’s Cliff (Rear Mountain)

"Move! Faster!"

Oni’s voice boomed as the middle schoolers drilled under his watchful eye.

"Hmph. They’re obedient enough."

Drunk as ever, Sakurō chuckled. "With his skills, their growth will exceed projections."

"Naturally."

Inui smiled. "Oni trained Mitsunari, Fuwa, Hirano, and Yamato. He’s the ideal Gatekeeper of Hell."

Sakurō’s grin widened.

Phoenix overseeing the 5th Court, Oni molding the next generation at Heart’s Cliff…

Who would’ve thought the two former rivals would end up like this?

And it was all thanks to that first-year—a prodigy so terrifying, even Sakurō found him unfathomable.

"That kid’s gonna shake the world."

This expedition was just the beginning.

East Asia—no, the entire tennis world—would soon learn the name Echizen Ryoma.

One Week Later

The U-17 hierarchy had shifted under Phoenix’s reign.

Meanwhile, the expedition team—fresh off friendly matches in Thailand and Sri Lanka—arrived in Mumbai, India for their second official showdown!

Chapter 318: Singles 3 – The Player with the Reversed Badge

Mumbai, India

The largest city in South Asia, the economic heart of India, and currently the region’s fastest-growing hub for tennis development.

That evening, inside the coaching office at the National Youth Sports Center’s tennis facility on the outskirts of Mumbai…

A portly, well-groomed middle-aged man with graying hair sat on a sofa, eyes closed in light repose.

Creak!

The door opened, and two young men walked in. The first, tall with dark hair, brown eyes, and a prominent nose, was Taran Sharma—India’s U17 team captain. Behind him was a medium-built player with light brown hair, a pair of round glasses perched on his nose, and striking blue-tinted eyes—Kiran Rajput, the team’s strategist.

"Coach," Sharma and Rajput greeted respectfully as they approached. "You wanted to see us?"

The gray-haired man—Avidh Vyas, the 54-year-old head coach of India’s U17 team—opened his eyes and nodded. "Sit."

Once they were seated, Vyas activated a screen on the far wall. Footage of a tennis match appeared, showing two teams exchanging formal greetings.

Rajput adjusted his glasses. "Is this… last week’s match between Japan and South Korea?"

"Correct," Vyas confirmed.

Rajput continued, "Japan’s team is the second strongest in East Asia, right behind China. Their captain, Byoudouin, is exceptionally skilled. But if I recall, he didn’t play in this match?"

At the mention of Byoudouin, Sharma’s sharp eyes gleamed with interest. "He didn’t play? Then what was the result?"

"Japan won, three matches to two," Rajput answered.

Sharma’s brows shot up. "That close?"

He knew the general strength of both teams. Under normal circumstances, South Korea would be lucky to win even one match. How had they taken two this time?

"On paper, yes," Vyas chuckled, shaking his head. "But Japan forfeited two matches where they had overwhelming leads."

"Forfeited?" Sharma narrowed his eyes. "Even without Byoudouin, they’re still that bold? Tanegashima wouldn’t do something like that. Neither would Mouri. So…" He turned to Rajput. "Who was their leader this time?"

His familiarity with Japan’s team wasn’t surprising—Sharma had faced Byoudouin before and knew firsthand how terrifying he was. In fact, Sharma was one of the few players who had ever walked away from a match against Byoudouin relatively unscathed.

"A newcomer," Rajput replied. "There’s no detailed intel yet, but his skill level is far beyond ordinary elite standards. South Korea’s Lee Seung-bok lost both sets without scoring a single point."

Whoosh!

Sharma’s expression shifted instantly.

At his level, he understood that while team captains varied in strength, the gap between them—unless one belonged to the Big Four—should never be that extreme.

"Shiraishi… Shin?" He turned to the screen, eyes locking onto the displayed name. "Wait… why isn’t his age listed?"

"Unknown," Vyas admitted. "From what we’ve gathered, this new Japanese captain has no prior match records outside of last week’s U17 exhibition against South Korea. It’s almost like…" He trailed off.

Rajput adjusted his glasses, voice low. "Like he appeared out of nowhere."

"Exactly," Vyas nodded. "That’s why I called you here. Based on this season’s rankings, we’ve already secured our spot in the Melbourne U17 World Cup. So, I want your thoughts."

Both looked at him.

Vyas continued, "For this match, do we field our strongest lineup, or avoid direct confrontation for now?"

The two hesitated.

As players, they naturally wanted to give their all on the court. But as Vyas’s students—as the captain and strategist of India’s team—they had to consider the bigger picture.

"I think—" Rajput began, ready to argue for sending the second-string players to preserve their main squad’s strength.

But Sharma cut in, voice firm. "We go all out. We’re graduating this year. If Japan’s leader is a newcomer, we need to test his true strength."

His gaze was unwavering as he met Vyas’s eyes.

"Good." Vyas smiled, satisfied.

He’d called them here precisely to gauge their resolve. Sharma, as captain, was proving himself a true leader.

"It’s settled, then." Vyas rapped his knuckles on the desk. "Tomorrow, we field our strongest team against Japan!"

Meanwhile…

Under Shiraishi’s leadership, Japan’s team arrived in Mumbai after a flight from Sri Lanka.

Though Shiraishi hadn’t enforced any strict rules, the near-ten-day journey had left the players exhausted—especially the lower-ranked members of the first string.

They’d carried the team in the friendly matches against Thailand and Sri Lanka. Even against weaker opponents, competing at a national level—combined with constant travel—had taken a toll on their stamina and focus.

So, after checking into their Mumbai hotel, most of them turned in early. The next morning, they boarded a bus to the National Youth Sports Center’s tennis stadium.

"WOOOOO!!!"

The stadium was already buzzing before the match even began.

Unlike South Korea, India hadn’t heavily promoted the event. But as one of only two countries in the world with a population exceeding a billion, finding an audience was never an issue.

This newly built stadium, designed to host future Masters-level tournaments, could hold nearly 15,000 spectators. Today, it was almost 80% full—students, expats, and curious locals all eager to witness the showdown.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the exhibition match between India’s U17 team and Japan’s U17 team will now begin!"

"Players, please take your positions!"

The lights shifted, illuminating both teams as they entered from opposite sides. The home crowd erupted in cheers for India’s players, while Japan’s team was met with near-silence—save for a handful of enthusiastic exchange students.

"Talk about home-court advantage," Marui remarked, glancing at the sea of spectators. "This is on a whole different level from the match in Korea."

"Yeah," Mouri agreed absentmindedly. "It’s like Hyotei’s 200-member fan club back in middle school—" He suddenly cut himself off.

"What?" Marui frowned. "Keep going. I’ve heard of Hyotei’s insane fanbase. So what if Shiraishi’s from there? That was middle school. It doesn’t matter—"

"Never mind," Mouri shook his head, sighing internally.

His gaze drifted to the composed figure walking ahead of them—Shiraishi, his back straight, steps steady.

I thought I was catching up to him… but maybe I was just being naive.

The constant matches and travel had worn him down, leaving his mind and body in an odd state.

On India’s side…

Every player’s attention was locked onto Shiraishi. As Japan’s leader—and the one who had crushed South Korea’s captain without conceding a single point—he was their biggest threat.

But upon seeing him up close, many couldn’t hide their surprise.

"He’s even younger in person," Rajput murmured.

Sharma nodded. "He’s nothing like Byoudouin. I don’t know why Japan’s coach made him captain over Byoudouin, but his strength must surpass even Mouri’s."

"Mouri…" Rajput’s eyes flicked to the towering figure of Mouri, a dangerous glint flashing in his gaze.

This time… I’ll win.

After the pre-match formalities…

"The first match will be Singles 3!"

"Representing India—Atra Lohar (Grade 11)!"

"Representing Japan—Oomagari Ryuuji (Grade 12)!"

"Players, prepare yourselves!"

The crowd’s focus shifted to both teams.

From India’s side emerged a dark-skinned, black-haired player with an unreadable expression—Atra Lohar.

"Damn, he’s dark," Hukuda blurted. "Are we sure he’s from India and not Africa?"

"Actually," Mitsuya, ever the analyst, chimed in, "due to historical caste systems, India has two main groups—the ruling Aryans and the oppressed Dalits. The Varna hierarchy splits society into four tiers: Brahmins (priests), Kshatriyas (warriors/rulers), Vaishyas (merchants), and Shudras (laborers)."

"Lohar means ‘blacksmith’—a low-caste surname. He’s from the lowest rung of society."

"The lowest?" Someone frowned.

India’s social structure was baffling to most of them. Only a handful of Japan’s first string—Mouri, Kaji, Oomagari, and Kimijima—had faced India’s team before during an overseas expedition over a year ago.

Since then, India’s roster had changed entirely.

"Atra Lohar," Mitsuya continued. "16 years old. India’s No. 3. Orphaned young, worked in a brick factory at 10 to support his little sister. Coach Vyas discovered him and brought him into India’s U17 program."

"Started tennis at 12. Natural talent. Fought his way up, defeating elite-trained players to become India’s third-strongest. He’s not someone to underestimate."

The team’s eyes lingered on Lohar, now seeing him in a different light.

"Big bro, you got this!!!"

A young girl’s voice rang out from the front row. A tanned girl in a light-colored T-shirt cheered loudly, hands cupped around her mouth.

For the first time, the stoic Lohar’s expression softened into a faint smile.

"Ugh, spare me," Oomagari groaned, rubbing his temples. "Emotionally driven players are the worst to deal with."

Still, he stepped onto the court, his usual lazy demeanor replaced with an unshakable aura of confidence.

"Wait…" Marui squinted. "Am I seeing things, or is Oomagari’s badge upside down?"

"Badge?" Mouri focused on the number stitched onto Oomagari’s cap.

Sure enough, it read *"No. 9"*—the same as Mouri’s.

Oomagari…

Mouri’s eyes narrowed.

He had a feeling this laid-back, seemingly indifferent upperclassman was far more than he appeared.

After the coin toss…

"Best of three sets!"

"First set, Japan’s Oomagari to serve!"

The stadium fell silent as all eyes fixed on Oomagari.

Chapter 319: The Long Grind—A Battle of Endurance

Thwack!

On the court, Ohmagari bent low, tapping the tennis ball against the ground.

As he gauged the ball’s rhythm, his sharp eyes studied his opponent—Atra Lohar.

The name was unfamiliar, but the man’s icy, unapproachable aura left no room for underestimation.

Boom!

With a measured swing, Ohmagari delivered a textbook-perfect serve.

Lohar returned it just as steadily. Both players hugged the baseline, exchanging precise shots deep into each other’s territory.

Boom!

The ball streaked back and forth in a relentless exchange.

Watching from the sidelines, India’s team representative, Kiran, nodded approvingly.

"Both players are clearly trying to pin each other to the baseline."

"That’s Lohar’s specialty," remarked a fair-skinned Indian player with a smirk.

The others murmured in agreement.

When it came to sheer endurance, no one in India’s U17 team—not even their captain, Sharma, or their tactician, Kiran—could rival the dark-skinned young man on the court.

"The Japanese player has already fallen into Lohar’s trap," another pale-skinned Indian player chimed in. "Like prey caught in a snare, he’ll slowly exhaust himself, drained of energy and will, until he collapses."

They’d seen it too many times before. Even elite players from powerhouse tennis regions like Europe and America had crumbled under Lohar’s grueling tactics.

To them, this Japanese representative would be no exception.

Boom!

The stalemate raged on.

Ohmagari remained expressionless. Lohar moved with mechanical efficiency.

The Japanese player resembled a marathon runner—steady, unhurried, sticking to his rhythm.

The Indian, meanwhile, moved like a seasoned farmer wielding a hoe—each swing economical, devoid of wasted motion.

"Tch."

On Japan’s side, someone frowned. "Is this Indian player seriously trying to outlast Ohmagari in a battle of endurance?"

Ohmagari’s stamina was legendary, even across Asia. Players from desert nations had withered under his relentless pace, left with no fight left in them.

"But this guy isn’t ordinary," Mitsuya cut in, shaking his head. "Atra Lohar grew up in hardship. His willpower has been tempered by suffering."

He paused, then added gravely, "Records show he once defeated Argentina’s No. 2 player in an exhibition match—by grinding him into exhaustion."

Argentina?

The name sent a ripple of unease through the Japanese team.

Argentina was a global tennis powerhouse, consistently ranked in the world’s top ten, sometimes even breaking into the top five.

For their No. 2 player to lose to this unassuming opponent…

"At this rate, this match will be a painfully long war of attrition," Ishikawa observed, glancing at the open stadium roof. Morning sunlight spilled onto the court, bathing both players in its glow.

Neither seemed to notice. Their focus remained unbroken.

Boom!

The battle stretched on.

The first point alone took five minutes—yet neither showed the slightest sign of fatigue.

"Their stamina is insane!" Spectators gaped in disbelief.

To the players on both teams, Ohmagari and Lohar’s rallies might not seem exceptionally fast. But to the average viewer, the ball’s speed was blinding.

Tracking it for too long made eyes dry and strained. A single blink, and you’d miss the next exchange.

And yet—

The duel raged for eight full minutes before Ohmagari finally seized the point with a sharp backhand crosscourt shot, the ball kissing the sideline.

Haa…

After scoring, Ohmagari exhaled softly.

It had been ages since he’d faced such an opening rally. Eight minutes for a single point. His body burned with built-up heat, yet not a single drop of sweat trickled down his face.

Pulling out a second ball, he studied his opponent.

As expected, the dark-skinned Indian remained impassive—as if the grueling exchange had been nothing.

Boom!

Ohmagari served again.

Lohar returned it cleanly.

But this time, Ohmagari accelerated. His shot carried heavier spin, arcing sharply toward Lohar’s backhand.

Tap-tap!

Yet Lohar was already there, waiting.

"He caught up?"

Ohmagari’s brow twitched.

His opponent’s emotionless demeanor was unsettling. It was like facing a puppet—mechanically efficient, devoid of hesitation.

Without pause, Ohmagari pushed harder.

He cranked up his speed and spin.

Yet Lohar still reached the ball in time.

"Useless," an Indian player scoffed. "This court is Lohar’s domain. No shot is beyond his reach."

"Against the ‘Silent Reaper,’ struggling only delays the inevitable," another added with a dark chuckle. "This court is a graveyard—it devours opponents bit by bit, draining their strength, spirit, and will."

Most of India’s team were fair-skinned, with a few of East Asian descent.

Lohar stood alone as the darkest among them.

Yet when they looked at him, their eyes held respect—and, in some cases, lingering fear.

Boom!

The second point unfolded just like the first.

Two minutes.

Five minutes.

Eight minutes.

Ten minutes passed—and still, no winner.

"Incredible mental fortitude," muttered Japan’s team, their expressions tightening.

Eighteen minutes in, and they were only on the second point of the match.

Slip!

Then—Ohmagari’s grip faltered.

Sweat had slicked his palm, causing his racket to twist mid-swing.

"Out!"

The ball sailed wide.

"15–15!" the umpire called.

"O-Ohmagari…?"

Japan’s team stared in disbelief.

Their unshakable endurance specialist had just committed a rookie mistake—against an opponent who hadn’t even broken a sweat.

"Regional advantage," Mitsuya sighed. "Lohar hails from South Asia, where average temperatures exceed 25°C. In peak heat, it can hit 55°C. His sweat glands are less active—he simply doesn’t perspire as much."

The team fell silent.

Even Kaji shot Ohmagari a sympathetic look.

No one had expected him to face someone who could outlast him at his own game.

Slip!

Twelve minutes into the third point—another misfire.

"Out!"

"15–30!"

"Damn it!" Ohmagari cursed under his breath.

His right hand—and racket—were now slick with sweat. His grip was ruined.

Meanwhile, Lohar stood as impassive as ever.

"Give me a break," Ohmagari groaned inwardly. "What kind of luck pits me against a monster like this?"

His gaze flicked toward the bench, where Ishikawa sat watching.

Their captain merely smiled.

"Senpai, this should be child’s play for you, no?"

Ohmagari sighed.

But India’s team, tracking the exchange, stiffened.

Kirān, their polyglot strategist, translated Ishikawa’s words for his teammates.

"Child’s play?" one Indian player sneered. "The arrogance!"

Others nodded.

As much as they feared Ishikawa, the facts spoke for themselves: Japan’s so-called endurance king was being outclassed.

Boom!

Ohmagari served again.

Lohar remained a statue—cold, unshakable.

Boom!

The deadlock resumed.

Just as India’s team began mentally tallying the win—

Boom!

Ohmagari switched hands, driving a vicious topspin shot with his left.

"Left-handed?!" an Indian player blurted.

"No," Kirān corrected, frowning. "This is Ohmagari Ryōji’s signature—Dual Wielding."

"Most players defend in an irregular semicircle, favoring their dominant side. But a true ambidextrous player? Their coverage expands by 30% or more."

Boom!

Seizing the opening, Ohmagari swapped back to his right and fired a winner down the line.

"30–30!"

The crowd buzzed.

For the first time, the stoic Lohar’s mask cracked—his eyes flashing with intrigue.

"Equal proficiency in both hands…?"

A spark of admiration ignited in his gaze—followed by a sharper edge of determination.

"Defeating a player like this… will be far more satisfying."

He widened his stance, bracing for battle.

Ohmagari served once more.

The war of attrition resumed—but now, with his Dual Wielding in play, Ohmagari’s slight edge began compounding.

Boom!

"40–30!"

Boom!

"Game!"

"Japan leads, 1–0! Change ends!"

Ohmagari drew first blood.

In Lohar’s service game, the Indian remained unfazed.

After a 40-minute marathon, Ohmagari finally grasped the truth: this was Lohar’s natural state.

No hesitation. No wasted energy.

So Ohmagari stopped holding back.

His Dual Wielding unleashed, he attacked from both wings.

Boom!

By the one-hour mark, he broke serve—2–0.

Boom!

1 hour, 15 minutes in—3–0!

Then, in the fourth game (Lohar’s serve), something shifted.

Cornered, the Indian’s fighting spirit flared.

"Go, big brother!"

A girl’s voice from the stands ignited Lohar’s resolve.

His aura surged. No more holding back.

Four minutes into the rally—Lohar switched hands, mirroring Ohmagari’s technique with a sudden left-handed strike.

Boom!

"15–0!"

"Dual Wielding?!" Japan’s team gasped.

"Not quite," Tokugawa countered. "He’s replicating it on the fly—his control’s still rough."

"He’s learning it mid-match?!"

India’s coach, the heavyset Viyas, smirked.

"This is Atra’s gift. Hardship forged his mind. In absolute focus, he adapts."

To Viyas, true danger wasn’t the flashy stars—but men like Lohar, who honed their craft in silence, relentless as dripping water wearing through stone.

Boom!

Lohar attacked fiercely.

His Dual Wielding, once clumsy, grew sharper by the minute.

Boom!

"Game! India, 1–3!"

Boom!

"Game! India, 2–3!"

Boom!

"Game! India, 3–3!"

In a stunning reversal, Lohar swept three straight games, erasing Ohmagari’s lead.

"INDIA!"

The crowd roared, momentum crushing down on Ohmagari.

Japan’s team clenched their fists.

Mōri and Genjiro exchanged worried glances. Under this pressure, any player’s resolve could shatter—

"Huh?"

Mōri’s eyes widened. "Since when—?!"

"What?" Genjiro followed his gaze.

"Look at Senpai’s badge!"

The team turned as one.

Ohmagari’s beanie, once pinned with a "No. 9" badge, now bore a "No. 6."

"About time," Kaji chuckled, arms crossed. "He’s finally serious."

Chapter 320: The Limits of Human Willpower (1)

"What do you mean?"

Hearing Kaji's words, Mōri asked curiously, "Senior Kaji, is there something special about Senior Ōmagari's actions?"

"Actually, Ryūji's No. 6 badge was earned when he teamed up with No. 2, Tanegashima, to defeat a former first-string senior," explained Kikumaru from the side. "Because of that, he’s always underestimated his own abilities. He thinks he just got lucky riding on his partner’s coattails."

"But," Kikumaru shook his head, "Ryūji is definitely selling himself short. When he’s slacking off, sure, he seems unfocused. But once he gets serious, his spirit and determination become unshakable."

Thwack!

Just as Kikumaru said, Ōmagari—who had unconsciously straightened his badge—now had a sharper gaze, his entire aura completely different from before.

Boom!

A heavily spun serve shot out like a drill, one of the signature moves he’d honed through relentless practice.

The ball landed precisely on the service line before kicking up sharply.

"Hmm."

But Rohan’s response was steady.

Calm and composed, he never wavered under pressure, nor did he get cocky after scoring. He operated like a machine, methodically grinding through each point.

Adapt and endure.

That was Rohan’s philosophy in tennis.

Thud!

His dark-gray racket sliced through the air, returning Ōmagari’s serve.

"Arashitora (Wild Savage Tiger)!"

Suddenly, Ōmagari swung with blinding speed.

The edge of his racket struck the ball, the metallic frame vibrating violently as the shot roared like a tiger.

Boom!

The phantom beast tore across the court, the ball ricocheting off the ground.

"15-0!"

"He’s pulling out his techniques now?"

Kiran, India’s strategist, narrowed his eyes.

He had studied Japan’s representatives and noticed something peculiar—from No. 8 to No. 2, each possessed unique abilities, their talents extraordinary.

This man wasn’t just an endurance specialist. He was a technical master, skilled in dual-wielding and precision shots.

"His wrists are incredibly flexible," Kiran said gravely. "Based on his past matches, he usually wields two rackets, which boosts his performance even further. But this time, he seems to have changed tactics."

"Two rackets?!"

One of India’s players gasped. "Isn’t that against the rules?"

"No," Kiran shook his head. "According to tennis regulations, as long as it doesn’t violate any explicit rules, it’s permitted."

Thud!

Ōmagari scored again.

His relentless assault, like an unending earthquake, finally cracked Rohan’s defenses.

Boom!

Another strike—this time, a metallic-edged smash—sent a tiger’s roar crashing down, engulfing Rohan completely.

"Game!"

"Japan leads, 4-3!"

The score widened once more, Ōmagari’s ferocity leaving a deep impression. The Indian team and spectators grew tense.

Yet, the dark-skinned young man on the court remained expressionless, as if the phantom tiger had been nothing but an illusion.

Ōmagari ferocious intensity sent shockwaves through the stadium. The Indian players and spectators alike tensed under the pressure.

Yet, the dark-skinned young man on the court remained eerily calm—as if the phantom tiger that had loomed over Ōban moments earlier had been nothing but an illusion.

Now serving, Roka delivered the ball with mechanical precision. But Ōban refused to let him settle, launching relentless attacks before his opponent could find his rhythm.

First rally: 10+ exchanges – Ōban seized the point.

Second rally: 30+ exchanges – a grueling back-and-forth.

Third rally: 100+ shots – neither willing to yield.

Fourth rally: A 10-minute deadlock with no winner.

"Again?!" The Japanese team’s brows furrowed.

What should’ve been a dominant performance had devolved into an exhausting stalemate—again.

"Well done, Roka." Coach Viyas nodded approvingly.

On the surface, Roka was unremarkable—no flashy techniques, no genius instincts. Just quiet, dogged perseverance.

But that was exactly why Viyas valued him.

Men like him don’t break. Not under pressure. Not even under thunder.

Three years prior, during India’s match against Argentina, their opponent’s No. 2 player had stormed to a 5-0 lead in the first set…

…only to take three hours to clinch it.

The second set repeated the pattern—another 5-0 lead, yet Argentina never reached match point.

By the 4.5-hour mark, exhaustion claimed them. Roka struck back, victorious.

To Viyas, this was a marathon. Early speed meant nothing over 40 kilometers.

And Roka?

He’d been supporting his younger sister since age 10. Adaptation wasn’t just a skill—it was survival.

Now, Ōmagari killer shots had lost their edge. The match dissolved into a grinding war of endurance, the scoreboard crawling forward minute by minute.

10 minutes. 30 minutes. An hour.

The morning sun climbed into a scorching noon. Spectators, irritable from the heat, cycled in and out for bathroom breaks.

Then—three hours in—the unthinkable happened.

THUD.

The chair umpire collapsed from heatstroke, triggering chaos. After a rushed medical check (thankfully, just a bruised tailbone), a replacement took over as the stadium’s retractable roof finally closed, offering meager relief.

The score? 6-5, Ōban leading.

But Roka’s serve in the 12th game was ice-cold—his focus unshaken despite the sauna-like conditions. After 30 more minutes of brutal rallies, he forced a tiebreak.

"I can’t hold it anymore!" An Indian player bolted for the restroom, sparking a mass exodus. Soon, their bench held only a handful of players.

In stark contrast, the Japanese team remained disciplined—no panic, just orderly rotations.

"Hmm." Viyas’s gaze sharpened. "This captain’s control is absolute."

That quiet authority confirmed his suspicions: This "Ishikawa" must’ve overthrown his predecessor in battle.

If this dragged to Singles 1, India was doomed.

"Roka," Viyas muttered, "you must win this."

The tiebreak stretched another hour. Sweat poured like rivers; breaths came in ragged gasps.

Finally—Ōban took the first set.

"YES!" The Japanese team erupted, rare excitement breaking through their usual composure.

Yet Ōban felt no triumph. Across the net, Roka’s resolve hadn’t flickered.

Second set: The nightmare repeated. Two more hours. Seven total.

Both players’ skin burned red, steam rising off them like overheated engines. Their movements slowed, but their eyes—

—still sharp. Still hungry.

"Ryūji’s ‘Tenacity’ is kicking in," Kimijima observed. "The worse it gets, the harder his spirit burns. He’d play on broken limbs if he had to."

The veterans nodded. They’d seen this before.

"But that Indian…" Mitsuya adjusted his glasses. "Seven hours in, and his form’s still pristine. That’s hundreds of thousands of repetitions."

A collective shudder.

At 1,000 drills daily, 100,000 takes three years. Yet Roka had only played for four—meaning his training bordered on self-destruction.

The Final Stand

"Arena…"

Roka’s eyes flicked to his little sister in the stands—the reason he’d clawed his way out of poverty.

"Even if I die here—!"

BOOM.

A surge of energy erupted from him. He’d been holding back.

Ōmagari lips curled. "Good. I’ll match you step for step."

The rallies became primal. Roars punctuated each shot, voices fraying to hoarse growls.

By hour 8, minute 43, their bodies betrayed them.

Muscles locked. Vision blurred.

THUD. THUD.

Under the bleeding sunset, both collapsed simultaneously.