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🕑 Added 2025-07-02 16:34:53 +0000 UTCChapter 476: The Art of Tennis – An Impassable Mental Fortress
Thud!
"40-0!"
In the blink of an eye, Fuji secured another point.
The bespectacled strategist of the French team, Georges, glanced around, searching for the ball’s trajectory.
"Did he merge it with the wind?"
Outside the court, Camus—known as the Revolutionary of Tennis—watched the brown-haired boy with surprise. "A brilliant idea. But Edgar should’ve already seen through this move."
Smack!
Sure enough, when Fuji served for the fourth time, the French high schooler—his eyes marked with streaks of paint—sprang into action. His sharp gaze locked onto an empty spot in the air before his racket sliced through, producing a crisp ping as it connected with the ball.
"He hit it!"
"That’s Edgar for you!"
"The so-called ‘genius’ of Japan only lasted three serves. Still, losing a point before Edgar figured it out is something to be proud of—wait, what?!"
But then—
Fuji, positioned at the baseline, unleashed a perfectly placed drop shot. The ball barely bounced after touching the ground, rolling past a stunned Georges.
"Game!"
"Japan leads, 1-0! Change sides!"
"That drop shot…"
Edgar’s expression shifted.
Even Georges, the bespectacled boy, shot Fuji a sharp glance. Both could feel the pressure radiating from their opponent.
"Georges."
As they switched sides, Delacroix turned to the younger player. "Focus on your role. Leave the rest to me."
"Understood."
Georges nodded quickly before retreating behind the baseline, yielding the court to his teammate.
"Oh?"
Inui raised an eyebrow. "They’re sending out their high schooler already?"
Most teams followed the same strategy—let the middle schoolers test the waters before the high schoolers stepped in to secure victory. But the French team was flipping the script.
"Could it be… their middle schooler is stronger?"
Yanagi’s speculation sent a ripple of tension through the Japanese team. With Ryoma’s precedent fresh in their minds, the possibility seemed all too real.
Thwack!
Tezuka served with blistering speed, kicking off the next game.
"Nice one."
Edgar grinned, swinging his racket in a powerful counterdrive aimed straight at Fuji. A clear challenge.
"Hmph."
Fuji responded with a faint smile. Tilting his racket, he absorbed the ball’s momentum with precise friction, neutralizing most of its force before sending it back—even faster than Edgar’s original shot.
"Pointless."
Momoshiro scoffed from the stands. "Fuji’s faced powerhouses like the Swiss team’s doubles pair. This level of force is nothing to him."
"Not bad."
Edgar acknowledged inwardly.
That shot had been a test, and Fuji’s adaptability was impressive. His return was flawless—no openings to exploit.
"If power won’t work, let’s try this."
Edgar switched tactics, intercepting with a sharp topspin volley. The ball shot across the net, its violent spin making spectators flinch.
"His explosive power is insane."
Tachibana’s eyes narrowed.
"True," Chitose agreed. "But he’s underestimating his opponent."
Swish!
Fuji adjusted instantly, slicing downward with a clean tap. The ball arced back—
"Good reflexes."
Edgar’s brows lifted slightly.
Fuji’s skill surpassed most middle schoolers, even within the French team. But—
"My real probing starts now."
Just as Edgar prepared another strike—
Whoosh!
The ball’s descent was faster than expected. Before Edgar could react, it skimmed the ground, sliding almost flat instead of bouncing.
"That’s… his counter move?!"
Georges, who had been analyzing from the back, barely dodged in time.
He’d seen Fuji’s techniques on screen during the group stage. But experiencing them firsthand? Terrifying.
And with those two Japanese players who’d mastered Synchro and Mimicry earlier…
Just how strong is Japan’s middle school lineup?!
"This kid’s impressive."
Delacroix studied Fuji with newfound respect.
At first, he’d merely admired Fuji’s talent. But after that move? His evaluation had just skyrocketed.
"Alright then. Let’s have some fun."
Adjusting his stance, Delacroix’s aura sharpened—like a blade unsheathed.
Thud!
Georges served.
Fuji returned smoothly.
Delacroix, playing front guard, took a measured step back before launching a heavy topspin shot.
"What’s he doing?"
Momoshiro frowned. "Doesn’t he know Fuji’s Phoenix Return relies on topspin?"
"No, he knows."
Oishi shook his head. "He’s doing this… on purpose."
Eiji, Kaidoh, and the others tensed. Delacroix was a top French player—he had to understand Fuji’s techniques.
Which meant…
Swish!
As Fuji executed Phoenix Return, Delacroix moved.
His arms spread wide, body leaning forward like a diving hawk—
Whoosh!
With a low, sweeping motion, his racket lifted the skimming ball cleanly off the ground.
"What?!"
Momoshiro and Kaidoh’s eyes widened.
They’d seen opponents counter Fuji’s moves before—usually by avoiding topspin altogether. But Delacroix had just brute-forced a return like it was nothing.
And worse—he looked completely at ease.
"It’s starting."
On the French side, smiles spread among the players.
**"Edgar’s theater… has begun."**
Thud!
Fuji felt it immediately—the sheer force behind the return, like blocking a hawk’s strike. He barely managed to soften the impact, leaving no room for a counter. His only option? A defensive lob.
Swish!
Delacroix struck again.
This time, his wrist flicked sharply, slicing the ball sideways—
Zip! Zing!
The ball twisted midair, zigzagging like a viper through grass. Unpredictable. Unreadable.
"A cobra shot?!"
Inui and Yanagi stiffened.
The technique resembled that move—the one used by Kite, the vanished captain of Higa.
But Fuji stood firm.
His racket lifted—
Snap!
He intercepted the ball effortlessly, neutralizing its spin in an instant.
"There it is!"
Momoshiro and Kaidoh cheered. "Fuji’s Floating Cloud Containment!"
"This guy…"
Delacroix’s eyes glinted.
His moves were being dismantled one after another.
So he shifted again—
A leopard’s speed.
A bear’s brute force.
Each strike embodied a different animal’s essence, pressuring Fuji relentlessly.
Swish!
Sensing the mounting pressure, Fuji closed his eyes, activating Mind’s Eye.
Without visual distractions, Delacroix’s illusions weakened.
"Persistent little brat."
Delacroix’s smirk faded.
Then—he spread his arms wide.
"But art isn’t just about what the eyes can see."
Boom.
Fuji’s mind flashed—
A colossal white gate loomed before him, radiating overwhelming majesty.
By the time he snapped his eyes open—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The ball rolled behind him.
"15-15."
"Did… anyone else see a giant white gate just now?"
"The Arc de Triomphe," Mitsuya explained grimly. "One of France’s landmarks. He’s fused art and tennis seamlessly."
A hawk’s speed.
A viper’s cunning.
A leopard’s ferocity.
A bear’s raw power.
Each stroke wasn’t just imitation—it was artistry. Every swing painted a masterpiece with spin, power, and precision.
Even Fuji, the genius, was being outplayed.
"And that’s not all."
Inui adjusted his glasses. "From the start, he’s been controlling the spin to limit Fuji’s counters."
Delacroix wasn’t just overpowering Fuji—he was outthinking him.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The match continued, but Delacroix held the advantage. Soon, he clinched the second game—1-1.
Third game. Tezuka’s serve.
A lightning-fast opener.
Yet again, the battle narrowed to Fuji vs. Delacroix.
And again, Delacroix countered Fuji’s techniques with seasoned precision.
"At this rate… Fuji’s gonna—"
Momoshiro and the others grew anxious.
Delacroix’s experience and skill were overwhelming Fuji. Worse—with each exchange, Fuji’s options seemed to shrink, as if Delacroix could anticipate his every move.
Boom.
The Arc de Triomphe reappeared.
Its crushing presence shattered Fuji’s focus.
"0-40!"
Three points—just like that.
"What is that gate?!"
Shishido’s voice was tight.
If it was an illusion, why did Mind’s Eye fail? But if it was real—how?!
"A mental assault, perhaps."
Mitsuya frowned. "Channeling his will through the sound, spin, and impact of the ball."
Like kendo.
Sanada and Ryoma both blended swordplay with tennis—Sanada at a basic level, Ryoma at mastery.
Delacroix, meanwhile, merged tennis with painting.
His racket was a brush.
Spin, power, and speed—his palette.
And the Arc de Triomphe? His magnum opus.
Boom.
Delacroix struck again.
The towering gate materialized, its majesty freezing Fuji in place.
"This is the gap between middle schoolers and high schoolers."
Camus sighed.
Fuji’s mental resilience was decent—but not enough. The sheer weight of Delacroix’s art crushed his focus.
Which made Camus wonder—
His gaze slid toward Japan’s bench, settling on that black-haired boy.
He knows the difference between middle and high schoolers. So why field two middle school pairs in the first matches? Is he that confident in his singles players?
Tap.
A soft sound.
"Hm?"
Camus, Barte, and the others turned.
Delacroix and Georges looked up.
The bespectacled boy—Tezuka—had just lightly tapped the ball over the net.
"Did he just… break through Arc de Triomphe?!"
Georges was stunned.
He’d tried before—but the gate’s pressure always overwhelmed him.
"Not bad."
Delacroix’s lips curled. "But against me—"
He lunged forward—
Only for the ball to slide backward after the bounce, spinning into the net.
"…Huh?"
Silence.
The entire stadium froze.
Even the French team stared, slack-jawed.
Chapter 477: The Manipulated Puppet
"15–40."
The referee’s voice broke the tense silence in the stadium.
"What… kind of slice was that?"
On the French team’s side, everyone’s eyes widened in shock. Even Camus couldn’t hide his surprise as he stared at the motionless tennis ball resting against the net.
"That middle schooler is no joke!"
"That was… an incredible slice."
Barte and Moreau exchanged uneasy glances. The level of that slice was masterful—something rarely seen even among high schoolers, let alone a middle schooler.
At the very least…
They both knew they couldn’t pull off a shot like that themselves.
As for the "French Prince" and the other players, their shock was even greater. Especially for Charlemagne, who had trained in horseback tennis since childhood and prided himself on his exceptional technique.
But this slice made him realize just how strong his opponent was.
"Wait!"
Someone suddenly spoke up. "If I remember right, didn’t this guy defeat Hermes from Greece in the group stage?"
"Hermes?!"
Barte and Moreau stiffened.
They knew him—a third-year high schooler who had performed well in several European tournaments. While not top-tier in this year’s World Cup, he was undoubtedly a mid-to-high-level player.
Even they weren’t confident they could beat Hermes.
Yet this unassuming middle schooler, who had barely stood out before, had defeated him?
"That’s right."
Camus nodded in recollection. "Tetsuka Kunimitsu is one of Japan’s strongest players—second only to Ishikawa."
"One of them?"
"There are others?"
Barte and Moreau were stunned.
"Yes." Camus confirmed. "Japan’s middle school lineup is deep this year. Aside from Ishikawa, there are at least three or four others on Tetsuka’s level—"
He suddenly paused mid-sentence, as if realizing something.
"Seriously?!"
Barte and Moreau were completely floored.
If Japan had five middle schoolers at Hermes’ level, their junior lineup alone could rank among the best in the tournament.
"Wait a second—!"
Abruptly, the two of them froze, a thought striking them.
"No way…"
Moreau turned to look at Japan’s team formation. What had once seemed ordinary now appeared sharply divided—middle schoolers and high schoolers standing in clear, separate groups.
"You don’t think…" Barte’s voice trembled slightly. "They’re planning to field only middle schoolers, are they?"
The idea was absurd. Unthinkable.
"No, that can’t be."
Moreau shook his head firmly.
No coach would be reckless enough to send an all-middle school lineup in the World Cup. This wasn’t child’s play—France was a Big 4 team. Even Germany wouldn’t dare underestimate them like that.
"Hmm—!"
On the court, Delacroix made his move.
Behind him, an illusion materialized—a serene landscape of birds, flowers, butterflies, squirrels, and deer coexisting in harmony.
"There it is."
Barte and Moreau’s expressions sharpened. "Delacroix’s signature move—‘Nature’!"
Unlike the grandeur of the Arc de Triomphe, this technique was subtle. But that very simplicity made it nearly impossible to counter.
Sometimes, the most straightforward moves were the hardest to break.
"Thwack!"
But in the next instant—
Tetsuka struck.
A pale yellow streak of light erupted beneath Delacroix’s feet.
"30–40."
"Hiss—!"
The French team collectively sucked in a breath.
"That’s insane," someone muttered. "Even Delacroix couldn’t react in time?"
"You…!"
Delacroix’s gaze darkened as he locked onto Tetsuka. That shot—he hadn’t even seen it coming.
And though his opponent’s demeanor remained calm, an overwhelming pressure radiated from him.
Delacroix knew he was facing a true master.
This middle schooler’s skill was on par with the best high schoolers in the world.
Realizing this, he steeled himself, unleashing his full aura.
"Hmm—!"
A swirling, multicolored energy erupted from him.
"The Aura of Art!"
The French team’s spirits lifted.
"Already?!"
Barte and Moreau were stunned. "Delacroix is releasing his restraints this early?"
"His opponent isn’t ordinary," Camus said calmly. "This level of skill rivals even some team aces. Delacroix is making the right call—he can’t afford to hold back."
In Camus’ view, strategy meant analyzing the opponent’s strength and adapting accordingly. Against a formidable rival, hesitation was a mistake.
Delacroix wasn’t wrong.
France needed to secure this third match while they still had the advantage.
"Tap."
"Tap."
"Tap."
Yet despite Delacroix’s shift in momentum, Tetsuka remained unfazed. He continued bouncing the ball, adjusting his rhythm with perfect calm.
"Whoosh!"
Then—
He tossed the ball, arched his body, and fired off a serve so precise it barely kissed the service line.
"This serve—!"
Georges’ eyes widened. The ball was fast. Too fast. And its placement was so exact that for a split second, he thought it might be out.
But he knew better.
"Swish!"
He adjusted his stance, ready to return it—
"Thud!"
Only for the ball to land perfectly on the line, spin violently, and then…
"Skkrt—!"
…roll backward along the ground.
"Deuce (40–40)!"
Silence.
The stadium fell deathly quiet.
Then, a collective gasp.
"That serve…"
Barte and Moreau shuddered. Even Camus reevaluated the bespectacled boy before him. The technique on display was staggering.
"Zero-Shiki Serve…"
On Japan’s side, Yukimura, Atobe, and the others tensed.
"His technique has improved again," Sanada muttered grimly.
Even in his base form, Tetsuka’s Zero-Shiki Serve had reached an absurd level. And for those who had seen it countless times before, it was downright terrifying.
"Not surprising."
Inui adjusted his glasses. "Since the Kantō Tournament, Tetsuka has been refining his slice daily. After joining U-17, he never let up—especially after the shuffle matches."
His gaze flickered toward a certain black-haired boy standing nearby, a faint smile on his lips.
The others understood immediately.
Tetsuka had always been a prodigy. Though injuries had once held him back, his fundamentals were rock-solid.
His loss during the Kantō Tournament had only fueled his determination, driving him to train relentlessly.
And he wasn’t alone.
Yukimura, Atobe—they had all pushed themselves to the limit, unwilling to fall behind.
That was why Japan’s middle school roster stood unrivaled in the world.
"Hmph!"
A cold laugh echoed across the court.
Delacroix lowered into a defensive stance, eyes blazing. "Let’s see just how strong that serve of yours really is."
"Thwack!"
Tetsuka served again—another impossible reverse-spin shot that left Delacroix frozen in place.
"Advantage, server!"
"Gulp."
Delacroix swallowed hard.
He had used his "Eagle’s Vision" to track the serve’s trajectory and prepared to counter with "Cheetah’s Speed"—
But before he could even move, the ball’s spin had already taken effect.
"A serve on par with the pros…"
That was the only way to describe it.
The precision was beyond his comprehension. Even if he understood the theory, executing it was another matter entirely.
Realizing this, Delacroix changed tactics.
"Thud!"
With another flawless serve, Japan took the third game, reclaiming the lead.
Cheers erupted from Japan’s side, while the French team remained silent, their eyes fixed on Delacroix. Feeling the pressure, he steeled himself.
"Bam!"
"Bam!"
"Bam!"
But no matter how fiercely he attacked, he couldn’t break through.
"I don’t believe this!"
Seizing an opening, he unleashed a furious smash—only for Fuji to intercept it with "Kirinnashi," countering for the point.
"This isn’t working…"
Delacroix’s expression darkened.
"Georges, any progress?"
"Not yet."
The mushroom-haired boy with glasses shook his head. "His data is too complex. I’ll need at least thirty more minutes to analyze it."
"Thirty minutes?!"
Delacroix’s face twisted.
The last few minutes had felt like an eternity. Thirty more would be torture.
"Fine."
With a sigh, he did something unexpected—pulling out a paintbrush, he began drawing on Georges’ face, transforming him into a circus clown.
"What’s this…?"
Japan’s team stiffened as the boy’s aura shifted unnaturally.
"Hypnosis?"
Yagyu and Kaneshiro frowned, sensing the surge of mental energy.
Something felt… off.
It was as if the boy had become nothing more than a puppet—controlled by the high schooler beside him!
Chapter 478: Artistic Synchronization, Tezuka’s Perfect Harmony
Delacroix was a man of immense pride.
As a third-year high schooler, losing to two middle schoolers was unthinkable—an absolute line he refused to cross.
So, he activated his other ability—Artistic Hypnosis!
"Using pigments to alter his partner’s personality through hypnosis?"
On the sidelines, Mitsuya’s expression darkened.
This ability was terrifyingly effective in doubles. Especially since Jonah Saint-Georges was already a formidable player—now, with his data rewritten, he became nearly impossible to predict.
"Thwack!"
Delacroix served again.
But this time, instead of reckless aggression, he hung back near the baseline, covering for the now-transformed Georges.
"Tap! Tap!"
The small, unassuming boy darted across the court with startling speed.
Though he looked harmless, Fuji sensed danger radiating from him.
"Bam!"
Sure enough—
Georges lunged forward without warning, intercepting the ball with a vicious half-volley aimed straight at Fuji.
"Look out!"
In the stands, Fuji Yuuta (Oshitari) gasped.
The shot was too fast—he wouldn’t have been able to react in time. If it hit, the impact could cause serious injury.
"Snap!"
But Fuji adjusted instantly, barely managing to return the ball.
"Hah!"
Georges leaped into the air, analyzing Fuji’s stance with razor-sharp focus—then struck at his weak point.
"15–15."
Landing lightly, the painted boy smirked. "Your weakness is exposed."
"This guy…!"
Momoshiro and Kaidoh scowled, irritated by his arrogance.
Yet even they couldn’t deny the bizarre effectiveness of his playstyle. No matter how closely they watched, they couldn’t decipher its mechanics.
On the court, Georges dominated Fuji, pushing him to the brink. But just as the French team thought they’d seized control—
"40–30."
Fuji countered with a backhand slice, stealing the point.
"Tch."
Delacroix narrowed his eyes.
He hadn’t expected Fuji to adapt so quickly.
"No matter."
With a confident grin, he called Georges over. In seconds, he wiped off the existing paint and redrew a new persona onto the boy’s face.
"What?!"
Japan’s team stiffened.
For data players like Inui and Yanagi, this was a nightmare. Imagine finally compiling an opponent’s stats—only for them to completely change mid-match.
Even Fuji, who didn’t rely on data, struggled.
"Game! France leads, 2–2."
The fourth game went to France, tying the score.
"FRANCE! FRANCE! FRANCE!"
The crowd roared, momentum swinging in their favor.
Yet Tezuka and Fuji remained unshaken.
"Hmph. Fake composure."
Delacroix smirked. "Once we pull ahead, that calm will shatter."
He was confident in his artistic masterpiece.
And with Georges steadily gathering data, victory was inevitable.
"Bam! Bam! Bam!"
France’s assault intensified, overwhelming Fuji.
"Heh."
Georges grinned behind his clown-like makeup. "Your blind spot—right here."
He fired a shot at Fuji’s right foot—a calculated strike based on his data.
"Oh?"
But Fuji’s eyes gleamed. "You really think you’ve figured me out?"
"Wh—?!"
Before Georges could react, Fuji lobbed the ball sky-high.
"A misfire?"
The French team blinked in confusion. At that angle, the ball should’ve sailed out of bounds.
"Pathetic."
Georges scoffed—until the ball plummeted like a meteor, skidding out of reach after the bounce.
"That’s… impossible!"
The French players gaped.
"Syusuke Fuji… the 'Genius.'"
Camus watched, intrigued.
Such brilliance would fit right into France’s roster—even among the Big 4, Fuji could’ve been a core player.
"This… can’t be real."
Georges’ confidence wavered.
He’d meticulously recorded Fuji’s data, yet the boy kept defying logic.
"Your next return… won’t clear the net."
"Bullshit! My shot is perf—"
"Thud."
The ball nosedived into the net.
"Guh…?!"
Georges froze.
"Game! Japan leads, 3–2."
Japan reclaimed the lead.
France’s team and fans were stunned.
"That spin…!"
Delacroix gritted his teeth.
He’d figured out Fuji’s trick, but that didn’t help—because Tezuka still loomed like a colossus.
If he and Georges focused on Fuji, Tezuka would strike.
And Georges was breaking down.
"Fine. Then I’ll do this."
At the start of the sixth game, Delacroix did the unthinkable—he painted his own face.
"Self-hypnosis?!"
Yukimura’s eyes widened.
"Artistic tennis… impressive."
Atobe smirked, acknowledging the bold move.
"Bam! Bam! Bam!"
France’s coordination became flawless.
Delacroix, now enhanced, dismantled Fuji’s techniques with ease. Soon, they were dominating the match.
"No way…!"
Kikumaru stared. "They’re getting stronger?!"
"Not an illusion."
Niou frowned. "Their synergy’s reached top-tier doubles level."
"Indeed."
Mizuki nodded. "If before they were just decent… now they’re synchronized."
Their movements were perfectly aligned—no signals needed.
"Game! 3–3."
France tied again.
"Why? How?!"
Momoshiro was baffled.
"Hey, Chitose."
Thousand Eyes’ Tachibana turned to his former teammate. "Don’t their movements seem… familiar?"
"Yeah."
A realization struck.
"Synchro?!"
"Figured it out?"
Delacroix grinned, his painted face wild and fierce. "I got the idea from that illusion-user on Japan’s team."
He added matching patterns to Georges’ face, linking their wavelengths.
"So that’s it!"
Niou’s eyes sharpened.
"He’s using identical hypnosis to force their playstyles into sync—creating artificial Synchro!"
"And by changing the patterns, he can switch styles mid-match. Monstrous."
"Synchro… through art."
The crowd murmured in awe.
"Artistic Synchro, huh?"
Fuji’s eyes burned with fighting spirit.
"Hmm—!"
Activating "Wind’s Dominion," he fought back alone against the pseudo-synchronized pair. Though pushed to his limits, he refused to yield, even pulling out "Light Wind" to stay in the game.
Meanwhile, Tezuka watched calmly, as if uninvolved.
At first, it seemed like arrogance—letting Fuji bear the brunt alone.
But as the match wore on, Fuji held his ground, grinding down France’s stamina.
"Wait…"
Camus’ eyes narrowed.
"Is he using Delacroix and Georges as whetstones to sharpen Fuji?!"
An insane thought—but true.
Fuji thrived under pressure, unlocking new heights. But exhaustion soon took its toll.
"Now."
As Fuji neared collapse, Tezuka finally moved.
"Too late."
Delacroix sneered. "If you’d stepped in earlier, you might’ve had a chance."
"Heh."
Georges smirked. "Now it’s your turn to fall."
They’d crush Tezuka the same way.
"Out!"
"15–40."
"Wha—?!"
Delacroix’s shot had soared past the baseline.
He replayed the moment in his mind—the ball’s insane spin—and shuddered.
"Bam! Bam! Bam!"
Every shot after either flew out or was sucked into Tezuka’s orbit.
"This guy…!"
Delacroix and Georges trembled.
The boy before them no longer felt like a middle schooler—but an immovable mountain.
"Grr…!"
Pride fueling him, Delacroix pushed harder—
Only for Tezuka’s next shot to blast between his legs.
"Guh…!"
Looking up, Delacroix’s breath caught.
Tezuka stood bathed in glowing particles—a vision of perfect harmony.
"Game and first set! Japan wins, 6–3!"
Chapter 479: An All-Middle School Roster?! Japan's Gone Mad!
The first set ended. Silence engulfed the stadium.
The French team stared in disbelief. They couldn’t fathom how Delacroix and Georges—who had entered a unique Synchro state—had been suppressed by just one opponent.
Even Camus and the others wore grim expressions.
If even Synchro wasn’t enough… then this match was already lost.
However—
Camus was a tactical master.
During the break before the second set, he pulled Delacroix and Georges aside, meticulously outlining a new strategy.
In Camus’ view, Tezuka was too formidable to confront head-on. They had to pivot—target Fuji instead.
At the same time, Delacroix could use this opportunity to refine his Artistic Synchro.
But when the match resumed—
Things didn’t go as planned.
Fuji remained ice-cold under the French duo’s assault, countering with an array of techniques.
Then, he unleashed Light Wind, shattering their offensive completely.
Thud!
Finally, at the 56-minute mark—
Fuji’s Phoenix Return skimmed the ground, leaving Delacroix and Georges frozen in shock.
"Doubles 1 concluded!"
The chair umpire’s voice boomed. "Japan wins, 6-3, 6-1!"
"WOOOOO!!!"
The crowd erupted.
Even neutral spectators joined the cheers, now fans of Tezuka and Fuji’s dazzling play.
Meanwhile, the French team’s morale plummeted.
"We… actually lost."
Prince Charlottle’s face darkened.
With the score tied 1-1, Japan’s decision to field four middle schoolers in the first two matches had backfired spectacularly. Even with his confidence, facing potential pro-level players like Byodoin and Oni was daunting.
"Captain."
Taking a deep breath, Charlottle turned to Camus. "I’ll go warm up."
"Go."
Camus nodded.
He could see his teammate’s unease. Some pre-match drills might steady his nerves.
"Next up, Singles 3!"
The stadium speakers crackled to life.
"Representing France: Oshuwaru Duran (Middle 3)."
"Representing Japan: Yukimura Seiichi (Middle 3)."
"Players, prepare to take the court."
"Huh?"
Charlottle, mid-stride, halted. "Yukimura… Seiichi? Not Byodoin or Oni? Wait—is this another middle schooler?!"
His eyes shot to the giant screen displaying the players’ names and ages.
His pupils contracted.
Middle schooler.
Japan had placed a middle schooler in Singles 3 too?!
"What?"
Barte and Moreau exchanged stunned glances.
They’d guessed right.
Japan was running an all-middle-school lineup.
"YES! It’s Captain Yukimura!"
In the stands, Kintarou whooped.
Even though he hadn’t made the roster, seeing his upperclassman play was thrilling enough.
"Yukimura…"
Yagyuu and Marui narrowed their eyes.
"What’s wrong?" Kintarou blinked.
"Everything."
Mizuki sighed. "Logically, Singles 1 should’ve been a high schooler. Our bench has plenty of them."
"Exactly."
Saeki nodded. "The rules only mandate three middle schoolers per match—no upper limit. Seems the coaches aren’t planning to use any high schoolers at all."
"Wait… an all-middle-school roster?!"
Eiji and Oishi gasped.
This was insane.
France was a Big 4 team. Even the lowest-ranked among them, Spain, dwarfed the 5th-place contenders.
Yet Japan’s coaches had drafted this absurd lineup. Did that mean their middle schoolers alone could rival the Big 4?!
"What if…"
Akutagawa mused, "this wasn’t the coaches’ decision?"
"Then whose—oh."
Hiyoshi’s retort died as his gaze landed on one person.
"The… vice-captain’s doing?"
Others nodded silently.
Anyone else, they’d dismiss it. But Ryoma? He’d long since transcended the labels of "middle schooler" or "high schooler." Even Byodoin and Oni deferred to him.
"He planned this from the start."
Hyotei’s data specialist, Ryou, adjusted his glasses. "With our middle schoolers’ strength, two wins are enough. And France’s middle schoolers stand no chance against ours."
"Spot on."
Mizuki and Yagyuu agreed.
Thanks to the tournament’s rules, this lineup followed a winning formula. Japan’s middle schoolers were in a league of their own globally.
So while an all-middle-school roster seemed reckless—
It was all under Ryoma’s control.
"Look."
Ryou smirked. "France’s already used three high schooler slots. That leaves only one for the remaining singles matches."
"The match… is already over."
Saeki and the others marveled.
To dominate a Big 4 team like this—before the final sets—was unheard of.
"Oshuwaru, huh?"
Meanwhile, Charlottle paused on his way to warm up.
He studied the black-cloaked figure stepping onto the court, then turned away.
"With his skills, as long as that monster Ryoma doesn’t play, none of Japan’s other middle schoolers stand a chance."
Even someone as proud as Charlottle respected Duran’s ability. Among middle schoolers, he’d only ever lost to one person.
(Of course, Charlottle conveniently ignored Tezuka’s earlier performance.)
"A player like Ryoma is once in a century. And Tezuka? Japan likely has no one else on that level."
Tezuka was too strong.
Next to him, even Fuji, Tachibana, and Chitose paled. In Charlottle’s mind, Japan’s remaining middle schoolers couldn’t possibly measure up.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Then—
The sound of rapid-fire ball strikes echoed nearby.
Charlottle’s brow arched.
Who’d be practicing multi-ball drills near Court 2 during a match?
"Hm?"
But as he approached, his expression shifted.
The area was deserted—no spectators.
Only one person stood on the court, rallying against a wall.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
With each swing, afterimages flickered—each corresponding to a ball. Charlottle’s sharp eyes quickly counted.
"Ten-ball drill?!"
The French prince’s gaze sharpened.
Ten balls.
Among elite high schoolers, this was a critical benchmark.
The gap between nine and ten was like a stream versus a river. Crossing into double digits meant brushing against pro-level territory.
And yet—
The player before him was unmistakably a middle schooler.
"Don’t tell me…"
A thought struck Charlottle. "This is my Singles 2 opponent?"
Whoosh!
Suddenly, the figure stopped.
The ten balls rebounding from the wall now hurtled straight toward Charlottle.
"You’ve got to be kidding me."
Eyes glinting, Charlottle’s form blurred—multiple afterimages intercepting each ball with precision returns.
"Heh."
The other boy simply weaved through the barrage, sidestepping with eerie calm before snatching the final ball out of the air.
Then, in flawless French, he smiled.
"Care for a warm-up, Prince of France?"
"This guy…"
Charlottle’s pulse spiked.
He’s targeting me.
A beat later, he grinned.
Why not crush his opponent early?
Striding forward, he entered the court.
Meanwhile – Stadium Court
The 10-minute break ended.
Two figures emerged—one from each team.
Japan’s Yukimura walked calmly onto the court, his blue hair and jacket fluttering in the breeze. The effortless grace drew whistles and cheers from female spectators.
In stark contrast—
France’s Oshuwaru Duran was shrouded in a black hooded cloak, only his eyes visible.
"Is that… a ninja outfit?"
Japan’s players gaped.
A French ninja?
Since when did those two words go together?
"Ridiculous."
Sanada scoffed.
To him, this was just another clown seeking attention. Someone even he could dismantle easily.
"A ninja gimmick, huh?"
Inui and Yanagi, however, saw deeper.
"Psychological warfare?" Yanagi mused.
If so, this match would hinge on mental battles—Duran’s specialty.
"Too bad for him."
Yanagi shook his head.
In any other area, Duran might’ve had an edge.
But when it came to the mind?
He stood zero chance.
Because aside from the anomaly named Ryoma—
In the realm of mental fortitude, even Tezuka and Atobe ranked below one person.
"Greetings."
At the net, Duran—in surprisingly fluent Japanese—bowed. "I am Oshuwaru Duran, a French ninja who admires Japanese culture."
"Oh?"
Yukimura smiled politely, shaking his hand. "Yukimura Seiichi. Pleasure."
"How arrogant!"
French middle schoolers bristled at Yukimura’s jacket-draped entrance. "He’s not even taking our player seriously!"
"Confident, I’ll give him that."
Moreau studied Yukimura closely. There was something… different about this one.
"Don’t underestimate him."
Barte crossed his arms. "If he’s in Singles 1, he’s strong."
After the first two matches, no one dared underestimate Japan’s middle schoolers. And considering even Tezuka had been placed in doubles…
Yukimura’s caliber was undoubtedly fearsome.
"Best of three sets."
The umpire’s voice rang out. "Japan to serve. Game start!"
"Finally!"
Duran bounced excitedly at the baseline, his antics drawing murmurs from the crowd.
"Is this guy a clown?"
Jackal muttered.
"No."
Marui’s eyes narrowed. "It’s not that simple."
Whoosh!
Suddenly—
Duran’s form split into a dozen identical copies, lining the baseline in a defensive wall.
"Shadow Clones?!"
Gasps erupted.
"Heheh."
Duran grinned. "Now, no matter where you serve—I’ll return it!"
Thud.
Yukimura’s serve landed at Duran’s feet before he could blink.
"15-0."
Silence.
All twelve clones stood frozen, sweat dripping.
Chapter 480: The Mighty Son of God – A Gaze That Sees Through the Future!
"Shadow clones? Just flashy tricks!"
Outside the court, Sanada scoffed coldly.
These gimmicks wouldn’t fool even him, let alone Yukimura. The opponent might think he was playing mind games with Japanese cultural references, but in reality, he was just a clown seeking attention.
"True."
Others like Tachibana and Senri nodded in agreement.
True "clone techniques" didn’t exist in tennis. The closest things were advanced abilities like Muga no Kyouchi (Selfless State) and Arayashiki (Eighth Consciousness). This French middle-schooler’s performance was embarrassingly clumsy.
"That serve…"
Meanwhile, as the shadow clones around him dissipated, leaving only the real Dohn, the boy looked up, his expression grave.
"He wasn’t joking."
He could feel it—the overwhelming pressure radiating from the Japanese player.
"Hah…"
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dohn adjusted his stance, ready to receive.
"Let’s continue."
"Alright."
Yukimura nodded, moving to the left side of the court. Without hesitation, he tossed the ball, swung his racket—
Thwack!
The ball shot across the net, its speed undiminished from before.
"Nice!"
Having learned from his earlier mistake, Dohn focused intently, tracking the ball’s trajectory. The moment it bounced, he twisted his body and swung—
Crack!
The ball flew back—fast, sharp, aimed precisely at a difficult angle. A clear counterattack.
But Yukimura remained unfazed. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he returned the shot. The ball landed right on the opposite sideline, leaving the French players stunned.
"30-0."
Dohn couldn’t reach it.
His body felt sluggish, like an old car trying to race a supercar.
"The aftereffects of the seal are still too much…"
He sighed inwardly but quickly steeled himself, resetting his stance.
"At least his fighting spirit is decent."
Sanada raised an eyebrow.
Most players would’ve crumbled under Yukimura’s pressure by now. Yet this flamboyant kid kept standing.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
But no matter how hard Dohn fought, he was no match for Yukimura. He lasted a few more rallies before being completely overwhelmed.
Boom!
The ball landed sharply at Dohn’s backhand side, shooting past him before he could react.
"Another line shot?!"
Behind his ninja mask, Dohn’s eyes widened in shock.
This pressure… It reminded him of facing France’s top high-schoolers.
"No."
His thoughts raced.
"Not even Balthazar or Moreau could play at this level."
It wasn’t just skill—it was the icy, unshakable aura Yukimura exuded. Every move felt calculated, every shot deliberate.
Dohn’s confidence wavered… but then hardened again.
"The match has only just begun. No matter how strong someone is, they still have emotions. If I can exploit that, I can turn this around."
That was his strategy.
Balthazar, Moreau, Delacroix, Georges—even Prince Charles de Luxembourg—had all fallen to his psychological warfare. Only Camus, the French team’s captain, had resisted.
And there was no way this middle-schooler, Yukimura Seiichi, had mental fortitude on par with Camus.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The match continued.
Yukimura dominated, his precision and control absolute. In what felt like an instant, he took five straight games.
Boom!
Another shot landed at the intersection of the baseline and sideline.
"Tch—!"
Dohn stretched desperately, but the ball barely grazed the tip of his racket before flying past.
"Game and first set! Japan’s Yukimura wins, 6-0!"
The crowd fell silent.
No one had expected this. France, ranked third in the world, was being humiliated in the singles match.
6-0.
The ninja-themed boy hadn’t won a single point.
"As expected of Captain Yukimura!"
In the stands, Kirihara watched with awe. Next to him, Yagyuu and Marui nodded solemnly.
Before Ryoma appeared, Yukimura had been the legend of middle-school tennis. When he first joined Rikkai, some mocked his nickname—*"Child of God."*
But after he crushed every regular in his path, no one dared question it.
Until Ryoma, Yukimura’s record had been flawless—total victories, not a single game lost.
Now, bathed in sunlight, he looked every bit the divine prodigy they remembered.
"Dohn."
During the break, Camus glanced at his teammate. "You okay?"
"Me? Of course!"
Dohn pulled down his mask, flashing a grin. "Don’t worry, Captain. He’s already walking into my trap."
This crushing defeat? All part of the plan. Once he unleashed his secret technique, the match would flip entirely.
"I believe in you."
Camus patted his shoulder.
Privately, he had doubts—but now wasn’t the time to voice them. Besides, Dohn’s mental tactics were formidable.
"Second set begins! Japan’s Yukimura to serve!"
Thwack!
A bullet-like serve tore through the air.
Sanada’s eyes flickered. Even without trying, Yukimura’s serves were now faster than his "Wind" technique.
Dohn, however, had adapted slightly. He returned the ball—but at a cost. His stamina was draining faster than usual.
After just a few exchanges, Yukimura found an opening and smashed the winner.
"15-0."
"Hah…"
Dohn exhaled heavily.
Too strong.
If not for his hidden card, he’d already have lost all hope.
The match continued just like the first set. Dohn was helpless, losing game after game without scoring.
By the fifth game, the French team was dead silent.
This was unreal.
Dohn—one of their top three middle-schoolers—hadn’t won a single point. Some even pinched themselves, wondering if this was a nightmare.
"It’s time…"
Finally, Dohn steadied himself. As he prepared to serve, his eyes gleamed with determination.
"Welcome to my world of tennis!"
Thwack!
He served, and Yukimura returned it effortlessly.
But then—
Tap.
The ball landed slightly off-target, making Yukimura frown.
"Huh?!"
Dohn, using his secret "Five Chariots Technique," froze when he saw the ball still hugging the baseline.
"Impossible! He’s barely affected by Joy Chariot?!"
The Five Chariots manipulated emotions—Joy (praise to create openings), Anger (provocation to break focus), Sorrow (pity to lower guard), Pleasure (gifts to distract).
With these, he’d defeated Balthazar, Moreau, Delacroix, Georges… even Prince Charles.
He’d been acting this whole match, trying to destabilize Yukimura from within.
And it had worked—
But only halfway.
Yukimura’s shots remained razor-sharp, each one forcing Dohn to scramble.
"No choice… Time for the final technique."
After Joy, Anger, Sorrow, and Pleasure failed, Dohn’s expression darkened.
"Then I’ll make you face your fear."
Thwack!
As he struck the ball, his gaze turned piercing—like he was trying to consume Yukimura whole.
This was Fear Chariot—the ability to amplify and exploit deep-seated terror.
He’d only used it once before: against Camus.
And it had failed.
Camus’s mental strength was monstrous—one look, and the technique shattered.
Now, against Yukimura’s suffocating pressure, Dohn had no choice but to use it again.
But—
Thwack!
Yukimura returned the ball as if nothing had happened.
"WHAT?!"
Dohn’s mind blanked.
Even Fear Chariot had no effect?!
Tap.
Then, as he swung, something felt… off.
"My… sense of touch?"
He couldn’t feel the ball on his racket.
"No way…"
He looked up, horrified.
Had Yukimura stolen his sense of touch?
But that was absurd—
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Yet as the match continued, his vision began dimming.
Boom!
A ball landed in front of him. He lifted his racket—
Then everything went black.
"Gulp…"
Swallowing hard, Dohn realized—
His vision was gone.
Panic set in. Without sight, he was lost.
Then—silence.
No sound.
His hearing was gone too.
**"So this is Yips…"**
Dohn let out a hollow laugh.
He was a joke. Against Yukimura’s "Destruction of the Five Senses," he was powerless.
"Is this the end?"
For a moment, he considered giving up.
But then—
"NO!"
A spark ignited in him.
"This isn’t just my match—it’s France’s pride on the line!"
With newfound resolve, he tucked his racket under his arm and formed a hand seal.
"Rin, Pyō, Tō, Sha, Kai, Jin, Retsu, Zai, Zen!"
The Nine Syllable Seal—a forbidden technique.
His spirit surged, shattering the mental prison trapping his senses.
Then, with a fierce glare, he locked eyes with Yukimura—
Only to freeze.
Clatter.
His racket hit the ground.
"Match! Japan’s Yukimura Seiichi wins—6-0, 6-0!"
Dohn stood motionless, his voice a whisper.
"That… that gaze…"
In that moment, he’d seen something terrifying in Yukimura’s deep blue eyes—
A gaze that seemed to see through the future.
One thought consumed him:
"Is this guy really a middle-schooler?"
(End of Chapter.)
