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🕑 Added 2025-06-30 16:23:06 +0000 UTCChapter 466: Sleep Mode & Photon Strike – Japan’s Dominance!
CRACK!
Seizing the opening, Marui fired a sharp volley, stealing the point.
"15–40!"
"W-what just happened?!"
The crowd remained frozen, struggling to process the ball’s impossible mid-air suspension. It defied logic—some even rubbed their eyes, convinced they were hallucinating.
"Absolute stillness..."
Obande and Barrinton exchanged stunned glances before locking onto the icy-eyed Japanese player across the net.
"It’s him," Obande growled. "He’s doing this."
"Yeah." Barrinton’s usual cheerfulness vanished. "Laffite was right. Japan’s roster is full of monsters."
Neither had heard of Tokugawa before today. But why would they? The world’s attention had been monopolized by Japan’s flashier stars—Ishikawa’s demolition of Switzerland’s ace, Byoudouin’s aura of destruction, Oni’s raw power. Even Duke and Tanegashima were afterthoughts. Players like Tokugawa and Irie? Invisible.
"Whatever he’s doing," Hopkins muttered from the sidelines, "it’s neutralizing Kiko’s [Lucky Tennis]."
"Mm." Reinhardt’s jaw tightened.
The score still favored the U.S.—one more point, and the first set was theirs. But his instincts screamed that Japan was playing a deeper game.
BOOM!
Barrinton’s next shot veered toward another pebble—only to freeze mid-trajectory, ensnared by that same inky darkness.
Marui pounced, driving it down the line.
"30–40!"
"Again?!"
Obande’s composure cracked. "How?!"
Static nets and freak gusts were one thing. But this? This was control.
"Forget how," Barrinton hissed. "Just play through it."
Their next rally was a masterclass in pressure—targeting Marui with ruthless precision, forcing him to cover impossible angles. Sweat poured down his face as he barely parried each strike.
Yet Tokugawa... did nothing.
"Coward," sneered a U.S. player. "He knows interfering would backfire."
"Huh?" Elwes frowned. "Then why’s he just watching his partner drown?"
"Because," Hopkins cut in, "if he moves, DuDu and Kiko will shift focus onto him. By staying passive, he baits them into overcommitting."
"Exactly." Reinhardt’s eyes gleamed. "This is high-level doubles warfare. Whoever blinks first—loses."
The battle raged.
Obande and Barrinton hammered Marui, their auras flaring—one emerald, one amber—as they sought to break him.
CRACK!
A vicious smash sent Marui stumbling, his racket barely grazing the ball—
—until his posture shifted.
His head lolled. Eyes slid shut.
Yet his next return blazed past the Americans, painting the baseline.
"He’s... asleep?!" Barrinton’s voice cracked.
The crowd erupted.
There he stood—asleep on his feet—yet countering every shot with eerie precision.
"Sleepwalking?!"
"No," Duke murmured. "Sleep playing."
Marui’s strokes became fluid, unpredictable. Drop shots morphed into lobs mid-flight. Topspins knuckled unpredictably.
GAME! JAPAN LEADS 5–5!
The momentum flipped.
Now, it was Tokugawa’s turn.
His [Black Hole] erased angles, freezing balls at will.
GAME! SET! JAPAN WINS 7–5!
Second Set – 2–1, USA
The Americans regrouped, clinging to their serve. But whispers spread as Tokugawa stalled before his fourth-game serve.
"Buying time for Marui to recover?"
A valid theory—except for the light gathering in Tokugawa’s palm.
ZZZT—CRACK!
The serve detonated, a supernova streaking toward Obande—
—whose body locked up, every muscle screaming:
DANGER.
Chapter 467: Team USA's Pride – Reinhardt vs. Ryoma
"What... is this?"
A chilling sensation shot up Ogden's spine as the terrifying aura engulfed him. Instinctive fear took hold—his gut screamed that attempting to return this shot would have catastrophic consequences.
Yet...
This match was no longer just about him. Team USA's quarterfinal hopes, Reinhardt's dreams, their collective ambitions—all hung in the balance.
"Come on then!"
Ogden's eyes burned with resolve. Summoning every ounce of strength, he swung his racket with desperate force toward the incoming bullet of a tennis ball.
BOOM!
The moment of impact.
Ogden's face twisted in shock. His racket didn't connect with a ball—it struck what felt like a lead cannonball. The sheer force visibly bent the frame.
CRACK!
Before Ogden could react, his racket snapped clean in half. The residual energy lifted him off his feet, sending him flying backward like a ragdoll.
THUD!
A sickening crash echoed as Ogden's body slammed into the stadium wall.
KABOOM!
The ball—still carrying the broken racket—smashed into the court, exploding the concrete into a meter-wide crater.
Clatter...
Debris rained down as the stadium fell dead silent. Spectators and players alike stared at the warzone-like destruction, swallowing hard.
"F-Fifteen... love!"
Even the umpire needed a moment to steady his voice.
"What... just happened?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered. Most were too stunned to process it. Those who did—like Hopkins—could only gape at Tokugawa's display of power.
"Hadōkyū."
Reinhardt's voice cut through the silence.
At his level, he recognized the technique instantly. That only deepened his wariness—Tokugawa was just a second-year.
"And he's not even top five in Japan?" Hopkins muttered.
"Unbelievable," Reinhardt agreed.
Tokugawa's skill was easily world-class—a mainstay for any non-Big 4 team. That Hadōkyū alone was monstrous.
Of course, Reinhardt knew he could return it. But Ogden's fate proved most players couldn't. This wasn't tennis—it was artillery.
"DOOD!!"
Balentien sprinted to his partner's side. Ogden's shirt was shredded, his face ashen. Worst of all—his right arm hung limp, clearly disfigured.
"Don't... worry..." Ogden grimaced, trying to stand. But a searing pain made him gasp when he moved the injured arm.
"It's over."
The Americans paled. That reaction confirmed it—a fracture, maybe worse.
"Stop," Balentien growled. "You'll ruin your career!"
"Cough... If Team USA... needs my arm as the price..." Ogden locked eyes with him, voice raw. "...I'd pay it. Gladly."
Balentien froze. That unwavering stare—he knew he'd make the same choice.
"Enough."
Reinhardt's voice rang out as he stepped forward. "Referee. Team USA forfeits this match."
"RALPH?!"
Ogden jerked his head up. For Reinhardt—who'd dedicated everything to elevating American tennis—to say forfeit...
"I'm the captain. This is my call." Reinhardt's tone brooked no argument. "If 'success' means destroying my players, I want no part of it."
The team fell silent. Then—
"Captain..."
Elvises and the others clenched their fists, their dampened spirits reigniting.
"Impressive leadership," Byōdōin admitted from Japan's bench.
Reinhardt might not be the strongest player, but his charisma was unmatched. A shame Team USA's overall strength didn't match his vision.
"Match conceded. Japan wins Doubles 1."
The announcement drew murmurs.
No one had predicted this. Team USA—ranked fifth globally—had been pushed to the brink by Japan. Yesterday's upset over Switzerland was no fluke.
While technically not over, the outcome was clear. The only question now was whether Team USA could salvage dignity in singles.
"Alan," Reinhardt ordered, "take Dood to the hospital. Full scans."
Hopkins nodded after examining Ogden. "Likely a fracture. Needs imaging."
"Go. I'll handle the rest." Reinhardt smiled. "Our fight isn't done yet."
As the injured group departed, spectators eyed the cratered court.
"Brutal match..."
"That was a tennis ball?!"
Workers cordoned off the damage as officials confirmed play could continue.
"Next: Singles 3!" The umpire announced. "USA's Ralph Reinhardt (12th grade) vs. Japan's Makoto Ryoma (7th grade)!"
The scoreboard updated, sparking instant uproar.
"A first-year?!"
"Are they throwing the match?!"
"Idiots!" Others snapped. "That's Ryoma! A pro-level player!"
"Twelve years old?!" Skeptics gaped.
Their doubts faded when they saw Reinhardt's expression—unprecedented focus.
"So it's you after all."
Reinhardt exhaled. He'd expected Byōdōin, Oni, or Duke. Instead, fate handed him Japan's ace.
Not that he feared Ryoma. His true target had always been Germany's Philosopher of Victory. Even Amadeus wouldn't daunt him.
Now, facing Ryoma was a chance to redeem Team USA's honor.
Step.
Racket in hand, Reinhardt strode onto the court with quiet confidence.
Step.
Ryoma met him at the net, smiling.
"My team may have lost," Reinhardt stated, "but I'll prove our spirit remains unbroken."
"Hmm."
Ryoma's grin didn't waver under Reinhardt's piercing gaze. "Then show me, Captain—have you stepped into the realm beyond professional play?"
Chapter 468: The Return of Star Trace, Reinhardt’s Shock
To most people, the term "professional-level" carries immense weight. But for Ishikawa, it was merely a threshold.
Within the Japanese team alone, many players hovered near that professional tier. Their skills were formidable, their talent undeniable—all they lacked was a breakthrough moment, a match that would prove their worth.
But the young man before him was different.
Ralph Reinhardt.
A natural-born leader with towering ambition, yet also a player who concealed his true strength with unnerving precision.
In the original timeline, among high school singles players, only Volk and Amadeus had reached professional status. The significance of that level couldn’t be overstated—Amadeus, in particular, was widely regarded as the world’s second-best high school player.
Yet, during the match between Switzerland and the U.S. team, the Swiss captain had fallen to Reinhardt. And before that moment, no one had even suspected Reinhardt had already crossed into the professional tier.
That alone spoke volumes about his patience and restraint.
But now, facing Japan’s team—a squad with inferior overall strength—even a mastermind like Reinhardt found himself at a disadvantage. No matter how skilled a strategist, he couldn’t conjure victory from thin air.
Which was why, before the match, Ishikawa had already predicted Reinhardt’s lineup.
Doubles 1 and 2 weren’t his doing, but he had personally requested Singles 3 from Mikuni. In the original timeline, Reinhardt had lost to Ryoga Echizen, who had switched to the Spanish team—but that didn’t mean he was weak.
It was simply that the son of the Samurai was on another level entirely.
And now?
Ishikawa had already touched a higher realm. He had mastered four paths of Asura’s Way, with a fifth in development. Combined with the [Ultimate Quality] and Manas-vijnana abilities he gained from defeating Q·P and Amadeus, he stood unchallenged among high school players.
The only one who could possibly rival him was Volk, the German captain who had once defeated the world’s top-ranked professional.
In a way, Ishikawa had reached the absolute peak of what a non-professional player could achieve. There might still be professionals stronger than him, but for Ishikawa, the path ahead had narrowed. The next steps wouldn’t come easily.
So, he needed to study more styles, absorb different techniques, and fuse them into his own—forging his ultimate path.
"Now, please choose heads or tails for the coin flip."
A staff member approached the two players, breaking the tension.
"Hmm."
Reinhardt stiffened slightly. Without realizing it, he had been so absorbed in Ishikawa’s aura that he’d momentarily lost focus.
"This guy…"
His gaze sharpened as he studied his opponent, a flicker of wariness flashing in his eyes. Instinct told him this would be the most formidable rival he’d ever faced.
"I’ll take heads."
Ishikawa’s tone was casual, almost indifferent.
Reinhardt didn’t object. He seemed unbothered by who served first. But as the coin spun in the air, his eyes instinctively tracked its movement.
"Ralph…"
In a private clinic less than three kilometers away, Hopkins frowned as he noticed this detail. He knew Reinhardt well—calmness was ingrained in his very bones. Aside from the incident with Ryoga Echizen, he had never seen Reinhardt falter.
Yet now, his composure was visibly shaken, likely affected by the previous matches. A gnawing unease settled in Hopkins’ chest.
"Tails."
The staff member revealed the result. "Reinhardt, choose serve or side."
"Hah…"
Reinhardt exhaled, relieved—but then immediately caught himself. Since when did he care about something so trivial?
"I’ll take the side." He forced a smile. "I’d like to see your serve, Ishikawa."
His tone was warm, disarming. The staff member couldn’t help but feel a flicker of goodwill toward the U.S. captain.
"Then I’ll take the serve. Thanks, senpai."
Ishikawa grinned, but his eyes gleamed with something deeper—something knowing.
"Hmph."
Reinhardt turned away, retreating to the baseline. His composure had cracked, and he knew it.
"Heh."
With a soft chuckle, Ishikawa followed suit.
"Uh… what was that about?"
On Japan’s side, Shishido blinked in confusion. The match hadn’t even started, yet the air between the two was thick with tension—as if they’d already clashed in some unseen way.
"No idea."
Atobe shook his head. Tezuka, Yukimura, and the others were equally puzzled. They sensed the undercurrents but couldn’t decipher them.
"Tch."
Coach Mikuni, lounging on the bench, smirked. "The things people pretend not to care about are usually the ones they care about most."
He reached for his usual gourd of sake—only to grasp empty air. With a grumble, he slumped back.
"So the coach means…?" Tokugawa narrowed his eyes.
"No doubt about it." Inui chuckled. "I can sense the U.S. captain’s emotions shifting. Fascinating, isn’t it?"
Byakudou and Oni remained silent. To them, the outcome was already decided. Ishikawa’s strength was beyond measure.
The only one who could challenge him now was Volk—and even then, they weren’t entirely convinced Volk could win.
But then—
"Hm?"
Both men tensed, their eyes locking onto Ishikawa’s stance.
"That form…"
They had faced him before. They knew his techniques. Rumor had it that during middle school tournaments, Ishikawa’s strongest weapon had always been his serve.
And now?
He was adopting a stance he hadn’t used once in any prior match.
"Best of three sets!"
"First set, Japan’s Ishikawa to serve!"
With the referee’s call, Ishikawa tossed the ball high. His body coiled, then snapped forward—his racket whipping through the air with precision.
"Looks interesting," a U.S. player remarked. "Guess he’s pissed Reinhardt gave him the serve. Trying to show off?"
"Heh. Bad move." Another smirked. "Reinhardt’s level is—"
THWACK!
A crisp impact echoed.
A thin golden streak lanced across the court—then exploded into a radiant afterimage, searing itself onto the net’s surface.
Tap… tap… tap…
The ball bounced behind Reinhardt, who stood frozen in his receiving stance.
"15–0!"
"Gulp."
The U.S. team collectively swallowed. Some hadn’t even processed what happened—they just stared, wide-eyed, at the ball rolling behind their captain.
"N-no way…" Elvira’s voice trembled. "He didn’t even react?!"
The rest of the U.S. team looked like they’d seen a ghost.
Meanwhile, in the clinic, Hopkins, Ballentyne, and the others stared at the live broadcast in shock.
They’d heard of Ishikawa’s reputation—how he crushed Q·P and dominated Amadeus. Two matches that cemented him as a professional-level player.
Among the world’s teams, Ishikawa was considered second only to Volk. Some even argued he was already on par with the German captain.
But hearing about it was one thing. Seeing Reinhardt fail to even touch the first serve? That was something else entirely.
"Ralph…" Hopkins clenched his fists. "I hope you can still control the rhythm."
"It’s here!"
Japan’s supporters erupted in cheers. The Hyotei players, especially, were ecstatic.
"The vice-captain’s [Star Trace]!" Hiyoshi and Otori shouted.
"So this is the Star Trace serve…"
Even the high schoolers were awed. It was hard to believe that Ishikawa, whose overall skills were already monstrous, had been holding back his strongest weapon all along.
"But why?"
Inui adjusted his glasses. "Why use it in the very first game?"
A valid question. On the surface, it seemed like Ishikawa was provoked by Reinhardt’s choice. But anyone who knew him understood how absurd that was.
At twelve years old, Ishikawa was more composed than anyone.
"Well, Moonlight?" Oshitari nudged the towering figure beside him. "Compared to your Mach Serve, how does this stack up?"
"Oshitari."
Yoshi’s voice was icy. "That’s not funny."
"Uh… okay." Oshitari shrugged.
He’d meant it as a joke, but Yoshi’s reaction was sharper than expected.
"Wait…"
The others exchanged glances. Yoshi’s cold stare, locked onto Ishikawa, told them everything.
They had likely faced off in private.
And judging by Yoshi’s expression?
He’d lost.
"That’s just unfair," Marui muttered. "I get his other skills, but his serve being stronger than Yoshi’s? That’s just ridiculous."
Ridiculous?
Yoshi’s lips thinned. Unless you’d experienced it firsthand, you couldn’t comprehend how terrifying that boy was.
True, in raw speed, Ishikawa’s serve only reached about 75% of Yoshi’s Mach Serve at full power.
But Yoshi knew—Ishikawa wasn’t even trying.
If he had?
The result wouldn’t just be a golden afterimage.
"What’s wrong, senpai?"
At the baseline, Ishikawa smiled. "This is a real match. Getting distracted isn’t like you."
"Hmph."
Reinhardt’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the taunt, but his mind was still replaying that serve.
Fast.
Precise.
Brutal.
Unlike the others, Reinhardt had seen the full picture. The speed alone was staggering, but the ball’s placement—down to the millimeter—was inhuman.
How could someone of Ishikawa’s height generate that kind of power?
"Your serve is impressive," Reinhardt admitted, shifting into a defensive stance. "But I don’t make the same mistake twice."
"Oh?"
Ishikawa’s grin widened.
He tossed the ball again.
And once more—
A golden streak tore through the air.
"This speed—?!"
Reinhardt’s instincts screamed at him to swing, but his body lagged—just half a beat too slow.
And that half-beat was fatal.
Even worse?
The ball landed in the exact same spot as before.
From above, the two serves formed perfect mirror images—symmetrical, flawless.
Chapter 469: One of the Ultimate Abilities—Weakness Correction!
“30-0!”
As the umpire’s voice rang out, many eyes turned to Reinhardt. The U.S. team’s captain stiffly put away his racket and silently moved to the other side of the court to receive the next serve.
“Captain Ralph!!!”
Elvis and the others were stunned.
Just two serves had pushed their captain into such a passive position. This was the first time they’d ever seen him struggle like this. A shadow of unease settled over them.
“Isn’t our captain being a little too harsh?” Kaji from the Japanese team couldn’t help but joke. “Starting off with a serve like that—is he trying to break the guy?”
“Well… yeah.” Kunimitsu and Mouri nodded in agreement.
This wasn’t the restrained Ishikawa they knew. After defeating Byoudouin and Oni, he had already tempered his edge. Even against Q·P and Amadeus, he hadn’t been this serious.
“Could it be…” Kunimitsu narrowed his eyes. “That the U.S. team’s captain is even stronger than we thought?”
He refused to believe Ishikawa was just provoked. On the contrary, he knew all too well—this guy was cunning. Smiling on the surface, but ruthless when it came to crushing his opponents.
Boom!
Ishikawa served again.
The angle and bounce of the ball were identical to before. To the naked eye, there was no difference between the first and third serves.
Yet, Reinhardt still couldn’t touch it.
“40-0!”
The umpire’s call silenced the entire U.S. team. After all, nothing spoke louder than the score itself.
Especially since their captain had just declared he wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice. Ishikawa’s ace serve was like a slap to the face—not just to Reinhardt, but to the entire U.S. team.
“What’s wrong, senior?” Ishikawa smiled at Reinhardt’s grim expression. “Is my serve too fast? If you’re really struggling, I can tone it down a little.”
“This guy…”
The U.S. team members clenched their fists in frustration.
How infuriating!
Ishikawa’s words nearly made them explode with anger. But remembering those three devastating serves, they swallowed their retorts.
This was the reality of the match.
Without the skill to back it up, arguing would only make them look like sore losers. Still, Elvis and the others couldn’t help but feel indignant on their captain’s behalf.
“Ralph.” Hopkins, watching from the TV screen, muttered grimly, “You must be furious, right? There’s no need to hold back. And this opponent… isn’t someone you can beat while hiding your true strength.”
Behind him, Ballentyne and the now-conscious Obando also watched Reinhardt with anticipation.
They knew their captain’s real power.
He was on par with professionals—some ordinary pros weren’t even a match for him.
They suspected Ishikawa was deliberately pushing Reinhardt to reveal his full strength. But against such a strong opponent, the only way to win was to go all out.
“Hah…”
Reinhardt exhaled deeply, forcing himself to calm down. Looking back, he realized he’d lost his usual composure. Against an opponent like this, there was no point in empty words.
“Your serve is impressive,” he said, locking eyes with Ishikawa. “But it’s exactly this kind of challenge that fuels my fighting spirit.”
Hum!
As his focus sharpened, a faint, wave-like energy pulsed around Reinhardt.
Clearly, the U.S. captain was getting serious.
“What’s the point?” Tohno scoffed. “Resisting is useless. That guy’s serve isn’t something you can return just by boosting your speed or technique.”
Boom!
Ishikawa served again.
The ultra-fast ball streaked across the court like a golden flash. Most couldn’t even track its trajectory—only a select few could follow it.
Just like before, the serve landed precisely at the intersection of the service line and the singles sideline. The two ball marks overlapped perfectly.
Fast.
Precise.
And the vicious spin—barely visible—that made the ball explode off the ground.
A serve like this would crush most players. Even Reinhardt had been caught off guard three times in a row.
But this time, he reacted.
Having steadied his mind, his heightened perception allowed him to clearly track the ball’s path.
“It really is an incredible serve.”
Reinhardt marveled inwardly.
Hidden within that golden streak were flickering starlight-like sparks—each one representing a layer of spin. Now he understood why the serve lost no speed from start to finish. The intense rotation acted like constant course correction, maintaining its initial speed and angle.
“But unfortunately…”
As the thought crossed his mind, Reinhardt’s racket met the ball. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he matched the spin and sent it back.
Swish!
For a brief moment, a dazzling, star-like brilliance flashed across the court.
“What kind of technique was that?!”
Many gasped as the radiant light vanished just as quickly.
Reinhardt had returned it.
And he’d used an equally formidable move.
“That wasn’t a technique.” Byoudouin, who had seen it clearly, spoke up. “It was just two opposing spins canceling each other out—a momentary reaction.”
Sure enough, after clearing the net, Reinhardt’s return became completely ordinary.
Some of the Japanese players sighed in relief.
But others, including Tohno, grew wary.
After all, Reinhardt’s opponent wasn’t just anyone. Ishikawa’s technical skill was unmatched in the Japanese team—even Byoudouin and Oni paled in comparison.
Tohno knew better than anyone the gap between himself and Ishikawa. Even if he saw the serve’s trajectory, returning it would be impossible. The sheer spin might even twist his racket into a pretzel.
Yet, Reinhardt had done it.
That alone proved he was a top-tier player.
Tap! Tap!
Ishikawa reached the ball’s landing spot and smashed it back without hesitation.
Swish!
To the audience, it looked like a golden thread flickering across the court—a line as sharp as a fishing line being cast. The sheer precision made many blink in disbelief.
“What an incredible return!”
Elvis’s heart pounded.
Compared to the other U.S. middle schoolers, his sharper skills let him see more—and what he saw left him awestruck.
How could a first-year middle schooler produce a shot like this? Compared to Ishikawa, Elvis—hailed as the future of the U.S. team—felt utterly worthless.
Tap! Tap!
But as he wallowed in self-pity, a figure appeared at the ball’s landing spot.
Reinhardt.
Swish!
Facing Ishikawa’s sharp return, Reinhardt barely glanced at it before decisively swinging.
Boom!
The ball flew back—but without Ishikawa’s speed or flair.
“Hah…” Tohno relaxed. “So his technique really is just average. The U.S. captain… is nothing special.”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
But as the rally continued, everyone noticed something strange.
Reinhardt’s shots were visibly improving.
Boom!
Another return.
This time, Reinhardt countered Ishikawa’s sharp curve with a shot just as unpredictable—one that kicked up dust upon landing.
“What’s going on?”
Kunimitsu and Kaji frowned.
“Why does it feel like his skill level keeps rising?” Kaji muttered.
Kunimitsu wondered if Reinhardt had been holding back earlier. But what would be the point? It only put him at a greater disadvantage.
“What if…” Mouri ventured, “he’s just a slow starter? Maybe now he’s fully warmed up.”
“Could be.” Tokugawa and Inui nodded.
That would explain the sudden shift. Not everyone could adjust their strength on the fly like Ishikawa.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The two engaged in an even fiercer rally.
But soon, the Japanese team sensed something wrong.
“Am I imagining things?” Tohno squinted. “It feels like Ishikawa’s the one being pressured now.”
“You’re not.” Byoudouin said flatly. “Looking closely, Reinhardt’s shots are becoming flawless. The weaknesses he showed earlier are gone.”
“Right.” Oni agreed. “Meanwhile, Ishikawa’s movements aren’t as sharp. His shots are fluctuating.”
In other words—Ishikawa’s performance was slipping, while Reinhardt’s kept climbing.
“Is this the terror of a slow starter?” Mouri was stunned.
“Slow starter?” Kunimitsu shook his head. “If this is just warming up, his real strength must be terrifying.”
Emotionally, they rejected the idea. After all, even Byoudouin and Oni couldn’t force Ishikawa into a decline.
“Did you notice?” Duke, who had been observing Reinhardt closely, spoke up. “From the moment he started, the U.S. captain hasn’t made a single mistake.”
“True!” Tezuka, Yukimura, and Atobe nodded.
They’d been watching Reinhardt too. The rally had only lasted a few minutes, but the difference was undeniable.
“I’ve heard a rumor.” Duke’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Reinhardt. “There was once a unique player in the U.S. middle school circuit. At first, he wasn’t the strongest. But as matches went on, he surpassed everyone and became the best.”
“Uh… isn’t that just a normal underdog story?” Shishido rolled his eyes.
Most success stories followed that pattern. The Japanese team’s own Ishikawa had risen from a beginner to a top player the same way.
“The story’s normal, but the details aren’t.” Duke smiled. “After defeating everyone, all his old weaknesses and bad habits… disappeared.”
“Huh?”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Weaknesses… gone?”
“There are many players with unique talents.” Coach Mikage, lounging on a bench, suddenly spoke up. “Some have naturally flexible wrists, giving them unmatched touch. Others are born with freakish strength. Some have unshakable mental fortitude—not even death can deter them.”
At his words, glances were exchanged between Tokugawa, Oni, and Byoudouin.
True.
Japan’s top players all had extraordinary gifts. The middle schoolers—Fuji, Ryoma, Tezuka—were no different.
“But among them,” Mikage continued, “there’s a rare ability. The power to constantly correct weaknesses, growing stronger with each battle… until reaching perfection.”
Whoosh!
His gaze locked onto the golden-haired player on the court—whose aura was still intensifying.
Chapter 470: Reinhardt’s Domination, the Roar of Awakening Thunder
"The pinnacle of adaptability?"
At Mikuni’s words, the Japanese team’s expressions shifted as they reassessed Reinhardt with newfound wariness.
It made sense.
If Reinhardt truly possessed such a skill, it would explain his visible mid-match evolution. No tennis style was flawless—but if a player could continuously refine their weaknesses, their game would inch closer to perfection.
THWACK!
Suddenly, Reinhardt struck.
The ball rocketed toward Ishikawa’s backhand, landing precisely 30 centimeters from his foot before kicking up with violent spin.
For the first time, Ishikawa’s fluid movements faltered—just for a split second—before he adjusted and returned the shot.
"YES!"
On the U.S. team’s side, Elvira and the others clenched their fists. The momentum was shifting.
Their captain had not only patched his own flaws but had begun exploiting his opponent’s. If this continued, victory was inevitable!
Sure, the U.S. team’s overall strength lagged behind Japan’s. But in terms of individual prowess, Reinhardt stood shoulder-to-shoulder with monsters like Volk!
BAM! BAM! BAM!
With each rally, Reinhardt’s play grew sharper, while Ishikawa’s rhythm visibly fractured under the pressure.
"So…" Reinhardt’s eyes narrowed. "This is all the ‘Amadeus-slayer’ has to offer?"
His self-correction had elevated his game, but now, a dangerous thought crept in: Maybe Ishikawa isn’t as untouchable as I feared.
Yet he knew better. Ishikawa hadn’t even unleashed his full arsenal. Even now, Reinhardt couldn’t guarantee he’d counter those hidden techniques.
"Then let’s test this."
With a surge of resolve, Reinhardt whipped his racket forward—
BOOM!
A tornado of force erupted from his strike, hurtling toward Ishikawa with enough violence to distort the air.
"It’s here!" Elvira’s voice cracked with excitement. "The [Texas Cyclone]!"
As the U.S. team’s ace, Reinhardt’s technical mastery was peerless—even Hopkins’ so-called "surgical precision" paled in comparison.
This technique was born from obsession.
Years ago, a teenage Reinhardt had ridden his motorcycle straight into a Texas twister, gambling with death itself. That experience birthed this move—a whirlwind tall enough to swallow a building whole.
Now, that storm was about to devour Ishikawa and Japan’s hopes.
SHING!
A silver flash split the air.
The cyclone split cleanly in half, a blade-like afterimage carving through its core. Before Reinhardt could react, the ball had already blasted past him—
CRACK!
—and embedded itself into the wall, spinning so fiercely it gouged the concrete.
"Game! Japan’s Ishikawa leads, 1-0. Change ends."
Silence.
The stadium froze.
"…Sword’s Truth." Reinhardt recognized it—the same technique that had humbled Amadeus.
"I see." He exhaled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You’ve been holding back. Even that serve earlier was a feint."
Every exchange deepened his understanding of Ishikawa’s strength.
But instead of fear, Reinhardt felt only exhilaration.
His ability thrived under pressure. The stronger his opponent, the faster he’d evolve. And in a best-of-three match? Time was on his side.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
As they switched sides, Reinhardt bounced the ball methodically, replaying Ishikawa’s moves in his mind—
The stance.
The timing.
His own missteps.
Like a machine, he refined his responses, patching every vulnerability exposed by the [Sword’s Truth].
"Again."
He tossed the ball skyward and unleashed a serve so precise it kissed the baseline, kicking up a dust storm on impact.
"Impressive."
From Japan’s bench, Tanegashima and Inui exchanged glances. Reinhardt’s serve wasn’t just powerful—it was meticulously engineered, the product of relentless training.
Yet Ishikawa read it effortlessly. His racket flashed, returning the shot with surgical accuracy.
"As expected." Reinhardt lunged, his mind already dissecting the rally. "Only against you do my flaws become so glaring."
That was his ability’s true nature:
[Weakness Correction] didn’t just fix mistakes—it turned opponents into whetstones, sharpening him with every exchange.
The stronger Ishikawa pressed, the faster Reinhardt would grow.
SHING!
Another silver streak.
"0-15!"
"Tch." Reinhardt stiffened. He hadn’t adjusted fast enough.
"Senpai." Ishikawa’s voice cut through his frustration. "Focus on the match. Using me to polish your game is clever, but…"
A cold smile.
"You’ll never outpace my evolution."
Arrogance!
Reinhardt’s composure cracked. No one—no one—doubted the inevitability of his growth.
Yet as the games progressed, Ishikawa’s pressure escalated exponentially.
Drop shots.
Spin-splitters.
Aerial smashes.
Not a single repeated technique. Reinhardt scrambled, his brain overheating as he tried to adapt—
CLANG!
His racket flew from his grip as Ishikawa hammered a winner past him.
"Game! Ishikawa leads, 4-0!"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
This wasn’t just a lead—it was a ruthless dismantling. Reinhardt’s adaptive genius was being overclocked into oblivion.
"0-4…" A U.S. reserve player whispered. "He hasn’t taken a single game."
Elvira shot the kid a glare but said nothing. Even he couldn’t deny the truth:
Reinhardt had been outmaneuvered.
His obsession with self-improvement had blinded him to the real battle—the one for control.
"Maybe…" Reinhardt closed his eyes, his breath steadying. "I approached this wrong from the start."
When he looked up, something had changed.
The amiable mask shattered.
What emerged was ruthless ambition—the true Reinhardt, unshackled.
BOOM!
A dark-gold aura erupted around him, so dense it warped the air.
"Finally."
In the clinic, Hopkins exhaled. This was the Reinhardt he knew—the ruthless visionary who’d once vowed to conquer the tennis world. The persona buried beneath years of diplomatic leadership.
"Oh?"
Ishikawa grinned as he served into the maelstrom of Reinhardt’s aura.
BANG!
Reinhardt’s return wasn’t a shot—it was a declaration of war, the ball morphing mid-flight into a meteorite of force.
The impact cratered the court, dust swallowing Ishikawa whole.
Yet within that chaos—
"Not bad."
A calm voice.
Ishikawa stood unfazed, his face lit eerily by his racket’s glow.
"But senpai…"
His swing was a blur.
CRACK!
To Reinhardt, the world shattered.
Thunder roared. Rain slashed sideways.
By the time he processed the illusion, the ball was already at his feet.
"Guh—!"
The U.S. captain’s throat went dry.
His ultimate technique—his manifested will—had been dismantled like a child’s puzzle.
(End of Chapter.)
