Thwack!

Thwack!

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!

Boom!

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!

Boom!

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!

Boom!

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!

Boom!

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!

Boom!

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!

Boom!

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!"

"INDIA!"

"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."