"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!

Thwack!

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.

Silence.

Then—

"OOOOOHHH!!!"

The stadium exploded. A standing ovation for two warriors who'd redefined human limits.

"Both players are unable to continue," the umpire announced. "Singles 3 is declared a draw. Doubles 2 resumes tomorrow."

As the crowd dispersed, Coach Viyas—his own stamina spent—leaned on his students for support. Before leaving, he cast one last glance at Ishikawa.

"Hey," Hakamada frowned, "their coach looks worse than the players."

"That's an old injury," Mitsuya explained. "Avid Viyas was once India's top pro… until a match in the U.S. destroyed his career."

A pause.

"His opponent? The man they call… the Samurai."

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