Kiran Rajput

A mixed-race Indian-British boy, Kiran had lived in England with his father since childhood. It was there that he first discovered tennis.

However, Kiran wasn't physically gifted.

He lacked strength, his speed was mediocre, and he was shorter than most British boys his age.

Because of this, he was often bullied while learning tennis—until he realized that tennis and mathematics could be perfectly combined.

So, he sharpened his mind. During training, he began observing his opponents, collecting data on their playing styles.

Once he had enough information, matches became effortless. His opponents moved like puppets on strings, playing exactly as he predicted.

After defeating several so-called "tennis prodigies" his age, Kiran started to believe tennis was nothing special.

That is, until he met that blond boy.

The boy was a British-American, his face dotted with freckles, giving him an unassuming, almost naive appearance. But the moment their match began, Kiran was suffocated by an overwhelming pressure.

His prized data-driven tennis was useless. Worse, his opponent's shots seemed to carry an eerie precision, striking every one of his weaknesses with uncanny accuracy.

Kiran lost—badly.

Later, he learned that the boy came from a family of doctors. From a young age, he had practiced dissecting animals, giving him an almost clinical understanding of the human body's vulnerabilities.

Watching his opponent's retreating figure, Kiran swore to himself: One day, I'll defeat him.

Six years passed.

They met again in a U17 exhibition match between India and Britain. His opponent? Hopkins, Britain's U17 No. 2!

By sheer coincidence, Kiran faced him in a decisive match.

This time, Kiran gave it everything he had.

Yet Hopkins effortlessly countered him. Refusing to accept defeat, Kiran pushed past his limits, managing to hold his ground.

Just as he thought he'd finally caught up—Hopkins got serious.

The terrifying, ruthless tennis that followed introduced Kiran to what could only be called the forbidden realm of the sport.

He lost again.

And this time, it was humiliating.

Had Hopkins not held back on the final point, Kiran might have suffered an injury severe enough to end his career.

After that, Kiran trained like a man possessed, desperate to find even the slimmest chance of victory in the upcoming World Cup.

Finally, he mastered a new technique—flooding the court with overwhelming data streams, dividing it into a grid-like system, controlling the game with near-omniscient precision.

His confidence returned.

He imagined himself standing on the World Cup stage, proving his worth at last.

But he never expected…

That in what should have been an easy match, he'd once again face that nightmare-like technique.

The ball descended from the air, carrying a pressure so immense it felt like a mountain crashing down. Kiran's hands trembled with instinctive fear.

"No! I can't back down now!"

He forced the fear down, steadied his grip, and swung with all his might.

BANG!

He made contact—but the sheer weight behind the shot made his eyes widen in shock.

"This power… how?!"

BOOM!

Outside the court, the crowd watched as the ball vanished into a cloud of dust. Most remained confident—Kiran's analytical skills were near-computer-like. Once he gathered enough data, his opponent's defeat was inevitable.

Sure enough, the sharp sound of a return echoed across the court.

"He got it!"

The Indian team erupted in cheers—

WHOOSH!

—only to freeze as a figure was sent flying out of the dust like a broken marionette.

"KIRAN?!"

Disbelief spread through the crowd.

"H-how…?"

This was Kiran Rajput—India's No. 2, a genius with an IQ over 200. How could he end up like this?

THUD!

Kiran hit the ground hard, rolling several times before skidding to a stop. His racket flew from his grasp, his glasses shattered, and a deep cut streaked across his cheek.

"What a terrifying shot…"

India's captain, Sharma, narrowed his eyes. He could sense the immense power behind Tokugawa's return. This wasn't just raw strength—there was something more to it.

Watching Kiran struggle to his feet, battered and bruised, Sharma sighed inwardly.

"In the end, he's still a step away from that higher level."

But that was only natural.

Beyond elite high school players existed those who stood at a professional caliber. The most prominent example? Jürgen Borisovich Berger, Germany's captain.

A team with even one pro-level player would draw significant attention.

In reality, many so-called "pro-level" captains were only semi-professional—stronger than elites but not yet ready for the true pro circuit.

Even Sharma himself had only glimpsed the edges of that forbidden realm. He was still far from reaching true professional status.

In his eyes, only the captains of the Big 4 were genuine pros.

As for other teams?

Even Japan's former captain, Byoudouin Houou—highly regarded as he was—didn't qualify.

---

"Again!"

Kiran steadied himself, refusing to back down.

He wouldn't retreat, not even against Tokugawa, who had touched that forbidden realm.

Abandoning any thought of conserving stamina, he unleashed his full strength.

But it still wasn't enough.

Tokugawa remained ice-cold, every shot executed with flawless precision.

With perfectly balanced stats, Tokugawa distributed his power flawlessly, making every shot as deadly as a specialist's.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

The match continued, Tokugawa dominating point after point. Kiran grew more desperate with each rally.

"How is this possible?!"

His eyes widened in disbelief.

"Every single shot targets my weaknesses… Is he a data player too?!"

This precision was even more terrifying than his own data tennis. It was as if Tokugawa knew his every move before he made it.

Topspin, sidespin, sharp angle changes—Kiran was completely overwhelmed.

Never had he imagined being outplayed in his own specialty.

BANG!

"Game, set, match!"

"Japan's Tokugawa wins, 7-5!"

The first set ended in Tokugawa's favor.

Kiran's mental state crumbled. The second set was a massacre—he didn't win a single game.

POW!

As Tokugawa's final shot whizzed past him, the umpire announced:

"Match over!"

"Japan's Tokugawa wins, 7-5, 6-0!"

---

The Indian team lowered their heads in defeat.

With this loss, Japan had secured two victories, leaving India with no room for error.

"Tokugawa Kazuya."

Kiran forced himself to stand, looking at his opponent. "You're a data player, aren't you?"

"Data?"

Tokugawa, surprised to be addressed in Japanese, shook his head. "I have no interest in that number-crunching style."

With that, he turned and walked away.

"Then…?"

Kiran's eyes widened as realization struck.

"So he's like Hopkins—able to see his opponent's weaknesses?!"

Staring at Tokugawa's retreating figure, Kiran muttered, "Maybe he doesn't even realize it himself… but he has an insane natural talent for tennis."

If harnessed properly, that talent could truly propel him into the professional realm.

---

Two wins down.

Compared to India's despair, Japan's team was in high spirits.

Thanks to Ishikawa's guaranteed victory, they had already won the exhibition match.

That said, even without him, the match would likely have ended in the fourth round—because Japan's next players were their strongest doubles pair:

The Ochi Brothers.

Unlike their match against Korea, this time, the twins hadn't received any special instructions from the coaches.

Meaning?

They could wrap things up early.

The match began, and the Ochi brothers immediately took control. Their seamless teamwork and ruthless efficiency secured a 6-1 victory in just 20 minutes.

The second set started the same way—until the Indian duo suddenly changed tactics.

"Iyawaori!"

One of the Indian players, a tall, imposing figure, chanted a strange, rhythmic phrase.

"Iyawaori!"

His partner echoed it.

Their voices rose and fell in an eerie, almost ritualistic cadence.

"What the hell?"

Fujimaru grimaced. "Are they trying to win by annoying our guys to death?"

"Hmm."

Mouri frowned.

This was the World Cup. India's representatives, especially their No. 1 doubles pair, wouldn't resort to something so pointless.

THUD!

Suddenly, Ochi Yuma misjudged a return.

"Out!"

"0-15!"

"What's wrong?" Yuma's twin, Yudai, immediately noticed something off.

"I… saw something terrifying," Yuma admitted. "A face painted like a demon."

"A demon?!"

Yudai's pupils contracted.

"Don't let it get to you," he said, forcing himself to stay calm.

From the sidelines, Mitsuya's eyes narrowed.

"Those chants might sound like some kind of curse, but it's just psychological warfare."

"How do you know?" someone asked.

"Simple," Mitsuya smirked. "We don't understand their language. It's meaningless noise." Read full story at novęlfire.net

"Oh… right."

The others nodded in relief.

"Exactly," Kaji sneered. "Ignore them and finish this."

On the court, the Ochi brothers steeled themselves to end the match quickly.

But then—

The Indian duo suddenly surged forward, their coordination sharper than before.

And once again, they chanted:

"Iyawaori!"

"Iyawaori!"

Their voices wove together, hypnotic and unsettling, sapping the twins' focus.

Desperate, the Ochi brothers activated their ultimate technique—

Synchro Mode.

A faint white aura connected them…

Only to fade away seconds later.

"What?!"

Japan's team stared in shock.

"Synchro… failed?!"

The mental interference grew worse. Visions of a grotesque, painted face flashed in their minds, disrupting their rhythm.

"Iyawaori!"

"Iyawaori!"

The chants continued, the pressure mounting—until finally, the Ochi brothers' defenses collapsed.

BAM!

"Game, set, match!"

"India's Solada Bhat & Ajeet Johar win, 1-6, 6-4, 6-2!"

THUD! THUD!

Exhausted and disoriented, the Ochi brothers collapsed onto the court.

(End of Chapter)