"This Ishikawa Shin is terrifying!"

Outside the court, the dark-skinned Rohan frowned, his expression grim. "It's hard to believe that even Sharma couldn't score a single point."

"Yeah." Kiran's face was equally tense.

The Snake Charmer, the Moon Blade Strike, the Roar of the Sacred Bull—each of these moves was top-tier. If he had been the one receiving them, even with the boost from Sharma's Brahma's Aura, he doubted he could return them with both hands.

Yet, not only had Ishikawa countered them, he'd shattered Sharma's racket in the process.

By any measure, the two weren't even on the same level.

"Huh?"

Just then, one of the Indian team members noticed something odd. "Captain Sharma… something's off."

At those words, everyone turned their attention back to the court.

Sure enough, Sharma's usual arrogance had morphed into something colder, more distant. He stood there, yet he felt worlds apart—unreachable.

"Finally, you let me out."

On the court, Sharma's body trembled slightly as he muttered to himself in an odd, archaic dialect of Hindi.

Swish!

His head snapped up, his sharp gaze locking onto the black-haired boy across the net.

"So, this is the one?" His brow arched slightly. "Hmph. He does seem… unusual."

His eyes raked over Ishikawa, dissecting him like a specimen.

"What's going on?"

The Indian team exchanged confused glances. "Since when does the captain speak Hindi?"

While Hindi was widely spoken in India, elite players like them were expected to master English—both for international competition and career advancement. It was an unspoken rule, a mark of their status.

Yet here Sharma was, muttering to himself like a madman, his demeanor completely unhinged.

"A second personality?"

Ishikawa studied his opponent, recalling his own encounter with a so-called second consciousness in the mental cavern.

In a way, this was an alternate persona—a suppressed aspect of the self that fought for control.

And because it stemmed from the subconscious, it often wielded hidden power.

Stronger than the original.

Like the one Ishikawa had faced before. Or like Akaya Kirihara's demonic transformation.

But unlike Kirihara's malevolent shift, Sharma's presence wasn't evil—just arrogant.

The two exchanged sides without a word.

As they passed each other, Sharma suddenly smirked.

"Japan's captain," he said in flawless Japanese, "I hope you won't disappoint me."

"Weird."

Ishikawa remained unfazed, but Kiran frowned. "Since when does Tarun speak Japanese?"

As far as he knew, Sharma had never shown interest in languages. His life revolved around training, yoga, and meditation—ascetic, almost monk-like.

That discipline was why Sharma's position in India's U-17 team was unshakable.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

On his new side, Sharma bounced the ball a few times, his movements stiff—almost rusty.

But with each repetition, his rhythm smoothed out.

"Ah… the feel of a real match," he mused, catching the ball. "How nostalgic."

Then, without warning, his gaze sharpened.

"Watch closely. Don't blink."

Whoosh!

He tossed the ball and swung.

The moment racket met ball, a violent gust erupted, kicking up a swirling dust storm that swallowed Ishikawa whole.

"This power?!"

The Indian team's eyes widened. Their captain had been hiding this?

It was like watching a myth come to life—a mere flick of his wrist summoning a sandstorm. The rightful source is novelꞁire.net

Crack!

But then—a crisp return shot through the haze.

Swoosh!

A silver streak sliced through the dust, cleaving it clean in half as the ball rocketed toward Sharma's far corner.

"Oh?"

Sharma's brows lifted in amusement. "Not only did you return it, but with a counter like that? Interesting."

He chuckled before moving.

His speed was unreal—less like he was chasing the ball, more like the ball was being pulled to him.

"That footwork…"

Mizuki's eyes narrowed. The sheer velocity was unnerving.

Thwack!

Sharma caught the return effortlessly.

"Good," he mused, feeling the impact. "You've got skill. No wonder you replaced him."

Him?

The Japanese team stiffened.

Did he mean…

"Wait."

Kiran's mind raced.

Two years ago, when Japan's Golden Generation had clashed with India, Sharma—then the No. 3—had faced him in the final singles match.

Sharma had been crushed.

But at the last moment, something awoke.

His speed, precision—everything surged. He'd even stolen two games back before he ended it with a single, devastating strike.

After that, Sharma had buried himself in training, yoga, and solitude.

Now, it seemed that other self had fully emerged.

And if then he'd briefly rivaled him…

How strong is he now?

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Sharma launched a relentless assault, each shot like a cannon blast.

The Indian team watched in awe.

"This is insane!" Rohan muttered. "Even at full strength, I wouldn't last three exchanges!"

"Exactly."

Viyas, lounging on the bench, smirked. "The best defense is offense. Control the rally, control the match. Show them, Tarun—show them your Hyper-Aggressive tennis!"

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Golden motes of Brahma's Aura flickered around Sharma as he struck, each impact sending shockwaves through the air.

Spectators in the front rows flinched from the heat.

Yet despite the onslaught, something felt… off.

Thud!

Another return.

Sharma's smirk faded.

"His defense… is ridiculous."

For the first time, the second Sharma felt a flicker of doubt.

Swoosh!

A white flash.

The ball streaked past him before he could react—landing just inside the line.

"0-15!"

"No way!"

The Indian team gaped.

"That's—that's a mistake!" one stammered. "Review the footage! There's no way he returned those!"

Kiran sighed.

Only a fool would think cheating was possible under that barrage.

"You're strong," Sharma admitted, his voice low. "I misjudged you. You've earned my full attention."

Full attention?

The Japanese team froze.

Was that just a warm-up?!

Hummm…

Black energy—dense, oppressive—coiled around Sharma.

"That's… not Brahma's Aura," Johan whispered.

"It's Shiva's," Kiran said grimly.

Shiva.

The Destroyer. One of Hinduism's three supreme deities.

"You should be honored," Sharma intoned, his voice icy. "To face a god is a privilege."

A god?

The Japanese team exchanged glances.

"Is he serious?" Hakamada scoffed. "All this 'god' and 'mortal' nonsense—does he really think he's winning?"

But before anyone could reply, Sharma served.

Splash.

The ball vanished mid-air, as if swallowed by an invisible tide.

Then—

Ripples.

The court's surface warped, waves churning as something monstrous stirred beneath.

"GRRROOOAAARR!"

A demonic face lunged from the depths, and Munehiro flinched.

CRASH!

To Tokugawa, it was a ghost ship—a skeletal captain in a crimson coat at the helm.

"E-Equal—?!"

His breath hitched.

Others saw their own nightmares—each hallucination tailor-made to their deepest fears.

Swoosh!

Within the dust, a black streak shot toward Ishikawa.

"Yes," Sharma murmured. "Drown in your fears. Break like glass."

His Dark Strike: Illusion—a mental assault that forced opponents to confront their worst terrors.

"I wonder…" His lips curled. "What do you fear the most?"

Crack.

The answer?

A clean return.

"What?!"

Sharma's eyes widened.

Snap.

The illusion shattered for everyone—like broken glass.

"Sorry to disappoint," Ishikawa said, his racket steady. "But I don't have any fears."

BANG!

A golden light exploded past Sharma's stunned face.

(End of Chapter)