Prince of Tennis: Shocking! Hyotei's Demon King is a Yukimura fangirl!

The entire room fell silent instantly.

The wind carried the acrid smell of burnt plastic, mixed with a faint smell of sweat and the cloying sweetness of sports drinks wafting from afar.

Everyone stared at the two players on the court, their hearts pounding in their chests. No one spoke, no one discussed, not even the Hyotei cheering squad remained silent, not chanting slogans, waiting for the final point.

They knew that once this ball was played, the game would be over.

Nobody wanted to miss this last shot.

Tezuka stood there, his left hand hanging at his side, his fingertips trembling slightly. He looked down at his palm, which was covered in sweat and had red marks from where the handle of the slap had been pressed against it, burning with pain.

He didn't immediately pick up the racket.

He stood there, his back still straight, like a pine tree in the wind and snow.

After a few seconds, he took two steps forward, bent down to pick up the racket, and held it in his hand again. Unable to get any power in his left hand, he switched to his right hand to bounce the ball, then switched back to his left hand.

The movements are very slow.

In the Seigaku stands, a first-year girl secretly wiped her eyes. She quickly lowered her head, afraid that her classmates would see.

No one spoke.

The atmosphere was so oppressive that it was hard to breathe.

Atobe took a deep breath. The hot air filled his chest, carrying the smell of plastic and dust. He slowly exhaled, his shoulders sinking with each breath, his breathing becoming more steady.

He adjusted his grip, his fingertips brushing against the strap on the handle; the familiar touch calmed him.

Throw the ball.

Take off.

Swing the racket.

The entire set of movements was fluid and graceful, like a work of art that had been polished thousands of times—sharp, beautiful, and with a unique sense of splendor.

The golden sunlight fell on the yellow tennis ball, making it dazzling to the eyes.

Just as the tennis ball flew through the air, a hoarse shout came from the Seigaku stands, slightly shaky, but exceptionally clear in the silent court.

"Go, Minister!"

It was Kawamura's voice.

He leaned half his body over the railing, shouting so loudly that the veins on his neck bulged, and the injury on his right arm ached from the strain. He hissed and gasped, but still straightened his back and shouted again.

"Minister! You can do it!"

Tezuka's mind was already a little hazy.

The pain in his elbow intensified with each wave, like needles piercing his bones, and his vision blurred intermittently. He was only able to stand there by sheer willpower, and he barely had the strength to grip the racket.

The shout was like a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

He pressed his tongue against his teeth and bit down hard. The taste of blood instantly filled his mouth, and the pain pulled his consciousness back.

The white light, which had been almost fading, suddenly shone brighter than ever before, dazzling the eyes. Along with it, the previously completely useless domain was activated to its maximum, causing the energy field around the body to explode. Even Atobe, standing opposite, could feel the intense pressure emanating from it.

He instantly regained all his strength, raised his left arm, and planted his feet firmly on the baseline. A split second before the ball hit the ground, he swung his racket with precision.

Double the power was poured into the ball, and the yellow ball returned along the same path with even greater speed, heading straight for Atobe's backhand corner.

Everyone in the room was stunned.

"This...this has erupted again?" someone muttered softly, their voice filled with disbelief.

"My God, he can still play even like this? He's truly blessed by the god of tennis! His luck is enviable!"

……

Atobe looked at Tezuka, whose body was surging with white light, but he didn't panic at all. Instead, he smiled.

Its icy blue eyes were strikingly bright, like a fire burning beneath a frozen lake.

Cold and hot.

He spun his racket in his palm, and a faint, almost invisible, icy blue halo slowly rose around him, like a layer of ice shell, with an invisible pressure spreading outwards.

The temperature in the entire stadium seemed to drop by more than ten degrees instantly; even the wind slowed down, carrying a slight chill. The spectators in the front rows subconsciously rubbed their arms, goosebumps rising on their skin.

"The Throne of Ice"

Atobe uttered four words in a low voice.

The sound wasn't loud, but it seemed heavy, striking the air and creating ripples.

An illusory field unfolded beneath his feet, colliding violently with Tezuka's field. The air above the net seemed to distort, the light flickered, and became blurry.

The ball flew over the next second.

Atobe didn't move his feet or even shift his gaze. With a gentle block of his racket, he returned the ball.

Everyone was stunned.

He caught such a fast ball while still standing still?

Before anyone could react, the second beat had already come.

The yellow ball flew back and forth in that crisscrossing force field, faster than ever before, as fast as a beam of light reflecting back and forth between two mirrors. No one could see the ball's trajectory; all they could hear was the rapid thud of the impact, like a barrage of rain hitting sheet metal, thump, thump, thump, making their eardrums vibrate and their chests feel tight.

……

Ten beats.

Twenty beats.

Thirty beats.

……

Both of them stood still, barely moving.

Tezuka relies on his extensive training and domain to guide the ball, his left arm swinging with each stroke protected by that layer of white light, the force of his returns so heavy that the strings hum. Atobe, on the other hand, uses his Ice Throne to predict all ball trajectories, locking onto every blind spot, each return carrying that thinner, more stable halo, each shot landing in Tezuka's most uncomfortable position.

A direct clash between realms of understanding.

An ultimate contest of strength and consciousness.

Tezuka's complexion grew increasingly pale, his lips almost transparent. Yet his back remained ramrod straight, each swing delivered with all his might. The white light on his arm flickered, like a candle in the wind, yet it never truly went out.

Atobe stood on the other side, his expression calm.

Each beat was as steady as a precisely calculated machine; the icy blue halo remained almost unchanged, maintaining the same brightness.

Fifty beats.

The people in the stands were stunned.

No one spoke. My head felt like it was being pulled by something, swaying back and forth with the sound of the ball being hit, and even though my neck was sore, I didn't dare to move an inch.

My palms and the backs of my hands were sweaty; I felt even more nervous than the people waiting to go on stage.

Niou's silver hair swayed slightly in the wind. He leaned forward, using his superior dynamic vision to observe Tezuka's arm, which had turned from reddish-purple to deep purple. He swallowed hard and said in a low voice, "...This guy is really courting death."

Liu's pen flew across the notebook, almost leaving afterimages. His eyes were wide open, and he spoke rapidly, "Tezuka's current elbow load is 320% of its normal level, with a 97% probability of muscle spasm and an 89% probability of a second tendon tear. He can only hold on for a maximum of five more beats."

Sanada didn't speak; he stared at the blue and white figure on the field, his brows furrowed tightly.

He understood Tezuka's obsession.

Standing on the field, who doesn't want to win?

Is it really worth trading your health and career for a game you're guaranteed to lose?

He couldn't explain it.

As Luna listened to the two-legged creatures talking, she rolled over in Yukimura's arms, placed her little paws on his wrist, and stretched out her little head to follow the rapidly flying ball on the field, her eyes wide with amazement.

Yukimura gently tapped the cat's head with his fingertip, his voice very soft, "Atobe's level of skill is so stable that there isn't a single flaw. The gap is too big."

His tone was very confident.

The Ice Throne is a product of brilliant talent, its essence being ultimate prediction and control. The honed skills developed over countless trials were already solidified before the match, and at this stage, it's an unwavering stability ingrained in his very being. It's completely different from the kind of impromptu burst of energy that Tezuka displays under duress.

The former is like a steady stream, while the latter is like the last glimmer of light before a lamp runs out of oil.

Irie nodded, looking very interested. "That's what I mean. You can't cram for a skill at the last minute. You have to accumulate it over time. Tezuka is just too impatient."

Tokugawa didn't speak, but his gaze fell on the almost invisible shimmering light surrounding Atobe, and his eyes held a hint of seriousness.

Wang Yueling leaned back in her chair, her fingertips lightly tapping the armrest as she counted the beats.

Fifty-three shots.

His azure eyes fell upon the scene, his expression unchanging, yet he sighed softly inwardly.

He saw it very clearly.

Atobe still softened his heart and didn't go all out.

The power of the "Ice Throne" goes far beyond that; he is controlling the pace, waiting for Tezuka to give up. He doesn't want to crush his opponent with absolute power; he wants to make his opponent lose gracefully.

This guy's penchant for extravagance is ingrained in his very being. Even when he wins, he has to win beautifully, giving his opponent ample face.

Mochizuki Ryo turned to look at Yukimura beside him. Yukimura also turned to look at him, and the two exchanged a glance, both seeing the same judgment in each other's eyes.

Yukimura smiled slightly, said nothing, and turned back to continue watching the match.

Mochizuki Ryo also withdrew his gaze and returned to the court.

……

The rally continues.

Tezuka's consciousness has become blurred once again.

He swung the racket purely on instinct, the traction of the area weakening, and the white light dimming again. The pain in his elbow had long since gone numb; his entire arm felt like it was filled with lead, too heavy to lift.

The fifty-seventh beat.

When Tezuka returned the ball, his body swayed slightly.

My left arm and wrist were completely out of control, as limp as if they had no bones. The ball I lobbed back was too high, soft and mushy, a half-court high ball.

As soon as he cleared the net, his left hand fell limply to his side, twitching uncontrollably. He even had to grit his teeth to maintain the strength to grip the racket.

Opportunity ball.

Everyone saw it.

Without hesitation, Atobe pushed off the ground and leaped into the air. His knees bent in a beautiful arc, his back muscles taut into clean lines, and his racket was raised high above his head.

"A waltz toward destruction."

The boy's voice was clear and bright, carrying the arrogance of a king.

Everyone thought he would do what he always did: knock his opponent's racket away with the first shot, smash the second, and end the match cleanly and decisively.

But he didn't.

The ball wasn't aimed at Tezuka's racket, which was about to fall, but rather at the corner of the baseline.

It slammed down hard.

There was no second bounce, no attack on the racket. Just a clean and crisp smash, precise in power and tricky in placement.

The yellow tennis ball hit the baseline, bounced once, and then crashed heavily into the net.

Tezuka stood still, without moving.

He stared silently at the spot where the ball had landed. His eyes behind his glasses betrayed no emotion; only his left hand, hanging at his side, trembled slightly.

The moment the ball hit the ground, the referee raised his hand and blew the final whistle.

"Beep—"

A clear whistle broke the silence and echoed throughout the entire stadium.

"Match ended. Keigo Atobe of Hyotei Academy won, score 6-3."