inspire-indiana Chapter 741 Storm Blade, who is the burden?
Chapter 741 Storm Blade, who is the burden?
Just at this time.
On the high platform, the referee was wearing a neat black and white striped uniform, with beads of sweat on his forehead, gleaming faintly in the scorching sun.
He raised his right hand, put the silver whistle in his mouth, and scanned the players at both ends of the court with his eyes like a hawk.
The air seemed to freeze, even the wind held its breath.
A sharp and clear whistle suddenly tore through the silence, like a sharp blade cutting through silk, echoing over the entire stadium, startling a few sparrows in the treetops and making them fly up.
The voice announced the start of the battle with unquestionable authority.
"Germany U-17 team serves in the first game."
The referee's voice spread throughout the stadium through the loudspeaker, deep and clear, like the prelude to a war drum.
The sun shone obliquely on the court, making the red clay look like burning charcoal, and every tiny particle of dust swirled in the beam of light.
The stands around the stadium were already filled with spectators, with colorful flags fluttering, the noise of the crowd deafening, and countless pairs of eyes fixed on the six people on the field.
The air was filled with sweat, the smell of burnt rubber soles rubbing against the ground, and the shouts of vendors selling iced drinks in the distance, interweaving into a tense and restless background sound.
"Game start."
As the referee's voice fell, the entire stadium seemed to be injected with electricity, and everyone's nerves were stretched to the extreme.
Lancelot Roy of the German team stood behind the baseline, gripping his racket tightly with both hands, his knuckles turning white from the effort.
His shoulders were straight, and a strand of black hair on his forehead was stuck to his brow bone by sweat, trembling slightly with the slight rise and fall of his chest.
His face was angular, his jawline was tight, but his eyes were a little dazed, as if he was thinking about something far away.
"It's just like what Q.P said."
He whispered to himself, his voice almost carried away by the wind.
His gaze passed over the net and fell on the tall figure opposite - Kularaja Tasta.
The man stood in the brightest sunlight, his shadow dragging diagonally on the ground, like a dormant beast.
The team uniform was clung to his broad back, and the lines of his muscles were faintly visible under the fabric.
His standing posture was casual yet oppressive, his left hand casually resting on the racket, his right hand in his shorts pocket, and a faint sneer hanging at the corner of his mouth.
"The Swiss U-17 national team will start with top professional-level player Kulalaga Tasta."
Lancelot's voice deepened, as if squeezed from deep within his chest.
He didn't know whether he should be happy or sad now.
What makes me happy is that I can finally fight against the legendary opponent.
The sad thing is that the opponent's strength is like a natural barrier, which is daunting.
His heartbeat pounded against his eardrums like a war drum or a death knell.
He subconsciously licked his cracked lips and his Adam's apple rolled.
Anyway, he said it in a deep voice with a sullen look on his face.
"Even if I'm just cannon fodder, I have to do it with a bang."
He raised his head and his gaze became firm again.
The sunlight shone on his face, casting a stubborn outline.
He slowly raised his right hand and held the racket to his chest, as if swearing an oath to fate.
The wind blew from the east side of the court, rolling up a few wisps of red soil, brushing across the tips of his shoes, and then quietly dissipating.
"What's wrong with the top professional level?"
His voice suddenly rose, with a hint of ruthlessness and unwillingness to admit defeat.
He turned suddenly and faced his partner, Kazuya Tokugawa, a high school student standing in front of the net wearing a uniform that was obviously one size too small.
The boy's face turned pale, his fingers unconsciously stroking the handle of the racket, and there was anxiety in his eyes.
"Isn't that high school student next to him just a burden?"
Lancelot sneered, his eyes like knives piercing the opposite side.
His tone was sarcastic, yet mixed with a subtle hint of protectiveness.
But in his eyes, the fighting spirit burning in those eyes is far more worthy of respect than the so-called "top professional level".
"After all, the top professional level is the pinnacle of the profession. It is basically irreplaceable and unrivaled."
He murmured in a low voice, as if trying to convince himself.
His eyes fell on Tasta again, who was still standing straight.
The sunlight danced on his silver-gray hair, as if it was coated with a layer of cold metallic light.
Tasta's eyes were cold, like the surface of a frozen lake, without a ripple.
"But there is a huge difference between professional levels."
Lancelot raised an almost crazy smile at the corner of his mouth.
He suddenly bent down, grabbed a tennis ball from the bag, and felt the rough fur with his fingertips.
The sphere rolled in his palm like a bomb about to explode.
"Killing a burden is easy."
His voice cooled, taking on a confidence that was almost cruel.
The wind blew again, lifting the strands of hair in front of his forehead, revealing a pair of eyes burning with fighting spirit.
Adelaide Stanford sneered, crossed her arms, and leaned against the post next to the net.
He was a few years older than Lancelot, and more muscular, with broad shoulders and a thick back, and a short stubble on his chin.
His eyes were sharp as he scanned his opponent like a hawk, and the sneer at the corner of his mouth carried the sarcasm and disdain unique to adults.
"That's right."
He slowly stood up, brushed the dust off his pants, and his voice was low and hoarse.
"Based on our current strength."
He glanced at Lancelot, then at Tokugawa Kazuya, a hint of complexity flashed in his eyes, but was quickly replaced by indifference.
"Although it's only professional level on the surface."
He moved his wrists, and the joints made a slight clicking sound, as if he was adjusting a precision machine.
“Even when you see top professional-level players, there’s no room for resistance.”
His voice was low, with an almost self-deprecating calmness.
But he immediately raised his head, his eyes sharp.
"But it's still incredibly easy to bully a professional-level high school student."
After he finished speaking, his mouth widened, revealing a row of white teeth.
There was no warmth in that smile, only naked contempt.
Lancelot Roy nodded without responding.
He took a deep breath, his chest puffing out, as if he wanted to suck all the air in the stadium into his lungs.
His heartbeat gradually stabilized and his eyes became focused and sharp.
He slowly raised his right hand and threw the tennis ball high into the air.
The yellow sphere drew a graceful arc under the blue sky, like a falling meteor.
He jumped up and swung the racket in his hand fiercely.
His movements were swift and fluid, like a cheetah pouncing on its prey.
The racket drew a silver arc in the air, accompanied by a whistling sound that tore through the air.
His muscles tensed instantly, his legs exerted force, his waist and abdomen twisted, and all the strength of his body was concentrated on one point.
boom! ! !
As the tennis ball and the racket's face collided with each other, a terrifying roar suddenly appeared on the court.
The sound was like a thunderstorm, numbing the eardrums of the audience in the stands and even shaking the leaves on the distant trees.
The tennis ball turned into a blurry yellow shadow, carrying a hot airflow, and shot towards the opposite side at a speed so fast that it almost left an afterimage in the air.
Then the tennis ball turned into a laser and soared towards the opposite side.
At the same time, the waves stirred up by the tennis ball swept in all directions one after another.
The red soil was rolled up, forming a low dust dragon that billowed in the sunlight.
People in the front row of the audience subconsciously raised their hands to cover their eyes, fearing that the flying dust would blind them.
The ball was moving so fast that it even tore through the air, making a sharp hissing sound.
"Storm Blade!!!"
Lancelot Roy shouted loudly and powerfully, his voice filled with determination and arrogance.
Before his body hit the ground, his eyes were already fixed on the trajectory of the ball, as if he wanted to witness the devastating power of the blow with his own eyes.
however.
Just the next moment.
boom!
Following a terrible crash, Kulalaja Tasta swung the racket in his hand fiercely.
His movements seemed casual, but they were actually precise to the millimeter.
The racket faced the incoming ball and intercepted it head-on with an almost brutal attitude.
At that moment, time seemed to freeze, all sounds were removed, leaving only the instantaneous explosion when the racket and the tennis ball touched.
The tennis ball that had just bounced up was directly blocked by the racket.
Tasta's wrist shook slightly, and power poured out like a tide.
The muscles in his arms bulged and the veins popped out, like a giant beast awakening.
Followed by.
The power of the tennis ball seemed to be crushed head-on by an even more terrifying force.
That force not only offset the impact of the "Storm Blade", but also compressed and accelerated it in the opposite direction, like a cannonball hit by a giant hammer.
In an instant.
The tennis ball immediately shot towards Lancelot Roy on the opposite side.
It was faster than when it came, and its trajectory was lower, with a piercing scream, like a beam of death.
The air was compressed into ripples and distorted visibly to the naked eye.
The air wave that was just swung out was instantly penetrated by this ball and torn into pieces like a piece of paper.
The dazzling light seemed to turn into the second sun in the sky.
It was a strange halo of light reflected from the surface of the high-speed spinning tennis ball, spreading out in circles and making people dizzy.