roccoschili Chapter 911: The End of the Game
Chapter 911: The End of the Game
It turned out that the other party had been dancing with heavy shackles, and every movement was greatly restricted.
The Turkish coach could no longer suppress his shock and anger.
He yanked off his tie.
As if this could ease his emotions that were about to explode.
On his neck, the bulging blue veins were clearly visible, twisting and winding like snakes.
"His movement speed! The sprint just now was actually completed while carrying weight!"
The coach's voice was trembling with excitement.
"How can this be?"
At this moment, the speed meter on the sidelines suddenly seemed to be injected with a powerful energy.
Jumping like crazy.
Then, a dazzling number popped up on the big screen - Michael Bismarck's serve speed at this moment was 37km/h faster than before!
This astonishing number left everyone dumbfounded.
The spectators on the sidelines even forgot to cheer.
The entire stadium fell into deathly silence.
Bismarck himself seemed unusually calm.
He moved the joints that had just been freed.
Feeling the long suppressed power in the body burst out in an instant.
His golden hair flew up as he shook his head vigorously.
It was as if announcing his return to the world.
He deliberately slapped the ball hard on his palm.
The "pa, pa" sounds echoed in the silent stadium like war drums.
It seemed to be setting the beat for the coming storm.
"see it?"
Bismarck's voice was deep and powerful, with an unquestionable confidence.
"This is the real engine of the German tank!"
After saying this, he suddenly lowered his body and took a lunge.
The muscles all over the body tensed up instantly, with clear lines.
Like marble carefully carved by a sculptor.
The sunlight shone on him, making his figure look even taller and more powerful.
"Alfonso Solon, prepare yourself for—"
However, he hadn't finished speaking yet.
A sharp sound of breaking through the air suddenly rang out.
Like a flash of lightning that cut through the sky, tearing the air apart in an instant!
Alfonso's body seemed to be pulled by a powerful force.
I leaned back involuntarily.
His racket passed across his chest as quickly as lightning.
Formed a solid defensive arc.
Just at this moment.
A tennis ball is like a green cannonball.
Coming at an astonishing speed.
It brushed the tip of Alfonso's nose.
Bringing up a gust of wind.
Let his hair fly.
Then the tennis ball hit the billboard behind him hard.
There was a loud bang.
A spider web-like crack suddenly appeared on the billboard.
It was as if torn apart by this blow.
This scene terrified the audience in the stands.
Screams came and went.
Some people were so shocked that they stumbled and knocked over their seats.
The electronic scoreboard announced the score coldly: "Michael Bismarck, ace!"
The sound echoed in the silent stadium.
With an irresistible authority.
"How can this be……"
On the Japanese team's bench, Ryoma Echizen unconsciously clenched his hat tightly.
He has seen countless amazing serves.
But the green shadow in front of him was carrying the power of wind and thunder.
It was completely beyond his understanding of the speed of tennis.
Inui Sadaharu pushed up his reflective glasses.
The data record book in his hand rustled because of his nervousness.
His eyes widened.
Looking at the numbers on the scoreboard in disbelief.
He muttered to himself, "The drag coefficient... Impossible! This has exceeded the theoretical limit of human muscle explosive power!"
The sole of Alfonso's shoe left a black scorch mark on the ground.
His body trembled slightly due to the huge impact.
He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth where the tennis ball had cut him.
A bitter taste of rust spread across his tongue.
Every swing of the opponent's racket is like a precise missile.
It hit his prediction system directly.
Causing a series of violent explosions.
When the second ace came like lightning.
A smile suddenly appeared on the corner of his mouth - a creepy smile.
With a strong smell of blood.
It was like a demon crawling out of hell.
"I see... Is this your true strength?"
His voice was low and hoarse.
Yet it echoes in the air.
With a hint of contempt and disdain.
His pupils contracted sharply in the sunlight.
It became a needle-like point.
Revealing an uncontrollable madness.
However, at this moment.
His body suddenly started moving like an arrow.
He is as fast as lightning.
Leaving a trail of afterimages on the plastic playground.
It's dazzling.
The racket in his hand drew a strange arc in the air that was completely different from the previous one.
It was like a poisonous snake hiding in the darkness, waiting for its chance to strike.
This time, when the tennis ball collided with the racket face.
The entire venue seemed to be shaken by this powerful force.
The sound was like the clanging of metal.
Deafening.
It seemed as if it was going to tear the entire space apart.
The moment the numbers on the electronic scoreboard jumped to 5:4.
The spotlights on the ceiling of the venue suddenly began to flicker violently.
As if disturbed by this thrilling scene.
Bismarck used a racket to lift up the wet hair in front of his forehead.
Beads of sweat trickled down his angular jawline.
Eventually dark spots were created on the ground.
He deliberately slowed down his pace.
Every step feels like stepping on people's hearts.
There was a crisp sound of metal spikes scraping against the ground.
This sound is like the countdown of death.
Chilling.
"The last point."
Bismarck's voice seemed to be suppressed by something.
It sounds a bit heavy.
But there is a sense of oppression that cannot be ignored.
He stood on the court, holding the tennis ball tightly in his hands.
Keep rubbing it in the palm of your hand.
It seems as if all the strength is gathered into this small ball.
The leather surface of the tennis ball should have been smooth.
But at this moment, it is soaked in sweat.
There was a strange glow.
Bismarck kept his eyes fixed on his opponent.
There is confidence and determination in his eyes.
He seemed to have seen the dawn of victory.
"Let me show you... the true aesthetics of arm wrestling."
His voice was deep and powerful.
It seemed to come from deep in the throat.
When Alfonso heard this, his heart suddenly tightened.
His pupils suddenly contracted.
An unprecedented feeling of tension surged in my heart.
He stared at Bismarck.
Watch his every move.
When he saw that the arc of Bismarck's swing was a full fifteen degrees lower than before.
I couldn't help but feel astonished.
This completely goes against the dynamics of a tennis serve.
According to common sense, such a serve should have no power at all.
However, while Alfonso was still thinking.
A powerful feeling of oppression came over me like an overwhelming tidal wave.
He felt that the air seemed to be twisted by this force.
And that serve should have been powerless.
But at this moment it is like a cannonball.
With amazing speed and power.
Flying straight towards him.
The sharp sound of the racket breaking through the air was like a sharp arrow.
It punctured Alfonso's eardrum.
At this moment.
His body reacted instinctively—it turned sideways.
Just at the moment he turned sideways.
The tennis ball passed by the hem of his sweatshirt like lightning.
Then it slammed hard into the protective wall behind him.
All I heard was a loud bang.
The protective wall was hit and a dent as big as a bowl was created!
"ACE ball? No!"
Inui Sadaharu's exclamation rang out on the court.
His glasses had suddenly slid to the tip of his nose.
His eyes widened.
He stared at the dent in disbelief.
He held the sweat-soaked notebook tightly in his hand.
Data danced wildly across his retinas.
His lips trembled slightly.
He muttered, "Speed... 257km/h! This... This has surpassed the historical record of professional tennis!"
There was a sudden loud noise from the Turkish bench.
Like a swarm of disturbed bees.
One of the Turkish players was extremely emotional.
He threw the hat off his head violently.
The hat seemed to be given life.
Spinning rapidly in the air.
The LOGO on the brim of the hat also left a blurry afterimage during this high-speed rotation.
"This guy...is not even a human!"
The Turkish player's eyes widened.
He shouted in disbelief.
at the same time.
The Turkish coach seemed to have lost all his strength.
Slumped in the chair.
His fingers clenched the leather of the armrest.
Due to overexerting.
His nails dug deep into it.
His knuckles turned pale from the excessive force.
And on the court.
Alfonso wiped the blood foam from the corner of his mouth with difficulty.
A taste of rust filled his mouth.
That smells of despair.
He looked down at the racket in his hand.
I saw that three of the racket's strings had broken.
The edges of the frame are also covered with fine cracks.
It was as if the racket could no longer withstand any more pressure.
When Bismarck threw the ball high again.
Alfonso suddenly seemed to be ignited.
he yelled.
Like an enraged lion.
Rushing straight to the baseline.
This time.
He decided not to play passive defense anymore.
But take the initiative!
As he sprinted.
The racket swung rapidly in the air.
The sound of it cutting through the air was like the cry of a night owl.
Intertwined with the sound of a tennis ball rapidly breaking through the air.
It formed a sharp and piercing duet.
Alfonso used all his strength.
Hit the ball hard and flat.
however.
At the moment the ball touched Bismarck's racket.
A huge force suddenly hit me.
The ball was bent in the opposite direction.
That force is so great.
Alfonso's palm was shaken violently.
A sharp pain came over me.
He fixed his eyes.
I saw a deep bloody mark on the base of my thumb.
Blood was slowly oozing out of the wound.
"It's over!" With this roar, Bismarck leaped up like a burning meteor. His smash was like a god descending from heaven, with unparalleled power and momentum. His golden hair fluttered in the air like a dazzling crown, which made people fall in love with him.
The tennis ball flew past like lightning and hit the ground hard, making a dull thud. At the same time, the electronic scorer announced the score without hesitation: "GAME SET MATCH! Michael Bismarck wins 6:4!"
The audience was so shocked by this thrilling scene that they were completely silent, and only the heavy breathing of each other could be heard. Time seemed to freeze at this moment, and the entire venue was immersed in a suffocating silence.
Alfonso stood there in a daze, the racket in his hand slipped and fell to the ground as if it had lost its life. His eyes fell directly on the figure of Bismarck in the distance, with his arms open and celebrating to his heart's content, and suddenly he smiled.
The laughter contained both relief and deep reluctance. In this empty venue, the laughter continued to echo, as if Alfonso was shouting from deep in his heart: "So... this is the gap..."
He slowly scanned the stands and saw someone on the Turkish team's bench bursting into tears. The German team's coach was wiping his glasses leisurely, as if he thought doing so would make him look particularly handsome.
Bismarck walked slowly towards Alfonso Soron with steady steps. Beads of sweat hung on his forehead and dripped down his eyelashes, but this could not conceal the blazing light in his eyes.
When he walked in front of Alfonso Solon, he stretched out his hand and pulled up the opponent who was already slumped on the ground without hesitation. Bismarck's voice was low and powerful, as if it could penetrate a person's soul: "Alfonso Solon, you made me enjoy the fight."
However, just when Alfonso Solon thought Bismarck was going to express his admiration for him, Bismarck suddenly clenched his fists, and his muscles suddenly bulged under the sunlight, full of strength and tension.
"But remember," Bismarck's tone became serious, "in the face of absolute power..." He paused, then swung his fist violently, creating a gust of wind, "all the data and skills are nothing but gorgeous decorations!"
Alfonso Solon's chest rose and fell violently, and his breathing was rapid and heavy, as if every breath exhausted all his strength. His tight sportswear was soaked with sweat, sticking tightly to his body, highlighting his well-defined muscles. The veins on his neck bulged, like earthworms, beating with his breathing.
Sweat flowed down his angular jawline, gathering into a dense stream. Under the spotlight, the sweat refracted tiny rays of light, shining like stars. They pattered and fell on the bright red plastic ground under his feet, splashing small water droplets, and then quickly spreading dark spots.
Alfonso Solon shook his numb wrists with trembling hands, trying to relieve the fatigue in his hands. The knuckles of his tightly gripped racket turned white and even slightly deformed due to excessive force. At this moment, even adjusting his breathing became a luxury for him. He could only breathe hard, feeling every soreness and fatigue in his body.