Chapter 9 – Superpower Ball
“Ah!”
McDonald sensed the impending crisis the moment Gao Wen made his move.
With a light, skateboard-like touch that borrowed force, Gao Wen reversed the disadvantage of a power-to-power exchange. With a single shot, he created an angle, instantly disrupting McDonald’s rhythm.
Yet McDonald, entirely focused on the ball, didn’t lose his concentration. A slight leap in place and a strong push-off with his left foot sent his body hurtling forward like an arrow shot from a bow. Stretching to the limit, he moved laterally in long strides. His right arm extended straight, reaching for the tennis ball soaring high above.
By this point, McDonald had lost the optimal hitting position. Still, he gave it his all, planting his foot firmly during his rapid sprint. Like a baseball player sliding to base, he threw himself forward entirely. Utilizing the ground’s force, he twisted his waist and propelled his shoulder, executing a lateral swing.
He made it!
The high-speed ball slammed into his racket. McDonald, having lost physical control, abandoned all restraint—
Arching his back, propelling his shoulder, swinging his arm, and then striking the ball!
The entire motion flowed seamlessly. His racket cut through the air with even greater speed and force. Even after the strike, the forehand swing continued in a spectacular flourish, completing a Thomas-like spin above his head. His gaze never wavered, locked on the ball.
Whoosh!
Pop!
The tennis ball streaked through the air in a mustard-yellow blur, carving an outrageous angle. Skimming the net, it dove quickly, landing inside the service box. Its refraction angle reached an incredible seventy-five degrees before it bounced high, like a meteor soaring toward the audience stands.
Trouble!
“Big angle versus an even bigger angle!”
Using Gao Wen’s angled forehand return, McDonald countered with an even sharper angle. His shot resembled an out-wide serve, precisely landing inside the service box and flying outward beyond the doubles alley. After hitting the ground, the ball bounced exceptionally high and fast.
Gao Wen immediately realized his return hadn’t suppressed McDonald entirely.
Similarly, McDonald’s return trajectory was clear without needing prediction—this was a forehand crosscourt drill, requiring no movement from their original positions.
But the issue now wasn’t anticipation—it was execution.
McDonald’s shot bounced higher and higher. Judging by the ascending arc, it was going to soar above Gao Wen’s head.
What to do?
Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap.
Gao Wen adjusted his position with a series of quick, small steps, moving laterally. His body transitioned from sunlight into the shadows, disappearing like a ninja. But his gaze remained fixed, unyielding, on the tennis ball bathed in golden sunlight.
The sound of the wind roared in his ears.
Push off!
Jump!
The 193-centimetre-tall figure leapt high into the air. His legs suspended mid-flight, his back arched like a fully drawn bow, showcasing a graceful curve that framed the clear azure sky and radiant gold sunlight. His silhouette emerged from the shadows and was bathed in the sun’s brilliance.
Raise the hand!
Lift the shoulder!
His body stretched to the limit, like a kite soaring freely through the blue skylight and unrestrained. The perfect hang-time offered a breathtaking visual spectacle, but Gao Wen paid no attention to aesthetics. His focus was absolute.
He kept his eyes fixed on the tennis ball. The point of contact had already passed above his head, but he still raised his racket high. Utilizing the jump’s height and his tall stature, he extended his racket as if it were an extension of his arm, claiming the high ground and finding the ideal strike point. Then—
A quick snap of the forearm, like the crack of a whip, sent a tremor through the air. His wrist deftly suppressed the motion, creating a downward, hatchet-like shot.
Scrape!
His forearm felt the intense force of the ball’s collision. Yet the powerful swing suppressed the vibrations, translating them into a commanding strike.
Bang!
Total domination! A forceful counterattack! The tennis ball shot out like a cannonball.
Boom!
The ball traced a straight trajectory, slamming toward the ground at a 75-degree angle. It descended like a bomber in low flight over a city, a collision of pure power perfectly controlling its flight path. Spin and velocity were entirely crushed beneath raw strength.
Crash!
The ball’s downward trajectory smashed into the inside edge of McDonald’s service box, shallow and sharply angled. It landed at the far corner of the baseline with meteoric intensity, exploding outward. The compounded speed and power unleashed a staggering burst of energy.
Whoosh.
In the blink of an eye, it was gone, leaving only a faint imprint on the court surface. The ball had vanished into thin air, beyond even the ability of the human eye to track.
McDonald stood motionless on his forehand side. Though still in position and theoretically capable of reacting, the ball’s combined speed and power overwhelmed his reflexes. Before he could process what had happened, the ball had already rocketed into the stands.
Frozen!
He couldn’t move!
McDonald was pinned in place, his entire body locked. He instinctively extended his racket but had no clue where the ball was headed. In the next moment, he felt a sudden gust of wind rush past. Reflexively, he turned his head, watching as the ball streaked across the air with a long, blazing trail before disappearing into the spectator’s stand.
His feet, as if nailed to the ground, refused to budge.
Turned his head. Looked back. Turned again. Looked back again.
His gaze shifted back and forth between the spectator stands and the mark on the court where the ball had landed. Perhaps only the faint imprint left on the court could prove what had just happened. And yes, the ball had unquestionably landed inside the lines—this was a perfect return.
Huff.
Huff.
His heart pounded fiercely against his chest, adrenaline surging uncontrollably, filling his head with a deafening roar. McDonald gasped for air, lifting his head slightly, only to find the slowly rising sun blindingly bright.
“Forehand vs. Forehand,” Gao Wen wins!
McDonald had steadily built his advantage through sheer power and speed during the prolonged forehand exchange. He had accumulated a significant edge over time. Faced with mounting pressure, Gao Wen was the first to adapt, introducing spin to disrupt the rhythm and turn the tide. This forced McDonald to unleash a ferocious shot, driving the ball to an extreme corner.
Yet—
To McDonald’s surprise, Gao Wen responded with a superhuman forehand of his own. Exploiting his height and channelling the strength of his forearm, he delivered an unstoppable return, turning McDonald’s power against him. The ball left McDonald rooted in place, reduced to watching helplessly, unable even to react. This was undeniably—
A masterpiece!
McDonald glanced toward the empty stands, a trace of longing in his expression, followed by a sigh of regret.
However, his mood lingered only briefly. Turning back toward Gao Wen, he offered a round of applause—this shot undoubtedly deserved recognition and encouragement.
But the words he spoke were:
“Sorry.”
As the words left his lips, McDonald’s face showed a wry smile of resignation. He shook his head lightly, half-laughing, half-apologizing, his tone tinged with helplessness.
“Sorry, sorry, really, I mean it—sorry.”
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