"That guy…" Fukatsu Kazunari stared at Aoi Kunisaku, who had just made that impossible shot, voice low and tense.
It wasn't his first time seeing that kind of shot from behind the backboard.
Last time, during the national tournament, Aoi Kunisaku had already used that same move to rip apart their defense.
Even so, even knowing it could happen, even bracing himself for it, he still had no answer when it really came.
That kind of move wasn't something any defense could predict. It felt more like pure improvisation beyond human limits.
Matsumoto Minoru clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides, eyes full of frustration and unease.
"That's just impossible to defend!" he muttered, low and bitter.
It wasn't that they weren't working hard. It wasn't that their defense wasn't tight enough. The problem was—Aoi Kunisaku just didn't play by the rules.
You never knew what he'd do the next second. You couldn't predict his shooting angle at all.
That kind of uncontrollable pressure was like fighting a wild beast in the dark—you couldn't even get a chance to fight back.
On the sideline, Domoto Goro frowned hard, his expression tense.
He kept his eyes locked on the court as he rapidly tried to think of countermeasures. He was desperate to find some way to contain Aoi Kunisaku.
But no matter how he ran the scenarios, no matter how he analyzed it, there just wasn't a solution that worked.
Switch someone else to mark him?
No good. No one could match his pace.
Double-team him?
That would mean leaving the rest of Kanagawa's lineup wide open, which would only make things worse.
Zone Defense?
That would be a disaster. Aoi Kunisaku thrived on cutting through zones and blitzing past defenders. His one-man offense could tear down an entire scheme.
Just thinking about it made Domoto's head throb.
It was too much.
That kind of player… he felt like someone born just to break the rules of the game.
By now, the crowd in the stands had exploded.
Roaring cheers and excited screams echoed nonstop. It was like the whole gym had been set ablaze by their energy. You could practically feel the heat and shock in the air.
They'd been completely blown away by Aoi Kunisaku's shot from behind the backboard.
Some had seen a move like that on tape. Others were witnessing it for the first time.
But regardless, everyone's faces were filled with pure awe.
"That was insane! That shot was too cool—I'm gonna start practicing that back at home!"
"There it is again—Aoi Kunisaku's formless shot!"
"He doesn't just play basketball. It's like he's performing art out there."
…
Time ticked on. The tempo on court only got faster.
Aoi Kunisaku moved even more frequently now. Like a perpetual-motion machine, he weaved through the court. Every cut, every stop carried a kind of terrifying momentum.
Meanwhile, Sawakita Eiji was being pushed closer and closer to his limit.
He was still gritting his teeth and hanging on, but anyone watching could see it—his grip on Aoi Kunisaku was slipping fast.
His footwork was slowing. His reaction time was lagging. There was a visible strain in his eyes.
He couldn't keep up anymore.
On the sideline, Domoto Goro watched grimly, his frown deepening, his eyes filled with a tension he couldn't hide.
He saw it clear as day—Sawakita Eiji was breaking down.
He was no longer "marking" Aoi Kunisaku. He was just trying to keep up.
Meanwhile, Aoi Kunisaku had seized full control of the game's rhythm.
If it kept going like this, Akita wouldn't just be on the back foot. They'd be dragged into complete collapse.
He almost instinctively wanted to call a timeout, pull Sawakita Eiji off the court, give him a breather, and let the team regroup and reset their rhythm.
But when he looked back at the court again, he hesitated.
Sawakita Eiji's gaze was still unwavering. Even though he was utterly exhausted, there wasn't a trace of retreat in his eyes.
That kind of determination—to hold the line no matter the cost—wasn't something one could interrupt so easily.
In the end, Domoto just sighed and slowly lowered the hand he'd been about to raise.
He knew that even if he swapped Sawakita out now, it wouldn't change a thing.
Because in this whole lineup, there wasn't a single player who could truly go head-to-head with Aoi Kunisaku.
Pa—
A crisp dribble echoed sharply at midcourt.
Akita's next offensive push hadn't even fully taken shape when it was shattered by a sudden figure darting in from the side.
Aoi Kunisaku again.
He pounced in from the wing like a leopard, cutting off the pass aimed at Matsumoto Minoru. He snatched the ball clean from his fingertips!
It all happened in an instant.
Just a moment ago, the ball was in Fukatsu Kazunari's hands. Under Maki Shinichi's tight defense, he was forced to pass, aiming at what seemed like a safe option—Matsumoto Minoru.
The ball had just left his hand, flying through the air. Everyone thought it was just a routine swing pass.
Then Aoi Kunisaku moved.
He burst out from the crowd like a flash of red lightning, straight toward the passing lane.
Even though Sawakita Eiji was still locked onto him, glued tight in a full-body defense, it didn't slow down his first step or judgment at all.
If it had been the first half, Sawakita might've been able to mess up Aoi Kunisaku's rhythm just a little by sticking close.
But now things were different.
As the match wore on, Aoi Kunisaku's condition only got better. It was like the blood in his veins had fully ignited.
He was the one holding the Aomine Daiki template.
The deeper the game went, the stronger he got.
The steal he made looked like a lightning strike—sharp and sudden.
The ball was still drawing a beautiful arc in the air, just about to land in Matsumoto Minoru's hands.
Then, in the very next second—
It vanished.
Matsumoto froze, his arms still held in a catching stance, his eyes empty with confusion.
He hadn't even processed what had just happened. He could only watch helplessly as Aoi Kunisaku was already three or four meters away, flying down the court with the ball.
Aoi Kunisaku had taken control again. And this time, he was moving even faster than before.
That last steal had only been a warm-up.
Sawakita Eiji immediately sensed something was off.
The distance between them was starting to stretch.
Not a lot at first. But it was widening—slowly, unstoppably.
His pupils shrank. His heart clenched tight. His entire body tensed.
What he feared most was happening.
Everyone in the stands held their breath. And they all saw it clearly.
The gap between Aoi Kunisaku and Sawakita was growing.
Not just a step.
It was getting bigger and bigger.
Without a hint of hesitation, Aoi Kunisaku slashed into the paint. He was like a blade unleashed, cutting straight toward the heart.
He leapt high. His body stretched midair. He slammed the ball down hard with one hand.
Bang—!
A deafening Slam Dunk exploded through the entire stadium.
The ball swished clean into the net.
The scoreboard jumped again.
Kanagawa 76, Akita 56.
Only five minutes into the second half, and thanks to Aoi Kunisaku's play, Kanagawa had blown the lead wide open to twenty points.