The scoreboard blinked 42–38. Easton still held the lead, but the pulse of Seiryō's team had grown stronger. Sweat dripped from foreheads, lungs burned, yet the energy in the gym had shifted. The first half had proven something: Marcus's "Pulse" could rise to meet the Watchtower, but now the question loomed—could they sustain it?
The whistle pierced through the gym. Third quarter. Easton inbounded with precision.
Sho Amakusa, Easton's captain, caught the ball and raised an eyebrow, scanning the court like a general surveying a battlefield. The subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the exact moment his pupils flicked left, all dictated the tempo. Unlike Itsuki, the Watchtower, a sentinel reading patterns and probabilities, Sho was alive—breathing, feeling, leading. Every movement he made wasn't just to play—it was to command.
