Moroboshi glanced at the scoreboard, chuckling softly. "No matter how well we prepared, this pace is a bit too fast, isn't it?"
The Shohoku team had already narrowed the deficit to just two points. At this moment, Moroboshi had no choice but to roll up his sleeves and keep pushing forward.
The situation now was the exact opposite of what Egawa Tatsuhoshi faced earlier. Moroboshi's game revolved mostly around shooting, so Rukawa Kaede stuck close to him, refusing to give him even a sliver of space to pull up.
But that defensive approach came with a price — if Moroboshi chose to drive, he could easily get past him in one step.
Logically, Rukawa Kaede knew this. Yet, he still decided to defend that way. No one knew what was going through his head.
Moroboshi didn't care. No matter how tight the defense, he had a way to score.
Receiving the ball, he made a series of fakes, and when Rukawa slightly lost balance, Moroboshi lowered his body and exploded forward.
This time, Sakuragi was ready. Having learned his lesson earlier, he already had Kuroda pinned behind him. When he saw Rukawa get shaken off, he instantly rushed in to help.
Moroboshi charged toward Sakuragi, the two colliding paths in front of the paint. With a smooth motion, Moroboshi sent the ball between his legs, lowered his shoulder, and slipped past him. Two quick strides later, he lifted the ball for a layup.
But he underestimated Sakuragi. Twisting his body mid-run, Sakuragi launched after him, shouting, "Take this! Gorilla's Direct Pass Block!"
Moroboshi's ears twitched — and just as Sakuragi's hand came down, he pulled the ball back.
"What!?" Sakuragi's palm swung through the air. In the same motion, Moroboshi sent a slick behind-the-back pass to Kuroda, who banked it cleanly off the glass.
Moroboshi turned with a grin. "Sorry, I'm not a fan of hot pot."
He walked off as Sakuragi fumed. "Damn it! Just you wait—I'll block you next time!"
Switching sides, Nango took control of the ball once more. For the first time, he wasn't looking to pass—he wanted to keep scoring himself.
Maybe it was because his touch tonight felt perfect. He didn't want to waste it.
Dribbling smoothly, the ball danced between Nango's left and right hands, his shoulders swaying rhythmically. Each feint made Egawa Tatsuhoshi adjust his stance nervously. Compared to Nango's relaxed expression, Egawa looked completely tense—sweat pouring down his face, his momentum crushed.
Egawa had played countless tough matches with Aiwa Academy, yet this was the first time he'd faced someone so tall and so agile. He had no idea how to stop him.
Suddenly, Nango raised his left hand high. Thinking he'd drive right, Egawa slid that way—only for Nango to switch hands mid-dribble and burst left instead.
"Damn!" Egawa cursed. He had just sworn he wouldn't let Nango through again—and yet, he'd been beaten cleanly once more.
Charging into the lane, Nango took two massive strides and launched off the dashed line. His body soared high, arm cocked back, clearly aiming for a poster dunk.
Amamiya Hideyoshi couldn't let that happen. Leaving Akagi, he spread his long arms, determined to block Nango's path.
But Nango wasn't afraid. He powered through, the ball raised over his head as their bodies collided mid-air.
Bang! The impact echoed. Amamiya's long arm was shoved aside, and though Nango's lower body tilted forward from contact, his upper body stayed firm.
Then—
SLAM!
The one-handed dunk rattled the rim as Nango hung for a heartbeat before dropping down.
Thud! Amamiya hit the floor hard, while the backboard quivered from the force.
Nango clenched his fist, pumping it toward the air with a low, "YES!"
For a moment, the once-deafening arena went silent. Then, from the stands, a familiar voice rang out.
"Nango, you're awesome!" shouted Kano, both hands raised.
"Sit down already!" Eri hissed beside him, red-faced as the whole crowd turned their way.
"Is that kid's name Nango?"
"He's amazing! How have I never heard of him before?"
"This kid's going places!"
"No need for 'in the future'—he's already incredible!"
Most fans had come to see Moroboshi Dai, the "Star of Aichi." But now, everyone knew the name Nango Koichiro from Kanagawa's Shohoku High.
Moroboshi swallowed hard, astonished. "No wonder Kainan lost to them… Kanagawa really breeds monsters."
That dunk seemed to release all of Nango's pent-up energy. For the rest of the half, although he remained sharp, he started using his gravity to open up chances for his teammates. Shohoku, now in rhythm, soon overtook the score.
Aiwa, however, clung on—thanks solely to Moroboshi Dai's relentless scoring.
45–39.
With 25 seconds left in the first half, Shohoku had one more chance to extend their lead.
During a brief pause, Rukawa Kaede's eyes never left Moroboshi. For a long time now, a question had been eating at him.
Why did Moroboshi make scoring look so effortless?
In pure skill, Moroboshi wasn't that far ahead. Most of what he could do—Rukawa could replicate. And yet, even with all his ability, Rukawa couldn't stop him.
So finally, he asked, "Do you think you're the number one high school player in Japan?"
Moroboshi blinked, caught off guard. Then a complex look crossed his face. He couldn't tell if Rukawa was being sincere—or trying to provoke him.
With a small smile, Moroboshi replied, "I'd like to think so. But the real number one should be Sawakita Eiji, from Sannoh Industrial."
Sawakita Eiji… of course. Rukawa's eyes narrowed.
He pressed again, "How big is the gap between you and him?"
"Hey, is this really the time for that kind of talk?" Moroboshi snapped lightly. Even with his calm demeanor, discussing Sawakita during a game was a bit much.
"Then answer me this," Rukawa said. "How big is the gap between me and Sawakita Eiji?"
Moroboshi stared at him, incredulous. Was this guy for real?
After a long pause, he finally said, "You're still very green."
"Green?" Rukawa frowned. "What does that mean?"
Moroboshi didn't bother answering. He could see Rukawa's talent—but also his immaturity. The kid didn't yet understand teamwork, relying too much on brute skill. Neither he nor his team would reach true greatness that way.
But that wasn't his lesson to teach.
With twelve seconds left, Nango began his move. He crossed up Egawa once more, drew in Amamiya's help defense, and dished to Akagi for a thunderous slam.
Five seconds remained.
Moroboshi sprinted the ball upcourt, Rukawa hot on his heels. Everyone knew what was coming—a last-second shot. They all knew it'd be a jumper.
Seeing no chance to shake off Rukawa, Moroboshi tossed the ball to Egawa, then suddenly stopped moving. The pass wasn't part of a play—it was bait.
Rukawa relaxed for half a second, thinking the threat was over.
That was enough.
Moroboshi instantly spun away, and Egawa fed the ball back. One step behind the three-point line, Moroboshi rose and fired.
The buzzer sounded as the ball sailed.
Swish!
Perfect release. Perfect shot. The crowd erupted as the ball kissed through the net.
Both teams walked off the court with only a five-point difference—and the promise of an even fiercer second half ahead.
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