Coach Anzai adjusted his glasses, his calm tone carrying quiet authority.
"Rukawa Kaede," he said evenly, "come down and rest for a while."
Rukawa bit his lower lip, his voice barely above a whisper.
"…I understand."
He didn't say another word. Silently, he walked to the bench, picked up a towel, and draped it over his head—hiding his face completely in the shadows, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes.
Ayako, sitting beside him, gently patted his shoulder, worry flashing in her eyes.
It was the first time she had seen Rukawa Kaede look so defeated, and the sight made her uneasy.
The "White-Haired Buddha" remained composed, his expression unreadable.
"Akagi-san," Coach Anzai said, turning toward the captain, "get ready to play."
"Yes, Coach."
Akagi nodded, his usually steady tone carrying a faint tension. Coach Anzai's seriousness felt heavier than usual.
The rest of Shohoku's players weren't doing much better. Even Sakuragi, usually the first to mock Rukawa, stood frozen, unable to say a word.
But the most surprised of all was Miyagi.
He had thought his turn was over—that Coach Anzai would sub him out. Instead, he was staying in.
Does that mean… Coach Anzai agreed with what I did? he wondered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his mind.
But he was mistaken.
Coach Anzai understood that Rukawa was struggling internally. He wanted to let the boy sort things out on his own—but not at the cost of the entire team.
This was the National Tournament. As head coach, Anzai had a responsibility to everyone on that court.
At the same time, this was an opportunity—to observe, to reflect, and perhaps later, to guide Rukawa Kaede back onto the right path.
Nango, on the other hand, wasn't worried. He believed Rukawa would eventually pull himself together.
Being benched was never pleasant, but it was a small setback in the grand scheme of things.
Still, Nango couldn't help feeling a pang of regret.
If Rukawa had stayed on the floor, he could've finished saying what he wanted to tell him.
Now, that conversation would have to wait until after the game.
The timeout ended, and both teams returned to the court.
Aiwa Academy's players brimmed with confidence. They had cut down the lead, their morale was high, and with their full lineup intact, they believed they could overturn the game before the final buzzer.
But that confidence began to waver the moment they saw who had the ball.
With Rukawa resting, the small forward position fell to Nango. And this time, he wasn't there to facilitate—he was there to finish.
Egawa Tatsuhoshi, assigned to guard him, immediately tensed up. So did Aoba Yoshi, manning the paint. And soon, Nango gave them both a reason to be nervous.
He took the ball with his back to Egawa, glancing briefly over his shoulder to read the defense.
The other four Shohoku players cleared out to the opposite side, leaving Nango isolated on the right wing.
Aiwa's defenders braced themselves, ready to collapse if Egawa was beaten.
But Nango didn't give them that chance.
He backed Egawa down methodically, his footwork crisp and balanced. Step by step, he pushed closer to the basket, then, just outside the restricted area, pivoted sharply and sank a smooth fadeaway jumper.
Right after the timeout, Shohoku had found their rhythm again—and their spirits steadied. Now it was time to lock in on defense.
Moroboshi took the ball and prepared to attack.
Nango closed in immediately, spreading his arms wide and mirroring every feint. His movements were precise, his timing sharp—his defensive pressure far heavier than Rukawa's earlier.
Moroboshi felt it instantly. The air around him tightened.
Should he take the shot himself or pass to Fukuoka and let him keep carrying the offense?
After a brief hesitation, he passed.
Fukuoka received the ball and began posting up—but this time, he had to use much more strength than before.
Miyagi, behind him, was pressing hard, shoving, bumping, and sneaking in every small trick he knew.
Normally, that would have drawn a whistle, but the referee turned a blind eye. After all, Fukuoka bullying a player nearly half his size without allowing some resistance would've been too much.
Even so, the size mismatch was brutal. Miyagi's legs burned, his arms ached—but he refused to back down.
You've scored on me enough, he thought fiercely. This time, you're not getting through.
Fukuoka strained harder, muscling forward—one step, two steps—his frustration mounting. Finally, he shoved back too forcefully, and Miyagi fell to the floor.
"Beep! Offensive foul!"
The referee's whistle cut through the noise.
Fukuoka clenched the ball, glaring down at Miyagi with barely contained anger. But the point guard only sat up slowly, shaking his head with a grin.
"I'm fine," he said. "Come on—help me up. It's our turn to attack."
Sakuragi blinked for a moment, then quickly reached out a hand to pull him up.
From the stands, spectators broke into applause and murmurs of admiration.
"That number 7 from Shohoku… he's got guts!"
"Yeah, he didn't back down one bit! What a fighter!"
Miyagi's tenacity had left an impression—not just on the crowd, but on his opponents as well.
Egawa Tatsuhoshi, watching that exchange, found himself inspired.
That kind of defense… maybe I can try that too.
He mimicked Miyagi's approach, pressing his body tight against Nango, trying to throw him off balance.
But Nango was no Fukuoka. His core strength was solid, and he knew exactly how to use it.
As Egawa pushed harder, Nango felt the pressure in his arm—and instantly spun off, slipping past him in one smooth motion.
He drove straight toward the basket.
Aoba Yoshi instinctively stepped forward, then hesitated.
He remembered his coach's words: Don't commit unnecessary fouls.
So instead of contesting, he backed off, watching helplessly as Nango soared and slammed the ball through the hoop with a thunderous dunk.
Coach Sakaguchi pressed his hand to his forehead. "Aoba, that idiot… I told him not to foul recklessly, not to just stand there and do nothing!"
Moroboshi couldn't take it either. "Aoba, you could've at least raised your hands or something! Why just let him dunk?"
Aoba shook his head firmly. "I wasn't scared—just cautious. If I'd gone up, he might've leaned in and drawn a foul. Don't worry, as long as Egawa slows him down a bit, I'll be there for help defense."
Egawa's jaw dropped. So it's my fault now? Do they think I want him to score? Seriously…
Moroboshi sighed. It was obvious Aoba had been rattled by Nango's strength.
Drawing a foul wasn't the problem—his fear was.
He said firmly, "Aoba, defend with confidence. Our interior defense needs presence. If we let that kid think he can drive in whenever he wants, we're done."
Aoba nodded reluctantly. He knew Moroboshi was right—but deep down, he also knew the truth.
If he went all out on defense, he might foul out in minutes.
This was a game of choices—and he'd have to play smart.