Previously, it had merely been a brief interlude.
The laughter gradually faded, and the commotion subsided.
Back to the main event.
The game resumed following the referee's whistle.
Yet Shohoku's situation remained as heavy and suffocating as an iron curtain.
Their offense was still completely stifled by Ryonan's defense—immobile and ineffective.
After two consecutive turnovers, Ryonan capitalized swiftly, launching counterattacks that extended their lead from 15–0 to 19–0.
Just one more point would push the gap to a crushing twenty.
"Damn it…" Kogure Kiminobu bent down, one hand braced against his knee, the other furiously wiping sweat from his face. His throat was dry, and his heart swelled with frustration.
He had expected Ryonan to be strong—yet not to the extent that Shohoku would fail to score a single point.
The rest of the team wore similar expressions of disbelief.
Before the game, they had rehearsed countless strategies, analyzed Ryonan's tendencies, and intensified their physical conditioning.
Still, none of them had imagined such a hopeless scenario—completely shut out, unable to even find a rhythm.
The result was nearly unbearable.
But amid the oppressive silence, a single pair of eyes burned with unshakable intensity.
Standing on the flank, his hands relaxed at his sides and his breathing steady, every muscle drawn taut like a coiled spring, was Rukawa Kaede.
His gaze was sharp as a blade. There was no trace of defeat on his face—only ignition.
His fighting spirit burned brighter than ever.
At that moment, his eyes seemed to spit fire, his presence swelling like a gathering storm.
He was just about to receive the ball, ready to unleash a counterattack brimming with defiance—
Beep!
A sharp whistle sliced through the air.
The sudden interruption shattered his focus, dispersing the hard-earned momentum in an instant.
He had been right at the threshold—"just one step away from igniting the entire court." Every nerve was tuned to the rhythm of play, his body coiled to strike like a leopard.
But now… everything stopped.
Rukawa turned sharply, glaring at the referee in frustration.
The referee hesitated briefly under the pressure before signaling clearly and announcing.
"Timeout—Ryonan!"
The gym fell into collective astonishment. Not only the Shohoku players but even the Ryonan lineup froze in disbelief.
Ryonan was winning.
Why would they call a timeout now?
Logically, Shohoku should have been the one requesting a break.
Confusion spread through the Ryonan players' expressions. Even Coach Taoka Moichi, usually composed, appeared momentarily puzzled.
All eyes turned toward the bench—toward Ake, who stood calmly in front of them.
It was his call.
The players, though confused, followed the order without protest. They knew Ake never acted without purpose.
Coach Taoka, too, refrained from interfering. He merely observed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the young captain's back.
"You've done well," he said first, encouraging the players before stepping aside to let Ake speak.
Ake faced his team—Uozumi, Sendoh, Uekusa, Koshino, and Ikegami—his expression unreadable, calm as still water.
When he spoke, his voice was low but carried a cutting edge.
"I'm somewhat disappointed with your performance."
The words struck like a thunderclap.
Disappointed?
At 19–0?
Bewilderment rippled through the team. Even Coach Taoka frowned, uncertain of Ake's intent.
From the tip-off until now, Ryonan had executed flawlessly—smooth transitions, tight defense, seamless coordination.
By all conventional standards, it was a model performance.
But Ake continued, his tone unchanging:
"Yes, your play has been solid. But this is only your expected level of strength."
He paused, his gaze unwavering. "I said before the game—no matter how weak or strong the opponent, you must treat them with absolute rigor."
A few still looked confused, but others began to understand—Sendoh among them.
A faint, helpless smile tugged at his lips. "This guy… he's getting more terrifying," he thought.
Ake wasn't just cautious—he was mercilessly precise.
And this wasn't even an official match.
But that was exactly what made him formidable.
"Do not grow complacent," Ake said, his tone as calm as ever. "Do not underestimate Shohoku. They are not as weak as you assume."
The players shivered—not from the words themselves, but from the look in his eyes.
There was no arrogance, no condescension—only absolute clarity and ruthless foresight.
"I don't want a single careless moment leading to irreversible consequences." His voice was steady, each word deliberate, like nails driven into steel. "Keep your focus. Read them. Find their weaknesses. Then…"
His eyes swept across the team.
"Crush them."
No mercy. No sportsmanship first. Only the will to dominate.
After speaking, Ake turned and sat down, as though he had merely issued a routine reminder.
The bench fell silent. The air grew thick with tension.
Even Coach Taoka found himself sweating slightly.
Ake's words were not wrong—simply extreme.
But that extreme was precisely what made him terrifying.
It wasn't madness. It was cold, rational ruthlessness.
Taoka exhaled slowly, a chill creeping up his spine. Thank God he's on our side, he thought.
If Ake had joined Shohoku instead… he didn't dare imagine the outcome.
Across the court, Shohoku's bench sat in heavy silence.
The unexpected timeout gave them a brief reprieve—thirty seconds of air after drowning for so long.
"Is this… the power of a top-four team?" Yasuda murmured, staring blankly at the scoreboard.
"So strong… we can't even run a proper offense." His voice trembled between disbelief and despair.
Shiozaki clenched the edge of his seat, muttering, "If this keeps up, it's over…"
A 20-point gap was a psychological wall—cross it, and the game shifted from chasing to enduring.
And with Ryonan's suffocating defense, even reaching midcourt felt impossible.
All of them sensed it—the creeping inevitability of defeat.
Only Rukawa sat motionless, eyes locked on the Ryonan bench. His frustration simmered; that timeout had robbed him of his moment.
Ayako frowned, whispering, "It makes no sense. Why would the leading team call a timeout now?"
Sakuragi slapped his thigh proudly. "Obviously, they're scared of the secret weapon!" he boasted, puffing his chest with confidence.
But amidst the noise, one man remained still—Coach Mitsuyoshi Anzai.
He didn't move, didn't speak. His eyes, half-closed, were fixed on Ake.
His years in basketball had honed his intuition.
And what he sensed now was unmistakable.
That timeout wasn't random. It was calculated—to strike at a critical psychological threshold.
One more point, and Shohoku's spirit would shatter beyond repair.
One less, and there was still hope.
And Ake had chosen precisely that moment.
"This first-year captain…" Anzai thought, his eyes narrowing.
"He's no ordinary player."
He slowly closed his eyes, a deep sigh escaping him.
"This match… I'm afraid…"