The next day.
Ryonan High School — Basketball Gym.
Ake arrived at the gym after school, just as he always did.
The moment he pushed open the door, he sensed something was different.
There was a strange tension in the air.
His sharp gaze swept across the court like the edge of a blade and immediately locked onto an unfamiliar presence.
Fukuda Kicchou.
He was bent over tying his shoelaces, having just changed into his jersey — clearly, he hadn't been there long.
The instant Ake's eyes fell on him, Fukuda froze.
A chill ran from the soles of his feet straight up his spine, like an icy breath brushing the back of his neck.
He shivered violently. His body tensed, and even his breathing stopped for a second.
When he finally looked up, his eyes met the crimson figure standing silently in the doorway.
Framed by the light, the red-haired boy stood motionless.
His fiery short hair seemed to burn under the sunlight, while his mismatched eyes — one gold, one crimson— gleamed with an inhuman brilliance.
The light streaming in from behind him cast a golden-red silhouette, as if every ray in the gym existed just to illuminate him.
For a moment, Fukuda's mind went blank.
He felt a ridiculous illusion — that the figure before him wasn't human, but a monarch bathed in divine light, gazing coldly down upon the mortal world with an aura of unquestionable authority.
Impossible…
He shook his head sharply, trying to chase away the absurd thought.
Yet, his heartbeat refused to calm, and his palms were slick with sweat.
Ake didn't speak. He only gave Fukuda a fleeting glance — cold, indifferent, like ice water passing over a stone — before turning away, as though he'd merely noticed a speck of dust.
He walked into the gym at an unhurried pace, every step measured and steady.
Everything resumed as usual.
He stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, silently watching the players train.
He didn't say a word. He didn't give a single instruction. His expression didn't change.
And yet, somehow, the rhythm of the entire gym was subtly ruled by his presence.
Fukuda stood frozen, his Adam's apple bobbing.
He had intended to walk up to this so-called "first-year captain" and see for himself what kind of ability allowed him to claim that position.
But that thought — that defiance — was smothered by an unfamiliar fear.
He opened his mouth but said nothing.
Instead, he followed the others onto the court, joining the drills in silence.
He didn't understand why.
But every time his eyes flicked toward that crimson figure, his chest tightened with unease.
The squeak of sneakers and the thud of basketballs filled the gym, mingling with the smell of sweat.
Then, the gym doors opened again.
Coach Taoka Moichi walked in, his steps firm and deliberate.
He headed straight toward Ake, who was still watching quietly from the sidelines.
Stopping beside him, Taoka crossed his arms, his eyes glancing toward Fukuda running drills on the court.
"I've brought Fukuda back for you," he said in a low, deliberate tone. "The rest is up to you."
His voice sounded casual, but a trace of curiosity lingered beneath it.
He had always seen potential in Fukuda — not as monstrously gifted as Ake, nor as complete as Sendoh, but talented nonetheless. His off-ball awareness and finishing around the rim were excellent. He was raw but promising.
The question was: how would Ake use him?
And how far could he take him?
Ake continued to watch the court, his eyes calm and calculating, like an eagle observing from above.
'If I would compare him with someone, he is the offensive equivalent of Sakuragi. His biggest weakness is his defense no doubt, In the anime Sakuragi could fool him with a simple pump fake and drive to the basket.' Ake thought to himself.
His tone was flat, almost detached.
"He has good instincts for cutting without the ball and strong finishing near the basket. But his mid- and long-range shooting are unstable. His form lacks consistency, his defensive awareness is poor, and his help defense is only average. A typical offensive, streetball-type player."
Each word was sharp, precise, and utterly confident.
Coach Taoka froze, his eyes widening.
He was stunned.
Just one glance?
He'd only been standing here for a few minutes — and yet Ake's analysis sounded exactly like a veteran coach's scouting report, the kind that took hours of footage and data to compile.
When he himself had evaluated Fukuda years ago, he hadn't been half this quick or this exact.
A chill crept down his spine.
This wasn't just a keen observation.
This was something else entirely.
A monster, he thought.
He silently admitted to himself — in the art of reading people, he was nowhere near Ake's level.
This wasn't normal human intuition.
But that thought vanished as quickly as it came.
Clearing his throat, Coach Taoka forced a calm expression. "Well said. That puts my mind at ease."
Even as he spoke, his heart was in turmoil.
But no matter how shocked he was, he couldn't show it.
He was the coach, after all. Pride demanded composure.
Then Ake spoke again — his voice calm, yet heavy, like a stone dropped into still water.
"However, he does have one… quality that isn't quite a strength."
"Oh?" Taoka raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Ake's lips curved slightly, just barely, as if he'd seen through Fukuda's soul.
"Self-esteem."
"Self-esteem?"
Taoka blinked, frowning. "That's a… strength?"
Ake continued, unbothered.
"His self-esteem is extremely strong — almost obsessive. The more you suppress or deny him, the worse he performs. The opposite is also true."
His gaze shifted toward Fukuda, who was still running hard on the court.
"If you keep pushing him through praise instead of pressure, you might get surprising results."
Taoka fell silent.
He stroked his chin, his expression growing thoughtful.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
Back then — when he'd expelled Fukuda — wasn't it because he'd humiliated him in front of everyone?
He had thought it was defiance… rebellion.
But what if it wasn't?
What if he'd simply crushed the boy's pride?
For the first time, Coach Taoka began to question his own methods.
Suddenly—
Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.
The sound of firm, steady clapping cut through the gym.
All eyes turned toward Ake.
Standing at the sideline, he spoke in a calm, commanding tone:
"Gather."
Just one word — yet it carried weight, authority, and finality.
The players immediately stopped and lined up without hesitation.
Fukuda stood among them, sweat dripping down his temples.
He stole a glance at Ake, who stood before them like a scarlet pillar.
Ake's gaze swept across the line of players, pausing briefly on Fukuda before he spoke.
"Starting today, you'll be divided into two teams for scrimmage. There's only one rule — no passing in any form except when shooting."
The gym fell utterly silent.
Everyone exchanged puzzled looks.
No passing?
Then what was the point?
Wasn't basketball built on teamwork?
Koshino opened his mouth to ask but didn't dare.
Ikegami frowned deeply.
Even the calm and collected Sendoh looked uncertain.
But none of them questioned Ake.
Even Fukuda, though frustrated, bit back his words.
He could feel confusion boiling inside him, but he stayed silent.
Coach Taoka, too, was surprised at first — but his years of experience made him think deeper.
And suddenly, realization struck him like lightning.
He turned to Ake, voice low, eyes wide with shock.
"Are you trying to make Fukuda—"
Ake interrupted, his tone steady and analytical.
"Cutting without the ball is his strength. With passes, he relies on others to create opportunities. Without them, he's forced to rely solely on instinct. If he can learn to find openings amid chaos, he can score even without support."
He paused.
"His defense is weak, and he struggles with rotations. Removing passes slows the offensive rhythm, reducing his defensive strain. It turns his flaws into advantages — maximizing his strengths while minimizing the team's weaknesses."
Coach Taoka stood frozen.
He couldn't even speak.
He finally exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again.
He felt genuine awe — and a sting of humility.
This was no ordinary player.
This was a strategist in a player's body.
"But…" Taoka hesitated. "What about the others' training? Basketball is still a five-man sport."
Ake's reply was firm and immediate.
"It's fine. The Preliminary Tournament is near. Team cohesion is already stable, and everyone's progress has plateaued. More drills won't change much. It's better to invest our time where it'll bring the most results."
Coach Taoka opened his mouth — then closed it.
He could only sigh inwardly.
Akagi's logic was flawless.
He was maximizing the team's potential in the shortest time possible.
But the more Taoka understood, the heavier his heart grew.
He couldn't shake the feeling that he — the coach — had become redundant.
Sometimes, having a player who was too exceptional was a kind of curse.
"…Alright," he said finally, forcing a faint smile. "We'll do it your way."
Evening.
The last rays of sunset spilled through the gym windows, bathing the floor in red-orange light.
The players packed their bags, drenched in sweat, ready to leave.
Then —
"First-year Captain."
The voice cut through the air.
Everyone turned.
Fukuda stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on Akagi.
He took a few deliberate steps forward.
"Show me," he said, his voice echoing through the gym. "Show me what you're really capable of."
The room fell silent.
No one moved.
Even breathing seemed to stop.
"Fukuda's… challenging the Captain?"
"Is he insane?"
"Who do you think'll win?"
"Does that even need to be asked? Ake, obviously."
"He's doomed. Challenging that guy? He's already lost."
Their whispers stung Fukuda's ears like needles.
He clenched his fists.
He had hesitated for a moment — but that hesitation was gone now, burned away by pride.
He met Ake's gaze head-on, forcing his own will against that unshakable calm.
But Ake only looked back at him with the same steady indifference — no anger, no contempt, not even curiosity.
And somehow, that cold, unreadable calm hurt the most.
Ake finally moved.
He stepped toward the court, his pace slow and deliberate.
The setting sun stretched his shadow long across the floor.
When he spoke, his voice carried like a chill wind through the still air.
"Fukuda Kicchou… in this team, I don't tolerate meaningless challenges."
Fukuda frowned. "What do you mean?"
Ake's voice deepened, cold and final.
"This is the first time. And it will be the last."
The atmosphere froze.
"As long as you're part of this team," he continued, turning fully toward Fukuda, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the light, "you obey my command. Because…"
He paused.
"I am absolute."
The words fell like a hammer.
Ake stepped to the three-point line, his back to the hoop.
He didn't take a stance. He didn't beckon.
He simply said, almost lazily:
"Don't waste time. Begin."
Fukuda stared at him, suddenly aware of how small he felt.
Ake stood there like a mountain — immovable, unshakable — and every inch of the court seemed to belong to him.
It was as if Fukuda stood in a deep abyss, looking up at a god who ruled from the heavens above.
His breathing grew ragged. Sweat rolled down his back.
For the first time… he felt what it truly meant to stand before something absolute.