Inside the Stadium
For a brief moment, it felt as though the air had been sucked out of the gym.
Nagumo Kentaro stared blankly at the missed shot, the orange basketball rolling weakly toward the sideline.
His breath hitched. Sweat dripped from his brow and splashed onto the floor.
His mind was empty—like lightning had struck him.
That jump shot… his form was right, the arc was good—yet somehow, the rim seemed to shrink at the last second.
At the top of the arc, Koshino Hiroaki's cold eyes swept over him, a sneer curling in his heart. Idiot. In a shootout this intense, if you don't manage your stamina, missing shots is only a matter of time.
Ryonan's Bench
Aida Hikoichi looked up from the camera screen, his glasses glinting. "What a shame! I really thought they could keep that pace going forever!"
Before he could finish, Coach Taoka Moichi's deep voice cut in.
"This is inevitable."
He folded his arms, eyes fixed on Nagumo Kentaro, who was still gasping for breath on the court. "The opposing shooting guard's accuracy is impressive, but his form relies on running catch-and-shoots."
He paused, his tone firm. "Shots like that are hard to defend—but they burn through stamina. Once your legs tire, your touch fades. Missed shots are bound to follow."
"I see!" Hikoichi nodded quickly, scribbling in his notebook.
Taoka continued, "Still… the fact that he could keep up with Koshino for that long shows just how talented that kid is."
The game went on.
Nagumo Kentaro's once-perfect three-pointer hit the rim with a metallic clang, the sharp sound echoing through the court.
Under the basket, Uozumi leapt high, arms spread wide, his presence like a charging beast determined to claim the rebound.
But then—
A dark blur streaked in from the weak side, faster than lightning.
Before Uozumi's fingertips could reach the ball, another hand snatched it from the air with perfect timing.
It was Sasaki Shouta.
Catching the ball one-handed in midair, he twisted his body and—BOOM!—threw down a vicious one-handed putback dunk.
The rim rattled violently. The backboard trembled. The sound exploded through the gym.
"What—?!"
Uozumi's pupils shrank. His eyes widened in disbelief as he turned toward the figure in front of him—Sasaki's back, muscles tense, standing tall after the slam.
'This guy…' Uozumi's chest tightened, anger surging like a wave.
It wasn't just losing the rebound. It was being outplayed.
He hadn't expected such explosive speed—or such sharp judgment.
The opponent was almost ten centimeters shorter, yet still beat him to the ball.
He'd underestimated him.
That one putback dunk reignited Ippon Nari's fading momentum.
The crowd roared, their cheers swinging entirely toward Ippon Nari.
Morale shot back up.
"Sorry… that was my fault," Nagumo Kentaro muttered, lowering his head, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I shouldn't have forced that shot."
Before he could finish, Sasaki Shouta clapped his shoulder, his voice calm but commanding.
"Now's not the time for that. Our opponent is Ryonan—one of the top four in the prefecture. You've done well to keep up this long."
He gave Nagumo's shoulder a firm pat. "Leave the rest to us."
Aoi Tsuyoshi stepped forward, fists clenched, eyes burning. "That's right! We're not done yet. If we keep pushing, maybe—just maybe—we can beat them!"
His words weren't loud, but each one hit like a spark striking dry wood.
Maybe we really can win.
That single thought spread among them like wildfire—small, fragile, but burning bright.
They'd fought back against Ryonan's attacks. Matched their three-pointers. Battled for rebounds. Kept the score close.
For the first time, they believed—Ryonan might not be invincible.
But the hotter the flame, the colder the reality.
The earlier three-point shootout between Koshino and Nagumo had been fierce—fast-paced, thrilling, seemingly equal.
Yet that balance was only an illusion.
The real difference lay beneath the surface.
Every one of Nagumo's shots came from teamwork—Kazama Tooru's precise playmaking, Sasaki Shouta's screens, Aoi Tsuyoshi's off-ball movement. His success depended on the team's perfect coordination.
Koshino's, on the other hand, came from within Ryonan's seamless system. Uekusa's pinpoint passes, Sendoh's screens, and Koshino's own sharp instincts.
Ryonan's offense was simpler, smoother, more experienced. Everyone knew exactly where to be and when.
The difference wasn't just skill—it was structure.
When the game tightened, Ryonan could rely on Sendoh's isolation, Uozumi's dominance in the paint, or Uekusa's control to swing momentum back instantly.
But when Ippon Nari's shooting went cold, everything stopped.
And now, it had.
As the game resumed, Ippon Nari faced a cruel reality.
Ryonan's counterattack was merciless.
Before Ippon Nari could even reset their defense, Uekusa Tomoyuki sent a lightning-fast pass down the court.
Sendoh sprinted like a cheetah along the sideline, tearing through the defense in a blur.
Uozumi rumbled into the paint like a moving wall, shoving Sasaki aside to claim the key position under the rim.
Sendoh received the ball in stride. Ikegami set a solid pick, blocking Miyazawa's path.
With a graceful step and effortless rhythm, Sendoh slipped past Aoi Tsuyoshi, who arrived half a beat too late.
He leaped, flicked his wrist—swish.
The ball cut cleanly through the net.
From backcourt to basket, the entire play took less than eight seconds. No wasted dribbles. No hesitation.
By the time Ippon Nari even realized what had happened, the scoreboard had already changed.
Sasaki Shouta bent over, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief.
That single, effortless sequence hit harder than any dunk—it was a bucket of ice water, poured over their burning hopes.
The shootout was over. The avalanche had begun.
As time passed, Ryonan's control grew absolute.
Uozumi ruled the paint. Sendoh dictated the tempo. Uekusa directed the flow. Koshino and Ikegami's perimeter game became sharper, deadlier.
Every play cut through Ippon Nari's defense like a scalpel.
This wasn't just bad luck—it was domination.
Ippon Nari were one of the best among the top sixteen.
Ryonan were among the top four.
The gap between them couldn't be closed by one hot streak or one highlight dunk.
It was a wall built from experience, chemistry, and pure power.
The cheers faded to silence as the score gap widened.
Beep!
The sharp whistle echoed. Ippon Nari called for a timeout.
The players trudged to the bench, sweat dripping from their faces, jerseys soaked, their eyes dimmed by exhaustion.
Their coach stood on the sideline, gripping the tactical board so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He stared at the scoreboard, bitterness flickering in his gaze. 'Is it really not enough?'
Then, drawing a deep breath, he straightened and barked, "Heads up! The game isn't over yet! They're strong—but that's no excuse to give up!"
The players looked up. Despite their fatigue, a spark of unwillingness glimmered in their eyes.
The coach crouched, marker in hand, sketching furiously on the board.
"We're changing our approach—attacking the inside."
He tapped the diagram. "Their biggest obstacle is Uozumi. Sasaki, lure him out of the paint to open space for Aoi and Miyazawa."
Sasaki nodded, eyes regaining focus.
"Nagumo, work with Kazama. Feed the wings and set screens. Keep the ball moving."
He turned to Aoi and Miyazawa. "Once Uozumi steps out, cut inside—one step past the arc. Don't hesitate. Just shoot."
Both nodded firmly.
"Alright!" The coach stood tall, scanning every face. "Let's get back out there and fight. We're not done yet."
The players straightened one by one, answering in unison, voices low but steady. "Yes!"
Ryonan's Bench
Their players sat calm and composed. A few wiped sweat, others laughed quietly, replaying the last few plays. None of them looked winded.
Ake sat in the corner, silent, watching Ippon Nari's bench.
His eyes narrowed slightly, reading every gesture—the coach's hand movements, the players' tense shoulders, Sasaki's clenched fists, Nagumo's gritted teeth.
A faint smile touched his lips. His eyes gleamed with quiet dominance.
After a long silence, he rose.
The crimson little giant moved, and instantly the entire bench's energy shifted.
Sendoh stopped chatting. Uozumi straightened. Everyone turned toward him.
Ake stood before them, his voice calm yet heavy, like steel striking steel.
"We have the lead, but their will isn't broken yet. That means they still have something left."
Everyone felt it—that familiar chill.
This was Ake's true terror.
Where others relaxed after gaining a comfortable lead, Ake grew sharper.
Even if his opponent had only a single breath left, he wouldn't stop until it was gone.
He didn't just want to win—he wanted to crush.
To erase hope completely.
It was a terrifying pressure—but one that filled his teammates with absolute confidence.
This guy really is the Demon King.
And yet, because of that, they felt safe.
Ake's gaze swept over his starters, calm and cold.
"Their perimeter isn't working anymore, so they'll shift to the inside," he said, voice firm.
"Uozumi—watch Sasaki. He won't force shots, but he'll use every trick to drag you out. Don't let him."
Uozumi nodded. He didn't need to ask why. Akes predictions had always been right.
Ake turned to Sendoh and Ikegami. "Their attack will run through the forwards next. Guard the elbows and the mid-range. Don't give them room."
Sendoh nodded, his usual grin fading to a focused calm. Ikegami's eyes sharpened like a hawk's.
Finally, Ake looked to Koshino and Uekusa. "You two—apply pressure before they even get the ball. Deny every pass. Force turnovers. And stay alert for help defense."
"Understood," they both replied.
Beep!
The whistle sounded.
The five Ryonan players rose together and walked back to the court—silent, composed, and dangerous.
The game resumed.