Coach Ippon Nari still clutched the tactical board, his eyes glued to the court.
He never could've imagined that the strategy he'd carefully planned during the timeout—something he'd rehearsed countless times—would fall apart before it even began. The moment play resumed, it was already dismantled, completely neutralized at its inception.
When the game restarted, Ippon Nari's players began to move stealthily according to the coach's tactical plan.
But the instant they made their first move, it was as if an invisible hand seized control of the court.
Ryonan's defense seemed to open its jaws wide, waiting for them to step right in.
Every gap that had been designed into the play was already sealed shut.
The baseline cut was blocked.
The high-post passing option was smothered.
Even the sneaky weak-side backdoor route was intercepted by a defender who had moved early—almost as if he'd known it was coming.
'What… how could this be?'
Ippon Nari's players froze, eyes wide with disbelief, realizing that the ground beneath their feet had vanished. They exchanged helpless glances, holding the ball but with nowhere to pass.
On the sidelines, their coach shot up halfway from his seat, gripping the tactical board so tightly his knuckles turned white. His eyes bulged, veins throbbing across his forehead.
"This… this can't be…" he muttered, throat tightening. "It's impossible."
It didn't make sense.
Even if the opponent had somehow read their intent, that kind of reaction should come after the play had begun—not before it even started.
Yet, Ryonan was already waiting for them, step for step, as if they knew every move ahead of time.
'Unless… someone from Ryonan overheard our strategy?'
But that was impossible. When he explained the play, no Ryonan players were anywhere near.
He turned instinctively toward Ryonan's bench.
Coach Taoka Moichi sat back in his chair, arms folded, his expression calm and unreadable. His narrowed eyes seemed to hold everything within their grasp.
A chill ran down Ippon Nari's coach's spine.
'Could it be… he saw through it?'
Taoka's reputation as a top-tier strategist in Kanagawa was well-known, but this went far beyond mere insight. This was perfection—like the opponent had been forewarned.
Such precision wasn't human.
It was the work of a prophet—or a god.
His gaze wavered, then stopped.
On the edge of the bench, a crimson figure sat quietly—Ake.
Arms crossed, posture upright, eyes deep and unshaken by the roaring crowd. But just then, as if sensing the stare, Ake slowly turned his head.
Their eyes met.
No words. No expression.
Just silence.
Yet in that instant, the coach felt as though his chest had been crushed by an invisible weight. He couldn't breathe.
'Could it be… that first-year captain predicted my tactics?'
The thought was absurd, laughable even—but it refused to leave.
He shook his head violently. "No… impossible. He's just a freshman. No matter how talented, that's beyond reason."
To read an entire strategy at a glance, and command his team to intercept every route before it even began—that wasn't basketball anymore.
That was mind reading.
He studied Ake's calm, young face, searching for any hint of arrogance or strain—but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Meanwhile, the game on the court had already fallen apart for Ippon Nari.
"Disastrous" wasn't enough to describe it.
Their plays were smothered, rhythm strangled, and confidence crushed under the suffocating pressure of Ryonan's defense—woven seamlessly under Ake's quiet command.
Sasaki Shouta fought to post up inside, trying to open space. But Uozumi, like a beast awakened by Ake's signal, planted his feet like iron stakes and refused to budge. Every time Sasaki tried to move or fake, Uozumi's sheer presence pinned him in place, trapping him in the corner of the paint like a prisoner.
On the perimeter, it was no better.
Nagumo Kentaro and Kazama Tooru were shadowed relentlessly by Koshino Hiroaki and Uekusa Tomoyuki.
Hands flashing, feet shifting, no room to turn, no air to breathe.
Every pass attempt was disrupted.
Every screen countered before it even set.
Every route predicted.
Meanwhile, Aoi Tsuyoshi and Miyazawa Hideaki ran themselves ragged—cutting, circling, calling for the ball that never came. They moved again and again, hands raised in hope, only to meet silence and failure.
They were stuck in a loop of exhaustion and despair—running without purpose, fighting against inevitability.
When the halftime buzzer finally sounded, it felt almost merciful.
The scoreboard flashed like a cruel joke.
Ryonan 57 – 27 Ippon Nari.
A 30-point gap.
Not a single point scored after the timeout.
"Well done," Coach Taoka said to his players as they returned to the bench. But his gaze lingered on Ake.
That boy's tactical vision bordered on inhuman. Every adjustment—every prediction—was perfect.
He didn't just anticipate plays; he understood the minds of his opponents.
Taoka had been coaching for decades, but even he couldn't have orchestrated such precision in real time.
He looked at Ake again, sitting quietly, and a faint, amused thought crossed his mind.
'At this rate… maybe I could retire early.'
The halftime break ended.
In the second half, Ake showed no sign of easing up.
He waved his hand, subbing in Aida Hikoichi and Fukuda Kiccho for Uekusa and Ikegami—not for rest, but to apply even more pressure.
Standing before his team, his tone was cold and unwavering.
"In the second half," he said, "Ippon Nari will come at us with everything they have. Multiple scorers, fast transitions, and desperate threes."
His eyes swept across the lineup.
"What I want from you isn't just defense. I want domination.
End it—completely."
The air went still.
The players stiffened, their throats dry.
They all knew Ake was ruthless—but this was something else.
The enemy was already crushed, yet he still wanted to bury them.
Some felt pity. Others hesitated.
But when they met Ake's icy, unreadable gaze, every objection died in their throats.
"Understood," they all said, voices low but firm.
Coach Taoka exhaled softly. He said nothing.
He knew Ake wasn't heartless—he was just absolute.
On the court, kindness was weakness.
Mercy was betrayal.
That sigh he let out... it was like an early eulogy—for Ippon Nari.
The atmosphere on Ippon Nari's bench was suffocating.
No one spoke. Sweat dried on faces streaked with exhaustion.
They stared at the floor, their bodies still but their hearts heavy.
Their coach stood by, face dark as thunderclouds. He had known defeat was possible—Ryonan was a top-four team, after all—but seeing the numbers, 57–27, made the pain real.
He exhaled, steadying himself.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Calm down. We still have the second half. Let's fight through it."
His tone was calm but carried an unyielding resolve.
His eyes found Nagumo Kentaro—once full of spirit, now slumped and hollow.
Then he looked to the corner, where Hojo Ichiro sat, quiet and focused.
"Hojo," the coach said firmly. "You're in for Nagumo."
Nagumo's head snapped up. "Coach, I can still play! I'm fine—!"
"You're out of gas," the coach said flatly. "If you go back in, you'll hurt the team more than you'll help."
"But—!"
"Enough," Sasaki Shouta interrupted, voice low but cutting. "Listen to the coach. You'll only make things worse."
Nagumo froze, staring at his teammates' exhausted faces. Then, slowly, he sighed and lowered his head, clutching his shorts.
The coach took a deep breath. "No tactics this half. Just play freely. Every point counts. Let's try not to lose by too much."
A heavy silence, then a unified response:
"Yes, coach."
The whistle blew.
The second half began.
Just as Ake predicted, Ippon Nari threw everything they had left—abandoning their system entirely.
Kazama drove straight to the rim.
Aoi and Miyazawa launched threes the moment they caught the ball.
Even Hojo pulled up from deep without hesitation.
No rhythm. No patience. Just desperation.
And yet, on Ryonan's bench, the players were speechless—then awestruck.
"Captain Ake called it again…"
"He predicted their offense perfectly!"
"How does he do that?"
"With Ake leading us, we're unstoppable!"
Their whispered admiration filled the bench.
Coach Taoka smiled faintly, watching Ake.
'This year… we won't just reach the inter high tournament, he thought. This year, we might actually achieve the impossible.'
Time bled away, and suspense vanished.
Ryonan didn't let up for a second, suffocating Ippon Nari until the end.
Then, with five seconds left, Uozumi bulldozed through Sasaki, rose like a titan, and slammed the ball down with one hand.
The entire backboard rattled.
The buzzer followed.
Silence.
Then thunderous applause.
The scoreboard froze.
Ryonan 148 – 47 Ippon Nari.
Another 100 points difference.