"What did you say?!"
Kengo Murasame's expression changed instantly, his gaze sharpening like a blade as he glared at Ake.
The veins in his neck bulged, and his voice rose in fury, thick with indignation.
"Do you even know who you're talking to, you brat?"
Ake's calm disdain burned him. That quiet confidence — that effortless dismissal — was worse than any insult. It was as if Kengo, captain of Miuradai, was nothing more than background noise to his opponent.
Arrogant.
Too arrogant.
That condescending tone, that cool detachment, that refusal to even look him in the eye — it made Kengo's anger surge like a firestorm.
Even the Miuradai bench erupted, shouting and cursing.
Ake, however, stood completely still. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his face unreadable, eyes steady as calm water.
Kengo gritted his teeth, chest rising and falling rapidly. Then — he smiled.
Slowly, a twisted grin spread across his lips, and a glint of malice flashed in his eyes.
"Heh… what a clueless kid," he sneered, his voice dropping to a dark whisper. "You think just because you wear the captain's jersey, you can act like a big shot?"
His eyes lifted, cold and snake-like.
"Since you're so eager to know your place…"
He paused, a cruel smirk curling his mouth.
"Then I'll show you that the basketball court isn't as kind as you think."
Jump ball.
Whoosh… whoosh…
The referee tossed the ball high into the air.
Once again, the tip-off was between Uozumi and Kengo Murasame. Though Kengo wasn't Miuradai's center, he was the tallest among them, so he always took the jump.
Uozumi's eyes narrowed. He planted his feet, bent his knees, and leaped.
Kengo jumped too, stretching as far as he could — but the difference in height and timing was clear.
Slam!
Uozumi's hand smacked the ball first, tipping it cleanly back.
The basketball zipped in a low, sharp arc straight intoAke's hands, who had already taken half a step back, perfectly positioned.
The moment Ake's fingers closed around the ball, the air on the court shifted.
The sound of footsteps thundered — offense and defense erupted like twin tides colliding midcourt.
But Miuradai's defense was just as dirty as before.
On the surface, they held a standard formation. In truth, hands grabbed jerseys, feet tangled ankles, elbows jabbed ribs — subtle, hidden, just out of the referee's sight.
Everyone waited for that moment — that instant the referee's vision would be blocked.
Araki Kazuo rushed at Ake, his eyes full of mockery, a cruel grin tugging at his lips.
"You were so cocky talking back to the captain earlier. Let's see how long that attitude lasts."
He feinted, stepped closer, spreading his arms to look ready for defense — waiting for a chance to land a cheap shot.
But then—
Whoosh!
A blur of motion shot past him.
Araki froze. His head snapped sideways instinctively—
And his eyes went wide.
Ikegami Ryoji was already sprinting toward Miuradai's basket, the ball in his hands!
Miyamoto Kazunari, who had been guarding him, stood rooted in shock, his expression blank.
'Wait— what?!'
'Wasn't the ball just in that kid's hands?'
Miyamoto turned his head toward Ake— only to see him standing calmly, hands empty, his expression serene, eyes as deep as a still lake.
Thump… thump… thump…
The rhythmic pounding of the basketball echoed like a drumbeat through the court.
The Miuradai players finally snapped out of their daze and turned to chase, but they were too slow.
Ikegami reached the paint, his movements clean and fluid.
Jump. Bend. Flick.
Swish!
The ball dropped straight through the net.
Ryonan 56 – 32 Miuradai.
"What the hell was that?!" Kengo Murasame turned sharply toward Araki, his eyes wide.
By the time he realized what had happened, Ryonan had already scored.
Araki's expression stiffened, embarrassment flickering across his face.
"Sorry… I got distracted."
"Stay focused," Kengo barked. "We can't afford careless mistakes."
Miuradai inbounded.
Araki took the ball again, forcing his earlier frustration down as he dribbled up the court.
But standing in his way — tall, calm, and unreadable — was Ake.
Araki's jaw tightened. He lowered his stance, crossed the ball from right to left, feinting toward Ake's weak side.
But the moment his hand brushed the ball—
Snap!
A hand appeared out of nowhere.
The ball vanished from under his fingertips.
It was in Ake's possession before Araki even understood what had happened.
Ake hadn't moved his feet.
He hadn't shifted his stance.
He had just… known.
By the time Araki stumbled forward and turned around, Ake was already sprinting toward Miuradai's basket.
"Damn it—!" Araki pushed off to chase, but it was too late.
Ake crossed half-court, smooth and steady. His pace wasn't fast, but there was an unshakable confidence in every step.
One leap, one flick of the wrist—
Swish!
Another basket.
Ryonan 58 – 32 Miuradai.
Kengo stormed over to Araki, voice low but seething.
"Araki, what the hell happened? How did he take the ball from you like that?"
Araki's lips trembled. His face flushed red. "I… I don't know. I was sure I got past him, but somehow— the ball was gone."
Kengo frowned deeply. "That doesn't make sense. You were already ahead of him."
"I'm telling you," Araki hissed in frustration. "He stole it. Somehow, he knew."
Kengo's brows furrowed, his confusion turning to irritation. He couldn't make sense of such a ridiculous mistake — but the growing point gap made his unease worse.
"Get it together," he snapped.
Araki nodded quickly. "I understand."
Possession returned to Miuradai.
Araki took the ball again, cautious this time. His eyes locked onto Ake, who stood in front of him — silent, composed, unmoving.
Araki tried to go around.
Ake moved one step.
Perfectly in sync.
He faked left. Blocked.
He cut right. Blocked again.
No matter which way he turned, Ake was already there — not reacting, but anticipating.
It was suffocating.
Sweat gathered on Araki's forehead as a heavy pressure settled over him.
It didn't feel like defense anymore. It felt like being read — like Ake could see through every move before he even made it.
Panic started to creep in.
Finally, he stopped outside the three-point line, breathing hard, and decided to pass.
He glanced across the court and spotted Kengo open on the weak side.
Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist —
Whoosh—
Snap!
A hand shot out of nowhere, intercepting the pass midair.
The ball landed soundly in Ake's palm.
Araki froze, disbelief washing over him.
He had just seen Ake two steps away — nowhere near the passing lane. How did he—
It didn't matter.
Ake didn't look at him. He simply turned and sprinted.
By the time Araki reacted, Ake had already crossed half-court.
The Miuradai players stood dumbfounded, unable to process what they'd just seen.
Even the spectators fell silent.
Another steal.
Another fast break.
Another score.
Swish.
Ryonan 60 – 32 Miuradai.
For a long moment, the entire gymnasium went still — silent, tense, stunned.