The Yōsen bench was dead silent – until the sound of wood slicing air shattered it.
THWACK!
"OW–COACH! WHAT THE HELL?!" Okamura clutched the back of his head.
Araki stood in front of them, her wooden sword gleaming under the lights like a divine weapon of fury. Her jaw was tight, her eyes blazing.
"You call that defense?!" she roared, swinging again. THWACK! Fukui ducked, the sword grazing his shoulder. "You let them turn you into traffic cones! You–you're supposed to be the Shield of Aegis, not a bunch of goddamn doorstoppers!"
"Coach, calm down–" Himuro tried.
"CALM DOWN?" she bellowed, her hair flying. THWACK! Himuro got clipped on the arm for his troubles. "You're supposed to lead the offense, and that foreign pretty boy is already dissecting you like a biology project!"
She turned to Murasakibara, who sat slouched, arms folded, chewing lazily on a candy stick. "And YOU!"
Murasakibara didn't even look up. "What?"
That was the wrong word.
THWACK–THWACK–THWACK!
"Get your lazy giant ass UP!" Araki screamed, raining blows like thunder. "They've dunked on you seven times! SEVEN! You're supposed to be a wall, not a trampoline!"
"Ugh… that hurts…" Murasakibara groaned, shielding his head with one arm.
"It's SUPPOSED to hurt! Maybe that'll wake your brain!" THWACK!
Even the crowd started murmuring – half terrified, half entertained.
When the chaos finally subsided, Yōsen's entire starting five looked like they'd passed through a minefield. Araki stood there, breathing hard, sword resting against her shoulder.
"Alright," she snapped. "Now that your skulls are reconnected to your bodies, listen up."
She jabbed the sword toward her board. "We can't outmuscle that monster Deng. We can't outjump their guards. So, we use what we've got left – discipline and technique."
Her tone turned cold, precise.
"Okamura. You're our anchor now. High–low set. Atsushi, you take high post – free-throw line. No sulking."
Murasakibara looked away.
"I don't wanna pass," he muttered.
THWACK!
"You'll pass or I'll pass your skull through the floor!" Araki shouted. "We're not running everything through you anymore! The inside belongs to Kenichi now."
"Wait – me?" Okamura blinked, startled.
"Yes, you! You've got the footwork and the patience. Post low. Back him down. Shoulder fake, spin baseline. Use Mura's height to bait help from Deng and attack the gap."
She pointed the sword at Wei Liu next. "You – screen and crash. No dribbling. Just muscle. You're a rebound, not a ballerina."
Then at Fukui. "You slow the tempo. Bleed the clock. Let them suffocate in their own energy. Got it?"
The team nodded weakly, more afraid than inspired.
"Good," Araki said, finally lowering the sword. "Now go show them that Japan still knows how to play basketball."
~~~~~
Across the court, the Onitsuka bench was calm – eerily calm compared to the chaos on the other side.
Kuhlmann stood with his arms folded, watching Araki's meltdown like a man observing a wildlife documentary. Daniel leaned closer.
"She's moving the offense through Okamura," he said quietly.
Kuhlmann nodded. "It's their only option left. Logical."
He turned toward his players. Adrian Carter sat with a towel around his neck, eyes focused, jaw tight. Kuhlmann crouched beside him.
"Adrian," he said. "He's more experienced than you. National camp rep. He'll try to muscle you, draw contact, and bait fouls."
Adrian's brow furrowed. "So you want me to–"
"I want you to play honest," Kuhlmann interrupted gently. "Don't chase. Don't gamble. Keep your feet. If he scores, let him. It's fine."
Adrian blinked. "…It's fine?"
"Yes." Kuhlmann's expression didn't change. "Basketball's about probability, not pride. If Okamura beats you once, that's his peak. He won't do it all game. Don't fret if he scores. Focus on the next play. Keep the rotation clean."
He rose, tucking the clipboard under his arm. "You're talented, Adrian – but he's more experienced. Learn from that. Don't fear it."
Adrian nodded slowly, exhaling through his nose. "Got it, Coach. I'll stay disciplined."
Kuhlmann gave him a rare, approving smile. "Good."
The whistle blew for the second quarter.
On one side, Yōsen marched out bruised but determined – led by Okamura, clutching his chest like a man about to wage war. On the other, Onitsuka moved in quiet synchronization, no shouting, no panic – just the hum of a machine about to test every tactic Araki had left.
~~~~~
Yōsen came out looking different. Now, every set ran through one man – Kenichi Okamura.
He caught the first entry deep in the post, his back pressing against Adrian Carter's chest. Adrian held firm, but Okamura's experience showed – one shoulder fake, a step-through, and a soft bank kissed the glass.
Thunk–swish.
15–22.
Araki punched the air. "That's it! That's real basketball!"
Okamura didn't smile. He just ran back, face flushed with focus. He knew Onitsuka's manager girls were watching – and that made him want to prove something.
Onitsuka's possession came like a tide – smooth, rhythmic, alive. Ector handled at the top, motioning Tyrone through the baseline. Deng stepped up to set a screen, Wei Liu switched clumsily, and in that instant Ector snapped a pass behind his back – right into Tyrone's hands on the cut. Tyrone caught midair, reversed the ball up off the glass.
Swish.
15–24.
Yōsen came back, unfazed. They knew the play. Fukui dribbled up slowly, bleeding the clock. Murasakibara took the high post, his giant frame holding Deng in place. The pass went inside to Okamura again – this time deeper. Adrian met him with solid resistance. But Okamura was patient – one, two, three fakes – then spun baseline and banked it again.
17–24.
Onitsuka's counterattack came fast – too fast. Jesus took the inbound, sprinted left, then pulled up on a dime. Wei Liu lumbered into position too late – Jesus side-stepped, rose, and hit the mid-range jumper clean.
17–26.
The next possession – Yōsen again to Okamura. Same move. But this time, Murasakibara slid down to set a backscreen, forcing Deng to hesitate. Okamura spun middle and dropped a hook over Adrian's shoulder.
19–26.
He landed, breathing hard – four straight possessions, four straight scores. Araki grinned savagely. "See that?! That's what it means to build an offense!"
But Onitsuka wasn't slowing down. Ector jogged up the floor, hand raised.
"Double drag!"
Deng and Adrian moved in sync – twin screens at the top. Ector burst through, pulling Fukui and Okamura both toward him. He stopped, fired a no-look pass right into Jesus' hands on the wing. Jesus pump-faked, drove baseline – and when Wei Liu finally caught up, the ball was already gone. Dish to Deng.
BOOM!
Dunk number eight on Yōsen.
19–28.
Yōsen stuck to the plan. Okamura again. This time, Adrian anticipated the spin – stayed upright, hands high. Okamura countered with a drop-step middle, took contact, and forced it up. THUD–roll–in.
21–28.
And one.
"Count it!" the ref signaled. The gym erupted with cautious cheers. Yōsen had found something. He hit the free throw.
22–28.
Onitsuka walked it down, still unhurried. Ector pointed left, then right – manipulating space like a conductor. Jesus cut baseline, Tyrone lifted to the elbow. Then Ector crossed, slipped between two defenders, and lobbed it high. Deng rose above everyone – arms unfolding like steel cables – and hammered it down.
22–30.
The crowd went ballistic. Cameras flashed. Even Aomine in the stands whistled low.
"Man… they're playing like an NBA team."
Yōsen's next trip was pure grit. Okamura again – this time double-teamed by Adrian and Deng. He didn't panic. Spun away from contact, drew the foul, and somehow flipped the shot in off the glass. The whistle blew.
24–30.
"Kenichi!" Araki shouted. "Keep bullying them! You're our hammer!" He hit the free throw.
25–30.
Last possession of the quarter. Onitsuka slowed. Shot clock ticking. Ector waved the others into motion – horns set. Adrian screened high, then slipped; Jesus rotated weak-side; Tyrone cut baseline. Yōsen collapsed toward the paint, terrified of another dunk. That's when Ector stopped short. He stepped back – smooth, balanced – and let the three fly.
Splash.
Nothing but net.
25–33.
The buzzer sounded. The crowd was roaring, split in disbelief and awe. Yōsen had clawed back through Okamura's intelligence and heart. But Onitsuka's machine still ran like clockwork – every play a highlight, every mistake punished.
On one side, Araki clutched her wooden sword and screamed, "Keep pounding it inside! They're humans, not gods!"
The first quarter was over. And the scoreboard told the story:
Yōsen 25 – Onitsuka 33.
~~~~~
Novak came back from the sideline. He'd been watching the game the whole first quarter – taking angles, timing, how Yōsen tried to hide their weaknesses behind Murasakibara's bulk – and something in him had shifted.
He stepped up close to Kuhlmann, hands curling around the ball as if testing a shape in his palm.
"Coach," Novak said, voice low but certain, "I think I have seen everything. I am ready."
For a heartbeat the bench went silent. Even Marcus and Daniel turned their heads. Kuhlmann's face showed nothing at first – just the same composed mask he'd worn all game – but when he spoke his tone carried a faint, satisfied edge.
"Took you long enough," Kuhlmann answered, not unkind. He tapped the clipboard once, folding it like a weapon. "From the second quarter we are playing with a different line-up. It's time to strangle them."
Novak let out a short laugh – half relief, half hunger – and nodded. Around him, Grigori Nevsky tightened the laces on his shoes; Biha cracked his knuckles like thunder. Ector met Novak's gaze and bumped his shoulder, the contact small but real: agreement, menace, readiness.
Kuhlmann watched them, the corner of his mouth lifting. Outside, the crowd was still loud, but inside the bench there was a different sound: the quiet, disciplined hum of a death machine about to be turned up.