The scrimmage kicked off with a sharp whistle.
Ota won the jump ball for the blue team, earning them first possession.
As one of Tochigi Prefecture's top four centers, Ota's biggest strength was his physique.
Tall, broad, and solidly built—against most centers, his teammates only needed to lob the ball into the paint. He'd use his body to muscle through and put it in the hoop with ease.
So when the red team's backup center lost the tip-off, no one was surprised.
"Coach, are you sure it's okay to let Kasugano Souta play right away?"
On the sidelines, the vice-captain—also a third-year substitute—voiced his concern.
In terms of ability, Souta was without question the best small forward on the team.
He could score, fight for rebounds alongside Ota, and still hold down the defense.
At one meter eighty, Souta had an ideal build for a second-year student, and he was still growing fast. It wouldn't be surprising if he reached one-ninety or even two meters in the future.
Combine that with his athleticism, and every time he found a mismatch, it usually meant points.
But the issue was—he hadn't played in a long time. Nobody knew how much his skills had deteriorated.
And Souta was a guy with a massive ego. Otherwise, why would he have quit the team right after losing that game?
That was how everyone in the basketball club remembered him.
"Relax. I know what I'm doing," Coach Oten said, pretending to sound confident.
In truth, he wasn't sure at all. But that didn't stop him from putting on an act.
"Sure, taking a long break might've hurt his fitness and reaction speed," he continued. "But don't forget—Souta's strongest weapon isn't his body. It's his mind."
He was right.
Souta's athletic ability was never exceptional.
Otherwise, with his 1.8-meter frame, if he'd been explosive too, he'd have been a prodigy already.
Souta's strength lay elsewhere—in his basketball IQ and experience far beyond his age.
He wasn't the fastest runner, but—
"Whoa—what the hell?!"
Before Coach Oten could finish, a yellow blur shot across his vision.
He snapped his head up just in time to see Souta sprinting down the court, ball in hand. Not a single teammate or opponent could catch up. He'd left them all behind.
Swish!
The ball went clean through the net.
A perfectly standard, almost ordinary bank shot for two points.
But what stunned everyone wasn't the shot—it was the speed of that fast break.
That acceleration, that full-sprint pace... this wasn't the same Souta they remembered.
If you needed a comparison—it was like that delivery van had just been fitted with a race car engine.
"What the hell happened to him? What's he been doing since he left after Nationals last year?"
The two on the bench could only stare, dumbfounded.
And they weren't the only ones—everyone on the court looked like they'd seen a ghost.
While the coach and vice-captain were still talking, the blue team's point guard tried to lob the ball into the paint for Ota to finish.
Of course, the red team saw it coming. That was practically Hozumi Academy's signature play.
So to be safe, the blue team's point guard passed to a teammate in a better position before transferring the ball inside.
Big mistake.
The instant the pass left his hands, Souta moved like lightning. He stretched out a single arm, intercepted cleanly, and launched a counterattack.
The defenders turned around immediately to chase—but the gap only grew wider and wider.
They could only watch as Souta finished another layup.
Too fast. Way too fast.
Running fast doesn't automatically make you a genius. Having great physique doesn't either.
But if you've got both speed and a top-tier build—then not being a genius would be harder.
The best example? Shaquille O'Neal.
A man built like a mountain, yet unbelievably agile for his size. Totally unfair.
That's what it looks like when the gods spoon-feed you talent.
Height, wingspan—those had always been Souta's advantages. His only flaw was his lack of explosive athleticism.
At least, compared to the national-level prodigies, he hadn't been on that tier.
So when he suddenly pulled off that kind of fast break... things were definitely getting interesting.
Coach Oten and the vice-captain exchanged glances but chose to hold back and keep observing.
Maybe they were just imagining things. Maybe they'd been too caught up talking, and that's why Souta seemed faster.
Possession changed again.
This time, the blue team played more carefully. They avoided Souta, got the ball to Ota in the paint.
The red team's substitute center was no match. Ota used his hips to carve out space, then hooked it in.
2–2.
Red team's turn to attack. Naturally, Souta took the ball.
The blue team, wary of his sudden burst, set up a double team.
Smart move.
One-on-one, he could bulldoze through. But with two defenders, things got trickier.
His athleticism wasn't enough to simply blow past both at once.
Souta drove hard. The blue team's trap snapped into place. Everyone stayed alert, ready for a pass.
Then—
Thump, thump, thump.
The ball drummed against the floor in rapid rhythm.
He dropped his shoulder, shifted direction—
A simple move, something even beginners could pull off. But in one fluid motion, he slipped past one defender by a full step.
When that player realized and shouted, "Crap!" while shifting his balance—
Souta reversed direction again, pulling the ball back to where he started.
Now the double team had left a gap right between them.
No hesitation—Souta exploded through the middle.
When Ota stepped up to help, Souta bounced a perfect pass to his open teammate.
A flawless setup.
The red team's center caught the ball completely unguarded. One easy jump—and the ball dropped through the net.
Swish.
"This isn't right."
Coach Oten and the vice-captain looked at each other, eyes wide.
Souta, who vanished after last year's Nationals, hadn't regressed—he'd leveled up.
That one-on-two breakout—there was no way the old him could've done that.
And that first step—so explosive that even from the sidelines, you could feel the impact.
In basketball, a player's first step decides everything.
If it's fast enough, you instantly gain half a body's lead—and from there, the offense has all the options.
Souta's first step was that fast. And remember—they'd double-teamed him.
In a game where there are only five players on the court, committing two to one defender already leaves someone open. Three-on-one is basically giving away points.
Yet Souta had broken through the trap alone, like it was nothing.
The moves themselves were simple—nothing flashy, just fundamentals.
But in his hands, they were lethal. Why did something so basic look that sharp when he did it?