Hozumi Academy took the opening possession. Their point guard dribbled past half-court, then immediately handed the ball to Souta.
For someone whose only "talent" was solid fundamentals, Souta wasted no time showing everyone what simple, efficient basketball looked like.
The small forward guarding him was the opposing team's top scorer—an offensive genius with a defense that could only be described as tragic.
He wasn't strong, his footwork was sloppy, and he was slow to react.
They'd sent him to guard Souta because, last year, Souta hadn't been particularly fast either. Delay him a little, and the rest of the defense could rotate in time.
But Souta wasn't about to let a soft target slip away.
"Bring it on, Souta! I'll show everyone who the best small forward in Tochigi really is!"
"The louder you talk, the more scared you sound." Souta smirked. He loved trash talk.
He looked his opponent up and down with open disdain. "If I don't crush you, people might actually think we're on the same level."
"What?!"
The guy blinked, stunned. He'd clearly never been hit with trash talk that actually had some teeth.
Normally, their kind of "trash talk" was stuff like, I'll definitely beat you today, or You're strong, but I'm stronger, or Feel the gap between us.
While he was still processing that insult, Souta blew right past him.
Too easy.
Just one shoulder feint and crossover, and the poor defender was left somewhere in the Pacific.
Souta stopped on a dime, rose smoothly into a textbook jump shot, and even had time to adjust his breathing midair.
Swish!
First blood—Souta.
"That easy?"
"Asakura's defense is as solid as ever."
"Yeah—solidly useless."
"Even I could've stopped that one!"
"…"
The crowd didn't even know how to roast this properly.
That play looked way too ordinary—not like Souta had done something amazing, but like the defender had just been awful.
But over on Yamaguchi High's bench, the head coach's pupils shrank.
"…Was that just my imagination?"
Sure, his player's defense was bad—but not that bad.
And more importantly—Souta wasn't known for being a strong ball-handler.
In his understanding, Souta was a cerebral player—someone who relied on positioning and body advantage to bully weaker opponents.
But this time…
"I hope I'm just imagining things," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
Yamaguchi High's possession.
They played fast—today's game plan was all about speed.
Ota was a powerhouse in Tochigi; his "big man model" was their deadliest weapon. But size came with a price—he was slow.
So their set plays were all built around screens.
If the center stayed up high, they'd look for mid-range shots. If Ota rolled in, they'd attack the paint.
This time, Ota followed the ball-handler out to the top—maybe because they'd been running pick-and-rolls nonstop lately.
To be fair, at the junior high level, tactics were simple. Anything too complicated, and players wouldn't get it anyway.
Asakura—bad defender, but an active scorer—slashed forward using a screen like a knife cutting through Hozumi's defense.
Through the legs, one step in, a hesitation, then a burst off the back foot.
A clean hesitation move and he was through, rising up for a bank shot inside the key.
He was already planning his comeback line for Souta when—
The spotlight above seemed to vanish, swallowed by a shadow.
Souta.
His vertical wasn't special, but with his speed stat now at 80, his explosion off the ground was something else entirely.
To the crowd, he looked like a living wall, swallowing Asakura whole.
"What the hell? When did he jump so high?!"
At this point, shooting was suicide—it'd be blocked for sure.
But Asakura wasn't just talentless swagger. He had a cool head and great passing instincts.
He twisted in midair and whipped the ball behind Souta to a teammate.
Nice read.
The teammate caught it cleanly and went straight up—no hesitation.
Except Souta, still midair a heartbeat ago, had already landed, reloaded, and launched again.
Smack!
He swatted the shot so hard it echoed across the court.
Yamaguchi's players froze like they'd been struck by lightning.
"How did he get up that fast?"
"Wasn't he just in the air?"
"Did he just teleport?!"
"…"
The stands buzzed.
Souta's offense might've looked plain, but this defense? It was art.
Two consecutive jumps, perfect timing, clean block—like a wall of pure denial.
On the Hozumi bench, Coach Oten pumped his fist and roared.
Beside him, Yamaguchi's head coach felt a chill.
That kid—was not normal.
Absolutely not.
"But why? Last year, he was so… ordinary."
Last year, Souta had already been strong—the best small forward in the prefecture tournament. That's why Asakura had sworn to dethrone him.
But even so, Souta back then had still looked ordinary.
Basketball's not like other sports—you can see talent the moment it steps on the court.
And right now, Souta looked like he had it.
Thud.
The ball bounced out of bounds. Souta landed calmly, unfazed.
He'd already gotten used to playing at this speed.
A lower jump height had its perks—it meant faster landings and quicker second jumps.
"Nice one, Souta!"
The power forward came over for a high-five. This time, Souta didn't refuse—team chemistry mattered.
But he couldn't resist adding, "That was your man. Don't let him stroll into the paint so easily."
Then he pointed at Asakura. "That guy's not bad, but I can only guard two at once."
"…"
What the hell?!
What the hell did he just say?
'I can only guard two at once'?
And he's talking about me?!
You've got to be kidding me!
Asakura's brain short-circuited.
He had to be hearing things.
He was Yamaguchi's ace—he averaged 23.5 points a game last season!
At his age, that was elite.
And yet—
That damned Souta!