"I'll make you regret this, Kasugano Souta!"
Asakura was furious, swearing he'd make that smug bastard pay.
"I've regretted a lot of things in my life," Souta replied coolly, "but this won't be one of them."
He turned and jogged back on defense.
These kids were way too easy to read—every emotion plastered right on their faces.
And sure enough, that hotheaded idiot was clearly about to try another one-on-one.
As soon as the ball was inbounded, Asakura called for it and waved off his teammates' screen, insisting on isolating.
He gathered his strength and burst forward with everything he had—
Only for Souta to appear in front of him again, ghostlike.
He couldn't even get half a step past him.
"Souta really has gotten faster… but how?"
The Yamaguchi High coach's suspicions were confirmed. Souta's speed had improved drastically since last year.
Even Asakura, their ace and fastest attacker, couldn't find a single opening.
And in basketball, the offense is always supposed to have at least half a step's advantage.
Defenders usually react after the attacker moves—only a rare few can anticipate.
Like that genius from Teikō, Akashi Seijūrō.
He was the best reader of the game the coach had ever seen in ten years.
Souta didn't have Akashi's clairvoyance, yet he was completely shutting Asakura down.
That meant one thing—his raw speed had surpassed even Asakura's.
"Thud!"
Asakura crashed right into him, bouncing off like he'd hit a wall.
Souta had already planted his feet, so the ref didn't call a foul. He took advantage of the contact to slap the ball loose.
Sakurai Ryo reacted instantly, scooping it up and protecting the possession.
"Here! Mushroom head!"
Souta was already sprinting downcourt.
And in that instant, his full 80-point speed stat was on display for everyone to see.
He was like a gray-and-white sports car—"whoosh"—gone past half court in a blink.
Sakurai passed ahead, Souta caught up to it, drove into the lane, and finished with the simplest layup imaginable.
4–0!
A dream start for Hozumi Academy—and complete control of the pace.
"I seriously regret it!"
"I regret ever expecting anything from you!"
"You're worse than a discount host club gigolo! At least those guys strip themselves for free!"
Souta's taunts were merciless. Asakura's face turned scarlet, veins bulging as he looked ready to explode.
"Is that really Souta?"
"His transition speed's insane, and his defensive reactions are top tier!"
"What did he say to Asakura? He looks ready to murder someone!"
"Hozumi Academy's stronger than ever this year!"
Questions flew from every corner of the stands.
No one could figure it out.
In just one year, how had Souta changed so drastically?
Not only had his playstyle become refined and minimalist, but his speed had made a qualitative leap.
Could it be that his natural talent had been dormant until now, only just awakening?
Fundamentals and technique could be trained—but talent? That was different.
Even pros sometimes reinvented themselves mid-career.
Take Tim Duncan—he entered the league as a high-flying power forward, but after a major injury, he transitioned to a grounded, methodical style to extend his career.
But raw talent? That couldn't be hidden—or trained into existence.
There was only one explanation:
Souta was a latent genius. His talent had been constrained by age until now, and this year, it finally erupted.
Otherwise, no one could explain how he'd become this strong.
Some were fascinated by how he'd changed.
Others just wanted to know what he'd said to Asakura.
But the battle on the court raged on.
This was a single-elimination tournament—lose once, and you were done.
Nobody wanted to go home in round one.
Yamaguchi High quickly called their first timeout.
When play resumed, Asakura had calmed down—but he still couldn't find an opening.
He was their sharpest blade, but with Souta locking him down, their offense couldn't breathe.
Meanwhile, Souta was getting more comfortable by the minute.
Simple passes. Simple crossovers. Simple shots. Simple layups.
Everything he did looked effortless—but unstoppable.
To the casual fan, it didn't look like a display of genius so much as a sign that Yamaguchi's defense just sucked.
But those watching closely could see it: Souta's defense was on another level.
Fans started to whisper—how long would it take before Yamaguchi's ace, Asakura, scored a single point? How far could Kasugano's defense really go?
"Pass the ball, Asakura! Don't get stuck on personal duels—remember, it's one for all and all for one!"
The coach shouted desperately after Asakura fumbled again, giving him a graceful way out.
Asakura wasn't stupid. He stopped trying to prove himself against Souta—because he finally realized he couldn't win.
"Congratulations," Souta called over lightly. "You're officially the first—"
"The first loser everyone will remember!"
His words hit like daggers. Asakura clenched his teeth, but the fear in his chest made it impossible to talk back.
"Coward," Souta muttered, turning away.
He wasn't wasting any more energy on him.
"Seven attempts—three blocks, two steals, two turnovers. Asakura's completely lost in Souta's ironclad defense."
The first quarter ended.
24–12.
Hozumi Academy had doubled Yamaguchi's score.
A blowout.
A total humiliation.
Without Asakura's offense, Yamaguchi had no way forward—and his earlier loss of control had gifted Hozumi too many chances.
Souta's lockdown defense left an unforgettable impression on everyone watching.
But a few sharp eyes noticed something else—
In that same quarter, without making a scene, Kasugano had quietly racked up 10 points and 4 assists.