Snap…
A crisp sound, like an ice pick piercing silence, made Miuradai flinch. Even the veteran spectators, seasoned in countless games, froze for a heartbeat.
It was as if a team charging with unstoppable momentum—like a torrent of steel—suddenly slammed into an invisible wall. The momentum halted midair; every player paused, suffocated by an unseen force.
And the cause was clear: Akashi.
He advanced with the ball, calm and steady, yet every step carried a suffocating sense of oppression.
Kengo Murasame remained rooted, his hand mid-dribble, fingertips still brushing the texture of the ball—yet the basketball was gone.
Akashi had stolen it.
And this time, Kengo saw it clearly.
Akashi's movement was minimal, almost casual. Feet barely shifted, hand barely extended—but the ball had leapt from Kengo's grasp, as if compelled by some invisible force.
His mind understood the absurdity of the act, yet his body had no control over the outcome. A chill ran down his spine.
Miuradai's half seemed empty, the players frozen as the court itself seemed to bow beneath Akashi.
Step by step, he advanced. Not with speed, but with rhythm—unstoppable, precise, and suffocating in its inevitability.
Jump, gather, wrist flick… Swish.
Ryonan 66–32 Miuradai.
Time itself seemed to pause. The stadium, once buzzing, fell into a tense silence. Spectators stared, unable to process what had just happened.
Akashi dribbled again. Thump… thump… thump… The rhythm relaxed, but pressure radiated from every movement.
Kengo lunged, arms spread, attempting to block. Akashi shifted his shoulder slightly, and the ball flowed from hand to hand, behind his back, around his body… effortlessly.
Once… twice… thrice. Every attempt by Kengo was anticipated and neutralized.
Cold sweat ran down his forehead. He wasn't defending—he was being toyed with.
In the stands, gasps echoed.
"This… this is human?"
"His hands… it's like the ball is glued to him."
"So skilled… I've never seen anything like it."
Even Fujima Kenji, Kanagawa's top point guard, felt unease stir within him. Akashi's dribbling rivaled his own mastery.
Hanagata Toru, once dismissive, now regarded the first-year with respect.
Snap! Another beat of the ball… and suddenly, it wasn't in Akashi's hands.
Sendo had it, tearing down the baseline like a leopard.
Miyamoto Kazunari, guarding him, froze. The pass was invisible, seamless, delivered with a flick of Akashi's fingertips, threading through two defenders. His gaze never left Kengo Murasame.
Sendo attacked immediately, cutting through the gap, and—clang! A thunderous single-hand dunk, backboard shivering violently.
Score: Ryonan 75–32 Miuradai.
The whistle blew. Miuradai called a substitution. Forty-three points down, fifteen minutes remaining—the comeback seemed impossible.
A tall, burly figure rose from the Miuradai bench. Shoulders broad, back thick as armor, bald head gleaming under the stadium lights, eyes sharp and resolute.
He gripped the ball so tightly the rubber slightly indented—pure strength and intent.
Tetsuya Naito, Miuradai's secret weapon, had entered the game.
Kogure whispered, awestruck, "Who… is that?"
Hanamichi stared at the shining bald head. "Can monks play basketball too?"
Miyagi narrowed his eyes. "I didn't expect Miuradai to hide a guy like this."
On the Ryonan bench, Aida Hikoichi flipped open his notebook. "Tetsuya Naito, 196 cm, 155 kg. Secret weapon. No prior game footage—never played in qualifiers."
Coach Taoka's gaze swept over Naito. "Physique impressive… but skill unknown."
Yet Akashi and Sendo remained calm. They had no doubt. Strength alone wouldn't shake them.
Miuradai inbounded. The ball found Naito's hands.
A bear-like figure surged forward, momentum unstoppable. In a single breath, he bulldozed past the half-court line, entering the paint.
Ryoji Ikegami attempted to block him, bracing like a wall. But Naito didn't slow. He collided head-on.
The force sent Ikegami flying backward, chest caved, feet leaving the ground—like being hit by a freight train. Yet no foul—pure power, clean collision.
Naito continued, pushing off with his right foot, and leapt.
With the ball clutched in both massive hands, he slammed it into the hoop. Clang! The backboard trembled violently.
Landing gracefully, he barely glanced at Ikegami, scanning the court with a stern, unwavering gaze.
For a moment, the stadium was silent.