Beep… A crisp whistle pierced the gymnasium. The second half officially began.
Tsukubu's players immediately noticed Akashi's entrance. The red-haired first-year captain exuded a calm, unassuming presence. His well-proportioned figure and expressionless face gave nothing away.
"The captain of Ryonan?" Natsume Hiroshi murmured, squinting at him. "Let's see what he's really capable of."
At center court, the two centers prepared for the jump ball. In the first half, Uozumi and Nango Koichiro had been evenly matched, giving the illusion that the second jump ball might also be a tie.
But the moment the referee tossed the ball…
Uozumi's arm shot up like a spear, fingertips grazing the ball with ease and tipping it decisively toward Ryonan's half.
Nango Koichiro's eyes widened in disbelief. The difference was staggering.
What he didn't realize was that Akashi had given Uozumi explicit instructions: use your full strength in the second half until the gap is irreversible.
The plan was simple—snuff out any hope of a Tsukubu comeback immediately. An opponent without hope is the easiest to dominate.
Clap… The ball landed in Akashi's hands. He tapped it lightly, securing full control. In an instant, all eyes in the gym were magnetically drawn to him. Few had seen him play in an official game, and now everyone wanted to know why he was Ryonan's first-year captain.
Thump… Thump… Thump… His dribbling was slow, deliberate, almost casual. The pace puzzled the spectators.
"What's he doing? Isn't he afraid of getting the ball stolen?"
"This is Ryonan's captain? What a joke…"
But in two corners of the stands, Shinichi Maki and Fujima Kenji's eyes were fixed like hawks. Fujima recognized him immediately, while Maki felt something deeper—he saw the shadow of another player, the "strongest high school point guard," in Akashi's calm, unassuming movements. Every pass, every step could become deadly in an instant.
Thump… Thump… Thump… Akashi advanced deliberately, step by step, like he was strolling in a park.
"Playing tricks," Natsume realized. He moved to intercept, lowering his center of gravity and spreading his arms. But as soon as he blocked Akashi's path, the captain paused for just a fraction of a second.
A flick of the wrist, and the ball switched hands. A split-second change of direction that brushed past Natsume's side. Then—slap—the ball arced perfectly to Fukuda Kiccho, who had already cut to the open spot.
Lightning-fast. Natsume hadn't even seen the pass fully executed before Fukuda was charging toward the basket.
Kenta Mine rushed instinctively to block, but Fukuda made the correct choice: pass to Koshino Hiroaki on the perimeter. Without hesitation, Koshino jumped and shot from beyond the three-point line.
Swish. The net rippled. Ryonan 67, Tsukubu 45. In the opening moments of the second half, the gap had already widened to 22 points.
Tsukubu didn't give up. Natsume dribbled across half-court, aiming to break through Akashi's calm defense with his speed. But no matter how he shifted, faked, or switched hands, Akashi anticipated every move.
There was no unnecessary contact, no exaggerated reach—Akashi was an invisible wall, always a step ahead. The spectators gasped.
Cornering his only option, Natsume passed to Godai Tomokazu. Akashi didn't move. Yet before the ball reached Godai, Sendoh intercepted with precise timing and dribbled at lightning speed toward the basket. Akashi, meanwhile, casually returned to defense, leaving everyone confused.
"Why isn't he joining the fast break?"
"What is he doing?"
"He must be certain the shot will go in," Fujima noted quietly.
Sendo finished the fast break with a ferocious one-handed dunk over two defenders. Tsukubu's rekindled momentum was immediately blunted.
Akashi's strategy was clear: crush any hope before it could form.
Within the next minute, Akashi showcased his terrifying steal ability. Three consecutive turnovers from Natsume, all clean, all precise—without even using the Emperor Eye. Each theft led to lightning-fast counterattacks:
First, a flick-through to Sendo for a layup.
Second, a behind-the-back pass to Fukuda for a dunk.
Third, a high lob to Uozumi for an alley-oop.
Three plays, executed flawlessly, extinguishing Tsukubu's last flicker of fighting spirit. Natsume stood gasping, unsure how to proceed. The rest of the game became garbage time.
When Akashi finally left the court, all eyes followed him, as if witnessing a monster depart.
"Is this Ryonan's first-year captain?"
"Three minutes, and he destroyed Tsukubu's momentum. His control is terrifying."
"His passes… that behind-the-back pass… and the steals—clean, precise, every single time. His vision is insane."
Beep… The final whistle blew.
Ryonan 113, Tsukubu 74. A 39-point difference.
The gap wasn't larger because both teams rotated substitutes in the latter half. Tsukubu's starters were demoralized; continuing would only tire them further. Ryonan's subs maintained the lead without forcing the score.
Tsukubu left the court silently, heads bowed. Godai removed his wristband, his body heavy with fatigue.
Ryonan's players celebrated quietly, high-fiving. Akashi glanced at the scoreboard, expressionless. For him, this was just another step in the plan.
Ryonan had advanced to the top 8, their top 16 match decisively concluded.