Ryonan scored again.
From the sidelines, sharp-eyed spectators had already noticed: the tightly contested score was slowly stretching apart.
Shohoku's pressure was mounting.
It was their turn to attack.
Rukawa Kaede charged forward with the ball, steadily advancing into Ryonan's half.
Sendo stuck close, agile on his feet, ready to cut off any breakthrough.
But then Rukawa's next move made Sendo hesitate for a moment.
A sharp shoulder dip to the left—a feint that drew Sendo's weight in that direction.
Just as Sendo adjusted, Rukawa flicked the ball along the floor—a precise bounce pass toward Mitsui Hisashi, moving diagonally backward to receive it.
Mitsui's feet were steady, hands ready. But just before his fingertips could touch the ball—
A hand reached out from the side. The ball was gone.
Akashi.
He had somehow circled behind Mitsui, perfectly cutting off the passing lane.
Rukawa and Mitsui's pupils constricted in simultaneous shock.
No one expected Akashi to appear there, or intercept the pass with such precision.
Mitsui reacted instinctively, lunging forward to reclaim the ball.
Bang… bang… bang…
Akashi remained calm. Facing Mitsui's pounce, he moved unhurriedly, flicking the ball to his other hand, adjusting his feet slightly, and effortlessly dodging Mitsui's outstretched hands.
Mitsui refused to give up, adjusting his stance, raising his arm again.
But then he froze.
Akashi's hands were empty.
The orange-yellow basketball had vanished.
"What…?" Mitsui's eyes widened in disbelief. "Where's the ball?"
It had been in his hands just moments ago.
Then—the sound of a ball hitting the floor.
The direction was off. Mitsui's heart sank.
Across the three-point line, Koshino Hiroaki stood, hands extended from his shot. The sound came from him.
The next instant, the ball arced beautifully through the air and swish—through the hoop.
Mitsui clenched his fists, torn between shock and frustration.
He had been so focused on Akashi that he hadn't even noticed when the pass had happened.
The speed, the timing—it was almost invisible.
And just like that, another round of points had slipped away.
Akashi dribbled steadily toward Shohoku's half.
Miyagi and Mitsui exchanged glances and moved in to double-team him.
Akashi's expression didn't change.
He raised a hand, feinting a push to the right. The motion was convincing.
Mitsui, on the right, instinctively moved with him, extending his arm to block.
Then Akashi's wrist snapped forward, retracting the ball with perfect precision.
Swish.
The basketball shot through the gap between Miyagi and Mitsui like a lightning bolt.
Both defenders froze, stunned, mouths slightly agape.
Even Sakuragi, watching from the other side, widened his eyes.
The trajectory of the ball—empty, unobstructed—confused him.
Who was Akashi passing to?
And then—Fukuda Kiccho appeared, rushing into the lane, intercepting the ball mid-air.
Sakuragi's heart sank. He dashed forward without hesitation, eyes locked on the ball, palm ready to slap it away.
But he didn't notice his body colliding with Fukuda.
Beep! The referee's whistle cut sharply.
Fukuda, still airborne, slammed the ball into the hoop using his jump's momentum.
Clang!
The ball sank cleanly through the net.
Sakuragi landed, fists clenched, muttering curses under his breath.
The referee's voice rang clearly: "Shohoku #10, defensive foul. Basket counts, plus one free throw."
Sakuragi froze.
"When did I foul?" he demanded, bewildered. "I was clearly blocking!"
Fukuda released the hoop and landed calmly, glancing at Sakuragi with a hint of disdain—as if mocking his impulsiveness. Then he turned toward the free-throw line without another word.
Sakuragi's blood boiled. "This hateful bastard… dares to look down on me!"
Miyagi dragged him back before he could charge again.
At the free-throw line, Fukuda took a deep breath and shot.
Swish.
Ryonan added three more points.
Shohoku's setbacks over several rounds had steadily drained their momentum.
The scoreboard reflected the growing gap:
Ryonan 69 – Shohoku 55
Five minutes of the second half had slipped by unnoticed.
Beep! The timeout whistle blew.
Anzai Mitsuyoshi rose from the bench, face gentle but eyes serious.
Shohoku's situation was grim. Fourteen points down, Sakuragi tricked into fouls—the game was slipping away.
He needed to stabilize the rhythm.
The players walked off, heads down, faces heavy with dejection.
Ayako approached, unsure what to say. "Everyone…"
Words failed her.
Anzai stepped in front of the team. Calm but firm: "Ryonan's strategy is simple—they're slowly cutting off all our options."
Takenori Akagi and the others stiffened. Passive? They hadn't realized the opponent's ruthlessness.
Anzai continued: "This isn't a simple basketball match. It's like playing chess."
"Chess?" Sakuragi blinked, bewildered. "What does chess have to do with basketball?"
Anzai's gaze settled on him. "Especially you, Sakuragi. You're their target."
All eyes shifted to Sakuragi, who was even more confused.
"Me? Why me?"
"They're trying to make you act impulsively," Anzai explained. "From Akashi's provocation to number 13's baiting—it's all designed to get you fouling quickly, to take you off the court."
Sakuragi bristled. "Damn it… that stinky old man over there… hateful!"
"Calm down," Anzai pressed gently. "But this also means there's something about you that scares them—or hinders their plan."
Huh?
Not just Sakuragi—Akagi, Miyagi, Mitsui, and Rukawa all stared at him blankly, trying to process the implication.
Takenori Akagi: "What could possibly be so threatening about this guy? His lack of common sense?"
Miyagi Ryota: "It can't be his body odor, right?"
Mitsui Hisashi: "Being brainless counts?"
Rukawa Kaede: "Idiot."
Sakuragi scratched the back of his head. "What are you all staring at? Besides my genius aura, there's nothing special about me!"
Anzai swept his gaze across the team, then picked up the tactical board. His tone sharpened. "Alright. Here's our plan now…"
Across the court, Ryonan's bench watched intently.
Koshino Hiroaki gulped his sports drink. "Shohoku's more tenacious than we thought… even down a few players, they can still make a difference."
Ryoji Ikegami nodded. "Luckily Captain Akashi warned us. Otherwise, that last stretch could've been dangerous."
Uozumi remained silent, gaze fixed on Takenori Akagi.
Though their recent confrontations had been fierce, Uozumi felt strain against Akagi. Not because he was weaker—both were evenly matched in strength, height, and low-post skill—but because of Akashi's specialized training.
Without Akashi's tailored drills, he might already have been suppressed completely.
Click… click…
Kamishiro Ruri captured the moment on camera, aiming at Ryonan's bench.
She turned to Aida Yayoi with a triumphant smile: "See, I told you! Shohoku is no match for Akashi-kun."
Aida Yayoi glanced at the scoreboard—69 to 55. She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't expect… it was tied just moments ago. How did the gap widen so fast?"
Her gaze drifted back to Akashi.
No flashy moves, no dramatic dunks. His passing was simple, his positioning basic.
Yet he consistently pinpointed Shohoku's weaknesses, intercepted key passes, delivered perfect assists, and even orchestrated Sakuragi's fouls.
Like a knife without a sharp edge, striking precisely at the vital points.
Beep!
The timeout ended. The game resumed.