The timer above the court ticked down mercilessly.
Only three minutes remained.
The scoreboard told the story in stark numbers: a twelve-point deficit. An insurmountable chasm for Shohoku, especially without Mitsui Hisashi, their core outside shooter.
Without him, the outside firepower that had kept Shohoku competitive was gone.
Sakuragi Hanamichi could drive, but his scoring was inconsistent. Rukawa Kaede was tightly guarded by Sendoh, making even simple drive-and-kick plays difficult. Takenori Akagi fought valiantly under the basket, but Ryonan's rotating defense left him little room to breathe.
The game had become one-sided.
Ryonan's offense flowed like water, relentless and precise, leaving Shohoku no time to mount a counterattack.
Sendoh dribbled forward, Rukawa in pursuit, eyes blazing with determination. Sendoh feinted left, then slipped past with a right-hand crossover. By the time Rukawa reacted, Sendoh was already at Shohoku's basket, lightly scooping the ball in for another point.
Fukuda Kiccho sprinted along the sideline. Sakuragi chased, waving his hands, trying to disrupt the play. But Fukuda, noticing the clumsy defense, pivoted under the basket, caught Akashi's pass, and dunked cleanly.
Clang. The ball swished through the net.
Uozumi received the next possession in the paint. Takenori Akagi stuck close, pushing back, trying to force an error. But Uozumi's strength prevailed—he shoved Akagi two steps back and slammed the ball home. Another smooth possession.
Mitsui Hisashi, beyond the three-point line, gasped for breath, sweat dripping, chest heaving violently. Continuous defensive pressure had drained his stamina.
Koshino Hiroaki dribbled carefully, then accelerated, breaking free from Mitsui's exhausted defense. A swift shot later, the ball arced perfectly through the net.
Seconds slipped away. The final countdown had begun.
Akashi dribbled deliberately, stepping toward Shohoku's interior.
Two defenders charged diagonally—Rukawa Kaede on the left, Sakuragi Hanamichi on the right. Both spread their arms, leaning forward, eyes locked on the ball, ready to stop Akashi's final push.
But Akashi's calm heterochromatic gaze shifted. Two golden halos appeared. Emperor Eye activated.
In a single instant, he saw every current and future movement of his opponents. The possibilities flashed through his mind, finally settling on the optimal sequence.
Thump… thump. Akashi adjusted his rhythm. Short, abrupt dribbles.
Rukawa and Sakuragi rushed forward—but their timing faltered. Legs weakened inexplicably, and both fell backward with a dull thud, sitting dazed on the floor, bewildered.
Akashi ignored them, dribbling steadily past, stopping at the free-throw line. He raised the ball, precise and calm, releasing it in a perfect arc.
Swish. The ball passed through cleanly.
Beep. The referee's whistle sounded. Game over.
The scoreboard froze: Ryonan 90 – Shohoku 67.
Victory was Ryonan's.
Yet the stadium remained unnaturally quiet. There were no cheers, no wild applause. Everyone was stunned, not merely by the score, but by the absolute control Akashi had demonstrated from start to finish.
This was no longer a basketball game—it was a masterful chess match. Shohoku's players, like pieces on a board, had been moved along predetermined paths. Only the crimson figure of Akashi stood outside, orchestrating every move.
In the stands, Shinichi Maki was the first to rise. "Let's go," he said, glancing once more at the Ryonan players and settling his gaze on Akashi. That figure commanded attention even in stillness. He knew Kainan would face a storm next.
Jin Soichiro stood as well, eyes complex. "Ryonan is truly strong."
Even Kiyota Nobunaga, usually boisterous, remained silent.
Fujima Kenji rose slowly, turning to Hanagata Toru. "Let's go too." His voice lacked its usual composure, filled instead with solemnity.
Hanagata nodded silently, following him, each step heavy with unspoken weight.
On the court, Shohoku players hung their heads. Shoulders slumped. The fire that had burned during the game was gone. They hadn't just lost—they had been outplayed, controlled, and predicted at every turn.
Ayako approached, breaking the silence. "Cheer up, the game isn't over yet."
Shohoku looked at her, eyes refocusing. She took a deep breath. "There are still three spots for advancement. Losing this game doesn't mean it's over. We still have a chance. What's the point of despairing now?"
Her words reignited a spark in their eyes. They had been beaten, yes—but not eliminated.
On Ryonan's side, calm satisfaction replaced the adrenaline of battle. Players patted each other on the shoulder, smiles small but genuine.
Koshino Hiroaki wiped sweat from his brow. "Finally… what a game. We won."
Ryoji Ikegami added confidently, "With Captain Akashi, there's never been a problem."
Aida Hikoichi's eyes sparkled. "That last layup, the steals, directing the team… Captain Akashi was incredible!"
Sendoh, leaning on a bench, smiled lightly. "Because he's Akashi."
And so, the game ended—not just as a victory, but as a testament to one player's unrivaled control, precision, and strategy.