The Monday scrimmage was less of a practice and more of a demolition site.
Kaminari High's gym was humid, the air thick with the smell of floor wax and effort. Akami was back, but he looked different. The "sleepy" fog was still there, but beneath it was a strange, vibrating energy—the kind you feel near a high-voltage transformer.
"Alright," Hyuga called out, wiping sweat from his brow. "Blue vs. White. Akami, you're anchoring the White team. Teru, you're on Blue. Let's see that 'perimeter defense' you've been supposedly fueling up for."
Teru smirked, dribbling the ball with a frantic, low-to-the-ground rhythm. "You heard the Captain, Durag-kun! No more camping in the paint! I'm taking you out to the three-point line and making you dance!"
Akami didn't respond. He didn't even look annoyed. He just stood at the top of the key, his black silk durag tied so tight it looked like part of his skull. He took a slow, deep breath, his chest expanding like a bellows.
"Dance," Akami rumbled, his voice a low, tectonic vibration. "That implies a rhythm. I don't do rhythm. I do impact."
Teru lunged. He used a double-crossover, a move designed to break ankles and leave big men grasping at shadows. He expected Akami to lumber after him, to trip over his own heavy feet.
He was wrong.
Akami didn't reach. He didn't lunge. He used a lateral slide that sounded like a gunshot—his sneakers shrieking against the wood. In two explosive steps, he was already in Teru's path, his massive chest becoming a horizontal wall.
THUD.
Teru bounced off him like a pinball. "How are you that fast?!" Teru wheezed, scrambling to keep his dribble.
"The ramen," Akami muttered, his eyes tracking the ball with predatory stillness. "High-density fats. Lubrication for the joints. It's science, Teru-kun."
Teru tried to step back for a three, but Akami was already there. He didn't jump; he just raised one massive arm, his hand casting a shadow that swallowed Teru whole. Teru panicked and tried to pass, but Akami's hand swiped the air.
CLACK.
The ball didn't just move; it was redirected. Akami snatched it mid-air, spun his 240-pound frame with a terrifying grace, and took off.
Akami didn't pass. He didn't look for Hyuga. He dribbled once—a massive, floor-shaking BOOM—and crossed half-court in three strides. Goro, the senior center, stepped up to stop him.
"NOT TODAY, FRESHMAN!" Goro yelled, bracing for a collision.
Akami didn't collide. He stopped on a dime at the free-throw line. The momentum that should have sent him flying was absorbed by his heavy legs. He rose into the air—not for a dunk, but for a smooth, high-release jumper.
The ball left his hand with a soft flick of the wrist. It traveled in a perfect, high arc, spinning backwards with elegant precision.
SWISH.
The gym went silent. Akami landed softly, his knees barely bending. He adjusted his durag, pulling the front edge back into place.
"Three blocks," Akami rumbled, looking toward Mio on the sidelines. "And a mid-range jumper. I believe my debt is settled."
"That was... 15 feet," Hyuga whispered, staring at the basket. "He just hit a fadeaway at 6'4" like he was a shooting guard."
Mio looked at her clipboard, then at the giant currently walking toward the water cooler.
"He's not just a center anymore," she whispered. "He's a mobile fortress."
Practice ended, and the team huddled up. Akami was already draped in three towels, his eyes half-closed.
"Listen up," Coach Ryoko said, her voice sharp. "Shiritsu Academy is scouting us. Kaito is going to see that highlight. He's going to know you can move now, Akami."
Akami looked up, a single drop of sweat rolling down his nose.
"Let him see," Akami muttered, his voice dropping into that cold, gravelly register. "Let him plan. Let him calculate. He can build whatever 'strategy' he wants."
He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The amber in his eyes glowed under the gym lights.
"But tell him one thing, Mio-san," Akami said, looking at the manager.
"What's that?"
"Tell him I'm skipping dinner tonight," Akami rumbled. "I'm saving all that hunger for Saturday. And when the 'Mountain' finally arrives at Shiritsu..."
Akami's smirk was slow and dangerous.
"I'm bringing my own silverware."
Saturday morning didn't arrive with a sunrise; it arrived with the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Akami Kazu's high-tops hitting the pavement outside the Shiritsu Academy gates.
The air was crisp, but the atmosphere inside the Shiritsu "Crystal Dome" gym was stifling.
This wasn't a high school gym; it was a glass-and-steel cathedral of basketball. The bleachers were packed with students in purple blazers, and at the center of the court, the Shiritsu team was already going through a layup line that looked like a synchronized dance.
Kaito, the strategist, stood at the three-point line. He didn't even look at the hoop as he drained five consecutive shots.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
He finally turned his gaze toward the Kaminari entrance.
Akami walked in last. He wasn't wearing his warm-up jacket. He was wearing his jersey, his arms looking like pillars of dark marble, and a pristine white silk durag—his "away game" colors. He held a small, triangular rice ball (Onigiri) in one hand, finishing it in a single, massive bite.
"You look tired, Akami-kun," Kaito called out, his glasses catching the overhead glare. "Did the bus ride burn through your meager reserves? Or are you realizing that a mountain is just a stationary target for a long-range bombardment?"
Akami swallowed the rice ball, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stepped onto the hardwood. The floor didn't just squeak; it seemed to groan under the sudden shift in weight.
"The bus had no lumbar support," Akami rumbled, his voice echoing in the vast arena.
"My spine is currently at a 3-degree misalignment. It's a structural disaster. I'm going to have to finish this quickly so I can find a chiropractor. Or a massage chair. Preferably one that serves grilled eel."
...
To Be Continued.