The air inside the gymnasium grew heavier as the players returned for the third quarter. The scoreboard displayed a crushing 42–8, and Seirin's hopes were hanging by a fragile thread. The crowd buzzed with both excitement and pity—excitement for Teikou's dominance, pity for Seirin's crumbling resolve.
The referee's whistle echoed, and the ball was tossed into play.
From the very first possession, it became clear that Teikou wasn't about to ease up. Hiroshi took control once again, his presence like an unmovable anchor on the court. His eyes darted with precision, reading every angle, predicting every movement.
"Defense tight! Don't give them space!" Seirin's captain shouted, but his voice lacked conviction.
Hiroshi dribbled slowly, pulling the defense toward him. At the perfect moment, he launched a bounce pass that slipped between two defenders and landed right in Aomine's hands. Without hesitation, Aomine exploded forward, twisting midair to deliver a reverse layup that left the crowd gasping.
Seirin tried to retaliate. Their shooting guard pushed past Midorima and attempted a desperate mid-range jumper. But before the ball could even arc properly, Hiroshi leaped—his outstretched arm swallowing the shot in midair.
SMACK!
The ball was stripped away, and Hiroshi immediately transitioned. He sprinted down the court, the pounding of his steps echoing like a war drum. Seirin scrambled to get back, but Hiroshi was already gone—his steps long, powerful, and commanding. He soared upward, clutching the ball with both hands, and slammed it through the hoop with a ferocity that rattled the backboard.
The crowd erupted.
"That's… unbelievable…" one spectator whispered.
"Is this really middle school basketball?" another muttered, shaking his head.
The momentum only spiraled further out of Seirin's control. Midorima rained down flawless three-pointers, each one sinking with a swish that drained Seirin's morale. Aomine became unguardable, moving like a blur, his body bending into impossible angles. And Hiroshi—Hiroshi was the core holding everything together.
Every rebound belonged to him. Every defensive stop began with him. Every offensive rhythm flowed through him. It wasn't just dominance—it was orchestration. He wasn't playing for himself; he was conducting Teikou into a symphony of destruction.
By the midpoint of the third quarter, the scoreboard read 56–10.
Seirin's coach called a timeout, desperation etched across his face. His players slumped on the bench, sweat dripping, eyes downcast.
"You can't give up now," he urged. "Remember why you play! Basketball isn't about winning or losing—it's about fighting until the very end!"
But even his words rang hollow. Against Teikou, against Hiroshi, their fight seemed meaningless.
On the other side, Teikou's bench was calm. Momoi scribbled notes furiously in her book, analyzing every stat and pattern. Her eyes occasionally flicked toward Hiroshi, her expression unreadable. She had known he was strong, but this? This was beyond her calculations.
Back on the court, the game resumed. Seirin attempted a desperate shift to a full-court press, hoping to disrupt Teikou's flow. For a moment, it seemed to work—they forced a turnover, and their captain charged toward the basket.
But Hiroshi wasn't far.
In a blur, he closed the gap. Just as Seirin's captain leapt for a layup, Hiroshi rose higher, his body a wall of power.
BANG!
Another devastating block, his third of the quarter. The ball bounced wildly, but Hiroshi caught it in midair, landing with balance and immediately pushing forward. He lobbed the ball toward the rim where Aomine was already waiting.
SLAM!
The alley-oop thundered through the gym, sending the crowd into chaos.
"Teikou is unstoppable!" shouted a commentator-like voice from the stands.
By the end of the third quarter, the scoreboard was merciless: 70–12.
The fourth quarter began, and despite Seirin's spirit being nearly broken, Teikou showed no signs of slowing. Instead, coach Shirogane decided to rotate players, allowing Akashi to step in alongside Hiroshi, Aomine, and Midorima. The aura of the court shifted once again—sharper, deadlier.
Akashi, with his commanding presence, synchronized effortlessly with Hiroshi. Their eyes met briefly, and a silent understanding passed between them. Hiroshi controlled the rhythm, while Akashi dictated the flow of decisions. Together, they were overwhelming.
Seirin's offense couldn't breathe. Every pass was intercepted, every shot contested. Hiroshi's instinctive positioning shut down the paint, while Akashi's foresight dismantled their perimeter.
Then came the final blow.
With two minutes left on the clock, Hiroshi caught the ball beyond the arc. Seirin's defenders backed off, assuming he wouldn't shoot from so far. But Hiroshi's eyes burned with resolve. Without hesitation, he rose, released the ball, and the gym held its breath.
SWISH.
The three-pointer sank perfectly, sealing Seirin's fate.
The buzzer finally rang, ending the massacre. The final score glared from the scoreboard: 94–18.
The crowd erupted, some in awe, others in shock. Seirin's players collapsed, exhausted and broken.
Teikou's players walked off the court with calm expressions, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. For them, it was simply another victory. But for Hiroshi, it was different.
As he stepped off the court, he glanced back at Seirin. Their defeated forms stirred something inside him—not pity, but recognition. He had once been like them, struggling against overwhelming odds.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered to himself.
Beside him, Akashi smirked. "You've grown stronger, Hiroshi. Perhaps too strong."
Hiroshi's eyes gleamed. "No such thing as too strong. This is basketball—either you dominate, or you get dominated."
The roar of the crowd still echoed in the distance as Teikou left the court, leaving behind a memory that Seirin—and everyone who witnessed it—would never forget.