The basketball gym fell into silence.
Every eye was fixed on the court, every breath suspended in disbelief.
All the noise, all the energy that had filled the air moments ago—vanished.
Rukawa Kaede stood frozen mid-charge. His right foot had just crossed half court, his arm still swung naturally forward—but his palm was empty.
The ball was gone.
Under the stunned gaze of the crowd, Ake hadn't lunged or made any dramatic move.
He simply shifted his weight, extended his hand like an eagle's claw, and with a precise flick of his fingers—clap—the ball was stripped clean from Rukawa's control.
That soft sound echoed like thunder in Rukawa's ears.
He stopped dead. For the first time, his ever-calm face showed open shock.
He looked down at his empty hand, as if trying to confirm whether the ball had ever truly been there.
"Rukawa Kaede…" Kogure Kiminobu's dry voice came from the backcourt, barely squeezing past his throat.
Rukawa Kaede—stripped.
Not by a double team, not by help defense, but cleanly, one-on-one.
Takenori Akagi stared in disbelief. "He… he lost the ball that easily?"
"Hmph." Uozumi, standing nearby, let out a low sneer. "Akagi… let me give you a piece of advice."
Akagi frowned, glancing at him. "What are you talking about?"
Uozumi smiled faintly. "Maybe before, you still had a chance to tie the game. But the moment our captain stepped onto the court… that chance disappeared."
He paused, then added, "Enjoy the match while it lasts. I hope, when it's over, you won't start hating basketball."
Akagi's brows knit tighter.
Uozumi wasn't one to talk nonsense.
If he said that… then it meant something Akagi didn't yet understand.
Ake had shown great passing, yes—but nothing else too special.
Still, Uozumi's tone carried certainty.
Could it be that his real ability hadn't shown yet?
Thump—clap!
After stealing the ball, Ake flicked his wrist, sending the basketball flying like an arrow to the frontcourt.
Ikegami Ryoji caught it perfectly and sprinted toward the basket.
But before he could take a shot, a shadow loomed ahead—Takenori Akagi, standing tall like a mountain, eyes sharp as blades.
Shoot? Impossible.
The basket was completely sealed.
Ikegami bit his lip and quickly passed back. The ball returned to Ake's hands.
Takenori Akagi didn't hesitate. He roared and lunged forward, muscles coiled like a tiger about to strike.
"I'll see how good you really are, kid who only knows how to pass!"
He cut him off, blocking his path.
Ake stopped, his dribble steady—calm, rhythmic, unbroken.
Thump. Thump.
Each bounce tightened the air around them.
Two captains.
Akagi vs Ake
Shohoku versus Ryonan.
The stadium held its breath.
Ake stood just beyond the three-point line, dribbling casually, gaze as still and deep as a lake.
The defender in front of him—Takenori Akagi—might as well have been a wall.
"For you guys," he said softly, "passing is already enough."
He changed direction twice in rapid succession.
Takenori's pupils shrank as he tracked the ball, muscles tightening for a block or interception.
Then, Ake drew his right arm back—the ball slid behind his back.
A behind-the-back dribble? A pass?
Takenori shifted instantly to cut off the lane—but nothing came.
No pass, no sound.
Just Ake, standing there, empty-handed.
'No ball?'
Takenori's heart skipped. He looked around—and froze.
The ball was gone.
"How…?"
"I told you," Ake said evenly, turning away. "Against Shohoku, passing is all it takes."
Behind him, Koshino Hiroaki rose for a shot—already mid-air.
Swish.
The ball dropped clean through the net.
Silence.
Shohoku's players stood motionless, like ghosts drained of color.
Takenori Akagi leaned on his knees, drenched in sweat, his breathing uneven.
Even Rukawa just stared blankly, as if questioning reality.
Every possession after that was a nightmare.
Ake turned the court into his personal stage.
Every touch of the ball triggered a new display of precision and brilliance—passes cutting through impossible gaps, delivered from impossible angles.
A behind-the-back bounce pass to Sendoh—easy layup.
A fake pass to lure Akagi into jumping—then a quick swing to the corner, Ikegami's layup.
Even when double-teamed, Ake flicked the ball midair—an alley-oop to Uozumi.
Every pass was a statement:
Shohoku, you cannot win.
No matter how Shohoku adjusted—their traps, presses, rotations—Ake always found the invisible line through them.
He didn't rush. He didn't even look.
And yet, every ball landed exactly where it needed to.
The score kept climbing.
80–52.
90–56.
With three minutes left, Shohoku trailed by thirty-eight.
Their bodies were heavy, movements sluggish.
Even Sakuragi, ever loud and tireless, was now bent over, pale and gasping.
Ayako stood on the sideline, trembling slightly as she glanced at the timer.
She didn't say a word—but her eyes said everything.
There was no hope left.
The scoreboard numbers loomed like a mountain.
Then, cutting through the despair—
"Pull yourselves together!"
Takenori Akagi's roar shook the silence.
He straightened his back, eyes blazing.
"The game isn't over! Keep your heads up—we're going to catch up!"
His teammates looked at him—tired, broken—but something sparked again.
"Yes!" they shouted, voices uneven but full of grit.
Across the court, Ake's lips curved faintly.
"Not bad," he murmured. "That's how it should be."
Then, before anyone could react, he moved.
A blur.
Intercepting Kogure's pass to Rukawa once again—clap.
"Not again!" Kogure gasped, nearly losing his mind.
It didn't make sense. No mistake, no gap—and yet, the ball was gone.
Rukawa's eyes turned icy. He lunged.
Ake barely shifted. A simple in-and-out dribble slipped past Rukawa's fingertips.
Then, from behind—another shadow.
Sakuragi Hanamichi, flying in like a hawk, hand outstretched for the steal.
The arena held its breath.
He was close—so close he could feel the ball's texture against his fingertips.
He's got it—?!
Everyone's eyes locked on the orange sphere.
Even Coach Anzai leaned forward, glasses glinting.
But then—thump, thump!
Two lightning-fast dribbles, low and sharp, skimming the floor.
Ake's body twisted—a perfect spin in a space that shouldn't have allowed it.
The move lured both defenders forward.
Rukawa and Sakuragi lunged—but Ake had already slipped past them.
Their momentum carried them helplessly forward, their feet sliding out beneath them.
Thud. Thud.
They crashed down—two fallen warriors kneeling before their king.
Ake didn't pause.
He just kept dribbling, the sound echoing through the silent arena—steady, unhurried.
Thump… thump…
Each bounce was like a ticking clock.
He walked past them, reached the free-throw line, and rose for a shot.
Simple. Fluid. Effortless.
The ball traced a perfect arc.
Swish.
"The only ones that are allowed to look me in the eye are those that serve me. Know your place. Lower your head." Ake said evenly, turning away.
Silence reigned again.