Snap—
A sharp, cracking sound, like an ice pick piercing the silence, jolted everyone from Miuradai. Even their breathing seemed to stop.
Even the veteran fans, seasoned by countless games, froze in disbelief.
It felt as if a team had been charging forward with unstoppable momentum—an iron torrent surging toward its goal—only to slam into an invisible wall. The impact stopped them dead, leaving the air heavy, almost suffocating.
For a heartbeat, the entire stadium fell silent.
That strange, unreal sensation sent shivers down the spectators' spines.
It was unbelievable.
And the cause of it all—was Ake.
Now, he held the ball, striding forward. His movements were calm, steady… yet every step carried an oppressive weight that pressed down on Miuradai's half of the court.
Kengo Murasame stood frozen, his fingertips still tingling from the feel of the basketball that was no longer there. His arm hung midair, like a still frame paused in a movie, his hand extended, body leaning forward, eyes wide and vacant.
Ake had stolen the ball—again.
This time, Kengo saw it clearly.
Ake hadn't lunged or reached dramatically. He'd merely lifted his hand, casually, almost lazily, not even stepping in close. The motion looked so natural it barely registered.
And yet—Kengo had passed the ball.
It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't knocked away. It was as if some invisible force had drawn it from him—like his body betrayed him, handing it over willingly.
His mind screamed, What am I doing? Yet his body refused to listen. It moved as though guided by someone else's will.
A chill ran down his spine.
He wondered if, for a moment, he'd lost consciousness—because there was no other explanation for such a stupid, illogical move.
Meanwhile, the court ahead of Ake lay open and empty. The polished floor gleamed coldly under the lights.
He moved forward unhindered, one step at a time, like a torrent bursting through a mountain stream—steady, powerful, unstoppable.
He jumped, gathered the ball, flicked his wrist—no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourish.
Swish. The ball glided cleanly through the net.
Ryonan 66 – Miuradai 32.
Time itself seemed to stop.
When it finally began to move again, the arena was dead silent. The earlier noise had vanished, replaced by stunned quiet.
The game continued—but no one spoke.
The ball was once again in Ake's hands.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Each bounce echoed through the court, slow and deliberate, yet carrying a pressure that made it hard to breathe.
He advanced at an unhurried pace, as if the five Miuradai defenders in front of him didn't exist.
Kengo gritted his teeth and stepped forward, spreading his arms to block the path.
Ake merely dipped his shoulder slightly, shifting the ball from left to right. It flowed between his hands like water slipping past a rock.
Kengo pressed again. Ake stepped back half a pace, slid the ball behind his back, then—like a flash—slipped past him effortlessly.
Once… twice… three times, Kengo tried to cut him off, but every move was read and neutralized, as if Ake already knew exactly what he would do.
"Damn it…" Kengo gasped, cold sweat dripping down his forehead.
He didn't feel like he was defending—he felt like he was being toyed with. Like a clown chasing a phantom that mocked him with every step.
Thump… thump… thump…
The sound of the dribble felt like a heartbeat pulsing through the entire gym.
The ball seemed alive, a mischievous sprite dancing around Ake's hands.
Between the legs. Behind the back. Crossover. Spin.
Every movement flowed seamlessly, as smooth as water. Not a single wasted motion.
Each dribble struck like a note on the audience's nerves.
In the stands, people held their breath, their voices trembling.
"Is that even humanly possible?"
"It's like the ball's glued to his hand!"
"I've never seen anyone dribble like that…"
Fujima Kenji frowned deeply.
As Kanagawa's top point guard, he'd always been confident in his ball-handling. But watching Ake, a subtle unease stirred inside him.
This level of control… was nearly equal to his own.
Even Hanagata Toru, who had dismissed Ake earlier, now looked on with open respect. He hadn't imagined a freshman could handle the ball like this.
Thump.
Another dribble echoed. Then, suddenly, the air in the gym seemed to vanish.
Everyone's pupils contracted at once—
The ball was gone.
It had already appeared across the court— in Sendoh's hands.
He exploded from the baseline like a leopard.
"What—?! When did he pass!?"
Miyamoto Kazunari, who was guarding Sendo, froze in shock. He hadn't even seen the pass.
It was like the ball had teleported.
But in truth—Ake had merely flicked his wrist mid-dribble, sending the ball skimming low across the floor, threading perfectly between two defenders' feet. The pass rolled straight into Sendo's path without losing speed or angle.
The timing, the precision—it was unreal. As if even the bounce of the hardwood had been calculated.
And the most terrifying part—he hadn't even looked.
Ake's eyes had stayed fixed on Kengo, the pass delivered as naturally as breathing.
Sendo caught the ball, sank his foot, and exploded through the defense.
He jumped, soared, and—
CLANG!
A thunderous dunk rattled the rim, the backboard shuddering violently.
Swish.
Ryonan 75 – Miuradai 32.
Beep!
Miuradai called for a substitution.
They had no choice.
A twenty-point gap could still be closed. Forty… was hopeless. Fifteen minutes remained, but their hope was slipping fast.
Still—there was one card left.
Their last weapon.
From the Miuradai bench, a figure slowly stood.
Tall, massive, built like forged iron. His bald head gleamed under the lights, his eyes sharp, his expression grim.
Every step he took seemed to press down on the air itself.
Naito Tetsuya—Miuradai's hidden trump card.
"W-who is that guy?"
Kogure Kiminobu swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "He looks terrifying."
Sakuragi Hanamichi's jaw dropped. He scratched his head and muttered, "Can monks even play basketball?"
Miyagi Ryota narrowed his eyes, watching Naito carefully. His lips pressed tight. "Didn't think Miuradai had a guy like that."
On Ryonan's bench, Aida Hikoichi flipped frantically through his notebook.
"Naito Tetsuya. 196 cm, 155 kilos. Miuradai's secret weapon. He hasn't played a single match until now—no footage, no data."
"Secret weapon, huh…" Coach Taoka muttered, eyes tracking Naito like a searchlight.
Even he felt his chest sink.
That physique wasn't just tall—it was monstrous. Shoulders like armor, muscles coiled tight beneath his skin. Even compared to Uozumi, Naito looked heavier—more dangerous.
He had the build of a powerhouse.
Whether he had the skill was another matter.
Taoka's gaze drifted to the court.
Ake and Sendo stood unfazed, calm as ever. Not even a ripple of concern crossed their faces.
That steadied Taoka's heart.
"With those two out there," he murmured, "we'll be fine."
Basketball, after all, wasn't won by strength alone.
And Ake—who had already dominated Uozumi—would not fall to brute force.
Miuradai inbounded the ball.
Naturally, it found its way to Naito.
He gripped it in one enormous hand, the leather dimpling under his fingers. A wild grin spread across his face.
Then—he charged.
Like a rampaging bear unleashed from a cliff, he barreled forward. In a blink, his hulking frame crossed half-court and hit the paint's edge.
The Ryonan players tensed.
They hadn't expected that kind of speed.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
At the front of the paint, Ikegami Ryoji braced himself, arms out, body squared to take the hit.
But Naito didn't even look at him.
He just lowered his head and drove straight through.
The collision was brutal.
Ikegami felt an immense force slam into his chest, lifting him clean off his feet. He crashed backward, skidding across the floor.
The referee's whistle stayed silent— a clean play, all power, no foul.
Naito never broke stride.
He hit the paint, pushed off hard— and soared.
The floor trembled.
Both hands gripped the ball, muscles tightening like steel cables.
Then—
CRASH!
He slammed it through the hoop with raw violence.
At that instant, Uozumi appeared, stepping in front of him like a wall.
But when they collided, the sheer impact shook him to the core. Uozumi's chest seized, and he staggered backward, his balance breaking.
"What…?!"
The shock in his eyes said it all—he hadn't expected strength like that.
This wasn't a basketball player. It was a bull charging full speed.
(If only he'd known Naito Tetsuya had once played rugby.)
Gritting his teeth, Uozumi twisted midair, somehow steadying himself before stumbling back onto the court.
CLANG!
The slam echoed through the arena. The rim shook violently, the sound like thunder.
Naito hung from the rim for a moment, arms straining, his entire frame radiating power—before finally dropping to the floor.
He didn't even look at Uozumi. Just shook his wrist, eyes cold, scanning the court like a war god descending onto the battlefield.
For a long moment, the arena was utterly silent.