The game between Ryonan and Miuradai was underway.
At that moment, the gymnasium was enveloped in an eerie silence. It was as if the thunderous dunk moments ago had sucked all sound out of the air, leaving only the faint tremors of the backboard echoing through the hall.
Under Ryonan's basket, Naito Tetsuya landed heavily, the soles of his shoes thudding against the hardwood floor.
He slowly turned, his sharp gaze sweeping across every Ryonan player in front of him.
Then, raising one thick arm, he jabbed his thumb toward his chest and spoke in a low, arrogant growl that hit the Ryonan players like hammer blows.
"My name is Naito. Naito Tetsuya. Remember it."
"This guy…" muttered Koshino Hiroaki, clenching his fists. The arrogance in Naito's posture ignited a surge of anger in his chest.
"He's way too full of himself."
"Exactly!" Ikegami Ryoji ground his teeth, rubbing his shoulder, which still ached from their earlier collision. His eyes burned with fury.
Meanwhile, Uozumi stood silently beneath the basket, his gaze locked on Naito.
He hadn't been knocked down, but the pressure he felt from that man's raw power was undeniable.
The game continued.
Naito's thunderous dunk had reignited Miuradai's long-dormant fighting spirit. Their morale, once flat, now burned with renewed intensity.
During the next possession, Naito once again drove the ball up the court.
He lowered his shoulder, suddenly accelerated, and used the tackling skills honed through years of rugby training to slam into Ikegami Ryoji, who had stepped up to double-team him.
Bang!
Ikegami was sent flying like a kite with a snapped string. He crashed to the floor, rolled twice, and stopped with a grimace of pain and frustration.
The referee's whistle stayed silent. His eyes were sharp, but the contact had been clean — a legal collision.
Naito's lips curled into a cold smirk, open contempt flashing in his eyes.
He strode forward, his momentum like a mountain pressing down, charging straight toward Ryonan's paint.
Uozumi was already prepared, his stance wide, arms spread like a guardian god protecting the basket. His expression hardened, eyes locked on Naito's every move.
Just as Uozumi lowered his center of gravity, ready to meet the charge, Naito suddenly flicked his wrist — and before anyone could react, he whipped the ball sideways like a cannon shot.
Swish!
The ball cut through the air in a sharp arc, flying precisely toward the open weak-side corner.
Akio Kawasaki moved at the perfect moment, taking three quick steps before leaping into the air. His body twisted midair like a coiled spring before he came down with a resounding slam.
Clang!
The ball sank through the hoop with force.
'This guy can pass?'
Uozumi's pupils shrank. He stared at Naito, genuine surprise flashing across his face.
He had thought this brute only knew how to charge through defenders using raw power.
But that crisp, precise pass — made in the split second before contact — wasn't something an ordinary powerhouse could pull off.
As the game went on, Naito Tetsuya grew bolder and more aggressive.
Again and again, he lowered his shoulder, bulldozing through defenders, forcing his way into the paint—either dunking or dishing the ball at the last second.
Miuradai's offense finally had a backbone, and the score gap began to shrink.
Ake's face remained calm, his eyes steady as they briefly swept over Naito's towering figure—without a hint of panic or frustration.
"This guy's a monster…" Ikegami Ryoji wheezed, clutching his chest as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Yeah," Koshino Hiroaki replied quietly, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced up at the scoreboard. "Even Uozumi can't stop him… How are we supposed to defend that?"
Just then, the sound of measured footsteps echoed toward them.
Ake approached, his movements composed and unhurried. He stopped beside Ikegami and spoke in a calm but commanding tone.
"Ryoji. Switch with me."
"Huh?"
The words stunned everyone—Ikegami, Koshino, even Uozumi.
'Switch defense? Against Naito?'
Even Uozumi's massive frame had been shoved back multiple times. Ake's lean build was nowhere near Naito's size.
'Could that really work?'
But since Ake said it, they could only trust him.
Moments later, Naito came rumbling down the court again like a tank, the floor vibrating beneath his steps.
But this time, it wasn't Ikegami waiting for him.
It was a tall, red-haired first-year standing quietly at the top of the key.
Naito slowed slightly, sizing him up—then smirked.
'This kid?'
He looks like a twig. His bones aren't even as thick as my fingers.
He could already imagine it: Ake flying backward like a broken kite the moment they collided.
He charged in full force, shoulder-first.
BOOM!
But just before impact—
Clap!
A sharp, clean sound cracked through the air.
Ake had stepped aside at the last instant, his movement so small and precise it almost didn't look real. Naito's shoulder met nothing but air, and before he could recover, Ake's left hand flashed out—
Swipe!
The ball was gone.
"What—!?" Naito's eyes widened in disbelief.
The next sound was the steady rhythm of the ball bouncing—thump, thump, thump—as Ake took off down the court like an arrow released from a bow.
Naito roared and sprinted after him, his explosive speed closing the gap quickly.
He caught up to Ake's side, pressing in to force him to stop.
But Ake didn't even glance back.
With a flick of his wrist, the ball switched hands from right to left. Then—
Tap.
The ball slipped through Naito's legs like a snake gliding through grass, bouncing once behind him—
—and was gone.
For a moment, Naito froze, confused.
'Where's the ball?'
His mind raced. It was just here a second ago—
"Naito! Behind you!" Kengo Murasame's panicked voice came from the rear.
Before Naito could turn, a gust of wind blew past his shoulder.
Thump, thump, thump!
It was Sendoh.
By the time Naito looked back, Sendoh was already soaring through the paint, the ball gripped in one hand—
CLANG!
A thunderous dunk shook the rim, echoing through the gym.
Naito clenched his jaw, glaring at Ake.
'When did he pass that ball?'
He had seen Ake stop—change direction—but not pass.
Yet Ake stood still, expression calm, his breathing perfectly steady—as if nothing special had happened.
He turned away, already jogging back on defense.
For the next few minutes, Miuradai descended into chaos.
Every time Ake got the ball, the same thing happened. He would drive toward the paint, lure defenders in—then deliver impossible passes at impossible angles.
Behind-the-back bounce passes.
Cross-court lasers.
Soft, floating touch passes that seemed to hang in the air for a heartbeat before finding the perfect hands.
It was as if Miuradai's defense was being played like a piano.
Even the audience fell silent, completely drawn in.
Fujima Kenji and Hanagata Toru of Shoyo watched with solemn faces.
The Shohoku bench was just as stunned.
Ake moved like a chess master, advancing piece by piece, each dribble, each glance pulling his opponents deeper into his rhythm.
The ball seemed alive in his hands—an extension of his will.
Naito, panting heavily, could feel it too. The calm in Ake's eyes wasn't arrogance—it was control.
It pressed down on him like a weight he couldn't shake off.
Unable to bear it, he lunged again, reaching for the steal—
But in that split second, Ake flicked his wrist, and the ball skipped off the floor like a shot bullet—straight through the gap Naito had left open.
Right into Sendoh's hands.
"—!"
Sendoh appeared out of nowhere, catching the pass mid-stride and cutting through Miuradai's defense like a ghost.
Within seconds, he was at the rim again.
SLAM!
The crowd exploded.
Miuradai's players could only watch as their formation collapsed again and again, every rotation a step too slow, every guess one move behind.
Then came another play.
Kengo Murasame tried a surprise steal from behind—his hand slicing through the air—
But Ake didn't even turn his head.
He dipped his wrist, switched hands behind his back, and sent the ball skimming across the floor— straight through Murasame's legs.
'What!?'
The ball bounced perfectly into Uozumi's hands, who barreled forward and smashed home another dunk that rattled the backboard.
The entire gym erupted.
"What was that pass?!"
"He didn't even look!"
"How did he know Uozumi was there?!"
The crowd's voices crashed together in disbelief.
Even Fujima and Hanagata looked shaken.
Fujima replayed it in his head, sweating slightly.
"If it were me," he murmured, "I might've passed too… but not that fast. Not that clean."
Hanagata adjusted his glasses, his voice low. "A first-year… doing that? He's something else."
On Shohoku's bench, silence hung heavy.
Miyagi's eyes were wide. "That guy… he's reading the whole court."
Mitsui's usual smirk was gone, replaced by a tight-lipped stare.
Kogure pressed a hand to his chest. "Every time he touches the ball, it feels like something bad's about to happen."
Sakuragi snorted. "Hmph! Show-off!"
Rukawa muttered, barely looking at him. "Idiot."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY!?"
"Enough," Akagi cut in firmly.
Ayako leaned forward, eyes shining. "Ryonan's completely taken control."
Back on the court, Ake continued orchestrating the game like a silent conductor.
Every pass tore another hole in Miuradai's defense.
Their movements grew sloppy. Their energy drained away.
By the five-minute mark, the scoreboard read:
Ryonan 116 – Miuradai 44.
A seventy-two-point difference.
But no one was looking at the score anymore.
All eyes were on the red-haired boy in the number 4 jersey.
Since entering the game, Ake had barely scored. Yet everything that happened—every steal, every dunk, every collapse of Miuradai's defense—traced back to him.
His calm was suffocating.
His control absolute.
Even Naito, once towering with confidence, now stood rigid, sweat dripping from his shaved head, breath ragged.
He couldn't overpower Ake.
He couldn't steal from him.
He couldn't even touch him.
When Ake crossed half-court again, he suddenly stopped.
No tricks. No feints.
He simply lifted his hand and flicked the ball—softly, effortlessly—toward Koshino on the wing.
Everyone turned their heads in perfect unison, eyes following the ball like a pendulum.
Koshino caught it.
Two defenders lunged at him.
He jumped.
Swish.
Ryonan 119 – Miuradai 44.
From the stands, Fujima slowly stood up.
"Let's go, Hanagata," he said quietly. "There's no point watching anymore."
Hanagata hesitated, then looked back one last time.
At center court, Ake Ryu was turning back on defense, his face calm and unreadable, as if nothing special had happened.
But Hanagata's heart sank.
He had faced Kainan's top players before, but never felt pressure like this.
He adjusted his glasses and followed Fujima out, their figures disappearing down the shadowed aisle.
The clicking of a camera echoed softly nearby.
Aida Yayoi's fingers trembled as she pressed the shutter again and again, capturing every frame—
Ake's steady dribble, his unshakable poise, his lightning-fast passes.
"This is incredible…" she whispered. "To think Ryonan's first-year captain could destroy Miuradai just by passing…"
Her mind flashed back to his interview before the season.
"Ryonan has only one goal this year—
The championship."
"Maybe," she murmured to herself, eyes shining, "they really can do it."
Minutes later, the final buzzer sounded.
Ryonan 145 – Miuradai 44.
A 101-point difference.
The crowd stood in stunned silence.
Miuradai—last year's top-eight team—had been utterly dismantled.
And at the center of it all stood one name, burning in everyone's memory like fire.
Ake Ryu.
Ryonan's calm, calculating captain— the boy who controlled the entire court without ever breaking his composure.
The game was over.
But no one would forget what they had just witnessed.