In the following minutes, Tsukubu found themselves hitting a wall at every turn.
Their two forwards, Mine Kenta and Izumi Takashi, were completely disrupted by Fukuda Kiccho's off-ball defensive tactics.
Fukuda moved like a shadow—quick, precise, and unpredictable. He always seemed to know exactly where they would run.
Either he'd cut off their passing routes ahead of time, or he'd close in the instant they received the ball, shutting down any path to the paint.
Their only remaining option was to retreat beyond the three-point line and attempt long shots.
But neither Mine nor Izumi had the outside shooting ability of Godai Tomokazu, and their shots repeatedly clanked off the rim—each miss turning into a fast-break opportunity for Ryonan.
Meanwhile, Godai himself was completely smothered by Koshino Hiroaki.
No matter where he tried to move, Koshino followed, glued to him like a shadow—arms spread, feet constantly adjusting, never letting Godai breathe.
At first, Godai thought about conserving energy, staying still to rest while his teammates created opportunities. But Koshino wasn't about to let him relax.
He leaned into Godai's shoulder, using subtle body pressure—small bumps, light shoves—like a silent wrestling match that drained energy with every contact.
After just a few possessions, Godai realized he was even more exhausted than before. Every attempt to break free only ended in frustration—Koshino's footwork was too sharp, his positioning too perfect. Even lifting his hand to call for a pass became impossible.
Godai clenched his fists in anger, feeling his chest tighten with helpless frustration.
The team's core shooter, their main offensive weapon, had been completely neutralized.
Tsukubu's greatest strength—their perimeter firepower—had been snuffed out.
Then came another blow.
Slam!
Uozumi's massive hand came down like an iron fan, swatting Nango Koichiro's shot out of the air.
"Damn it! That gorilla!" Nango barked, his voice trembling with anger and fatigue.
He could feel it—his opponent, who already towered over him, was getting stronger with each exchange. Every collision felt heavier, every impact more crushing.
When Nango landed, he stumbled backward, barely staying on his feet.
Ryonan's momentum was growing by the second.
Sendoh Akira was orchestrating the offense with precision, dictating the tempo like a conductor leading a symphony. Fukuda Kiccho's cuts and rotations flowed seamlessly, his timing immaculate.
Whenever Mine Kenta or Izumi Takashi tried to cut inside, Fukuda was already there—anticipating, intercepting, blocking the lane.
If he was early, he'd steal the pass outright.
If he was late, he'd plant himself firmly in position, forcing a rushed, off-balance shot—one that either missed or was smothered by Uozumi, who arrived like an immovable wall.
Tsukubu's mid-range and inside plays were now completely sealed off.
Their frustration mounted. With their shots not falling and spacing breaking down, they began forcing passes into the paint, hoping Nango Koichiro could power through.
But Uozumi's defense crushed those hopes.
Nango's every shot was blocked or altered. His explosive strength was no match for Uozumi's trained, steady power.
In raw experience, the difference was night and day.
Uozumi had been anchoring Ryonan's defense for years. His timing and positioning were impeccable—each movement measured, efficient, and devastatingly effective.
Even in height, they were roughly comparable, but Uozumi's mass and balance gave him the edge. Every time they collided, Nango was the one sent stumbling back, barely keeping control of the ball.
With their inside game neutralized, Tsukubu had no scoring options left.
The three-point line was locked down by Koshino.
The mid-range was cut off by Fukuda.
The paint was dominated by Uozumi.
Every path to the basket was sealed.
Their offense stagnated. Passes grew sloppy, movement sluggish, and every play seemed to end in failure. Even their breathing sounded heavier—each possession drenched in desperation.
As the minutes ticked by, the once evenly matched game slipped into a one-sided affair.
Tsukubu's decline became painfully obvious.
Their passes went astray. Their legs grew heavy. Their shooting percentages plummeted.
Even Natsume Hiroshi's usually steady dribbling began to falter, and Izumi Takashi's fast breaks were easily stopped by Sendoh.
The scoreboard told the story.
46–39.
52–41.
60–43.
By the time it reached 64–45, Tsukubu's bench had fallen silent.
Kawasaki Kazumi stood frozen, staring blankly at the court. His mind reeled.
'How had everything fallen apart so fast?'
Before the timeout, they had been toe-to-toe with Ryonan. Every tactic, every adjustment—he had thought it all through. Godai conserving energy. The forwards sharing offense. Pick-and-rolls to create mismatches.
But none of it worked.
It was as if every move had been anticipated, every option countered before it even happened.
'Countered?'
The realization struck him like a cold shock.
He slowly turned his gaze toward Ryonan's bench… and froze.
There—sitting calmly with that striking red hair—was the boy he had noticed earlier.
During the timeout, it wasn't Coach Taoka who had been speaking to the players. It was him.
Ake Ryu.
An unbelievable thought crept into Kawasaki's mind.
'Could it be… that this entire tactical shift—this perfect dismantling of Tsukubu's offense—had been orchestrated by that boy?'
'A sixteen or seventeen-year-old reading the entire game like an open book, countering every move with surgical precision?'
It sounded absurd. Yet the evidence was right there on the scoreboard.
Kawasaki clenched his fists tightly, knuckles white.
He'd coached for years—he'd seen geniuses, prodigies, even masterminds. But never someone like this.
Someone sitting quietly on the bench, yet pulling invisible strings, controlling the flow of the entire game like a chess master several moves ahead.
"How…" he muttered under his breath. "How can a kid like that see this far ahead?"
The whistle blew, snapping him from his thoughts.
Beep—
The first half had ended.
Ryonan 64 – Tsukubu 45.
A nineteen-point difference.
It had all happened so quickly. Moments ago, the two teams had been locked in a fierce, even battle.
Now, Tsukubu looked crushed, their fighting spirit snuffed out.
In the stands, Hanagata Toru frowned as he stared at the scoreboard. "What a brutal shift… Tsukubu's been completely shut down."
As Shoyo's starting center, he knew how strong Tsukubu was. To see them dismantled like this… it sent a chill down his spine.
Beside him, Fujima Kenji spoke in a low, thoughtful tone. "I didn't expect Ryonan to have grown this much. Their system… it's cleaner, tighter—stronger than ever."
His eyes drifted toward Sendoh Akira, who was high-fiving teammates after another effortless play.
Sendoh's game had clearly evolved. His rhythm, control, and passing instincts were sharper than ever—almost terrifyingly so.
"In a one-on-one…" Fujima thought silently, 'I'm not even sure I could win anymore.'
Then his gaze shifted to the bench—to that same red-haired figure sitting quietly among the players.
Ake Ryu.
He remembered how, right after that timeout, Ryonan's entire approach transformed. It was him—the boy who'd been giving out instructions.
"If that kid plays in the second half," Fujima thought grimly, "and forms a rhythm with Sendoh inside and out… Ryonan might become unstoppable."
A heavy silence settled over him.
On another side of the arena, Shohoku's players were just as stunned.
"Is this really Ryonan's level?" Miyagi Ryota murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief.
He knew Tsukubu's strength—any team that could hold their own against them was already elite. But Ryonan wasn't just holding their own; they were dominating.
Mitsui Hisashi frowned, turning to Kogure Kiminobu. "How many points did you lose by in your practice game against them?"
Kogure thought for a moment before answering quietly. "Fifty points."
"Fifty!?" Mitsui's eyes widened.
Kogure sighed. "And the scary part is… they weren't even going all out. Ake only joined near the end."
Mitsui froze. "He didn't play the whole game?"
Kogure shook his head. "No. Honestly… if he had, we might've lost by even more."
Mitsui fell silent.
At this level, Shohoku would have to go all out just to stay in the game—and even then, victory wasn't guaranteed.
Kanagawa Prefecture was overflowing with monsters: Ryonan, Shoyo, Kainan…
And now, this mysterious red-haired prodigy.
In the press area, Nakamura Taizo gawked at the scoreboard. "Leading Tsukubu by nineteen points? That's insane! Both teams are supposed to be top-four caliber!"
Beside him, Aida Yayoi calmly adjusted her glasses, her tone cool and analytical. "It's not just a difference in strength."
"Huh?" Nakamura turned to her, puzzled.
Aida's sharp eyes gleamed with insight. "Ryonan isn't just physically stronger—they completely outmaneuvered Tsukubu tactically. Their offense and defense adapted perfectly after the timeout. Tsukubu's perimeter was locked down, their inside play crushed, their forwards denied all mid-range space. Every scoring option was sealed off."
She paused, her tone lowering with subtle admiration.
"This wasn't coincidence. Someone on Ryonan's side predicted Tsukubu's adjustments before they even happened. That's not just player skill—it's a calculated tactical strike."
Nakamura blinked, realization dawning. "You mean… Ryonan saw through Tsukubu's entire game plan?"
"It's very possible," Aida replied, her gaze drifting to Ryonan's bench and landing on Ake Ryu.
"To command a game like this, either the coach is a genius… or someone else has already seen everything from the very start."