Beep—
A sharp whistle pierced through the gymnasium.
The second half had begun.
Tsukubu's players immediately noticed Ake's entrance.
They couldn't help but glance toward the red-haired first-year, sizing him up. But no matter how they looked, he seemed… ordinary—well-built, calm, composed, and nothing that screamed "threat."
"The captain of Ryonan?" Natsume Hiroshi muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
"Let's see what you've really got."
At center court, the two centers stepped up for the jump ball.
In the first half, Uozumi and Nango Koichiro had been evenly matched, their jumps nearly identical. Everyone expected the same outcome.
But the moment the referee tossed the ball into the air—
Both players leapt.
And instantly, it was clear.
Uozumi's arm soared far higher, his fingertips easily swiping the bottom of the ball and tipping it cleanly toward Ryonan's side.
'What—?'
Nango Koichiro's eyes widened in disbelief. The difference was huge—impossible!
It was as if Uozumi had transformed into a different player. His explosive jump, his raw power—everything was on another level.
He didn't know that before stepping on the court, Ake had told Uozumi one simple thing.
'Don't hold back—not until the game is completely out of reach.'
And Uozumi never ignored Ake's words.
Now, he was unleashing everything.
Ake's goal was simple: crush Tsukubu's last spark of hope before it could ignite.
Because an opponent without hope… was the best kind.
Clap!
Uozumi secured the ball, twisting his wrist to flick it back.
Ake raised his hand effortlessly, catching it with a light tap—his control calm, almost casual.
And in that instant, every pair of eyes in the gymnasium locked on him.
No one had truly seen Ryonan's mysterious first-year captain in action before.
Now that they finally had the chance, every gaze was fixed, waiting to see what made this red-haired freshman worthy of leading a powerhouse like Ryonan.
Thump… Thump… Thump…
The ball echoed across the court as Ake dribbled forward. His pace was slow—deliberately slow—steady like a heartbeat.
Spectators frowned in confusion.
"What's he doing? Why isn't he pushing the fast break?"
"This tempo is way too slow! Doesn't he know they could steal it?"
"This is Ryonan's captain? What a letdown."
"With that kind of dribbling, even I could steal it."
But on the court, Ake remained expressionless. His heterochromatic eyes were calm, unreadable.
Aside from his striking red hair, nothing about his movements looked flashy or dangerous.
'This guy's the captain?' people thought.
Cool hair, unique eyes—but strength? Nothing special yet.
They didn't notice, though, that in two corners of the stands, Maki Shinichi and Fujima Kenji were both watching with predatory focus.
Fujima had seen Ake play before.
Maki hadn't—but something about him stirred a deep memory.
That calm, effortless demeanor… the way every motion felt deliberate and sharp underneath the surface.
He was reminded of someone—someone who once dismantled him on the court with precision and poise.
The man once called the strongest high school point guard.
That same deceptive stillness. That same unshakable control.
Thump… Thump…
Ake crossed half-court at his own pace, his expression as peaceful as if he were strolling through a park on a sunny afternoon.
"Show-off," Natsume muttered, stepping up to challenge.
He lowered his stance, arms spread wide, blocking the path. His eyes were firm, his body tense.
Just as he settled into position—
Ake stopped.
No warning, no cue—just a perfect stop. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he switched the ball from right to left, gliding past Natsume in a smooth, almost ghostly motion.
Natsume's heart clenched. He spun to recover—
But the ball was already gone.
Slap—
It zipped through a narrow gap between two defenders and landed cleanly in Fukuda Kiccho's hands across the court.
The entire sequence—stop, switch, pass—was over in less than a heartbeat.
Natsume froze. 'A pass? Already?'
He hadn't even tried to break through!
But before he could react, Fukuda was already charging toward the basket like white lightning.
"Stop him!" Mine Kenta shouted, sprinting forward.
He knew Fukuda's speed too well. He'd been shredded by it all first half.
But this time, Fukuda didn't attack.
He remembered Ake's words before the game.
'Shoot if you're confident. Pass if you're not. Don't hesitate.'
Seeing Kenta closing in, Fukuda twisted his wrist and swung the ball cross-court.
Slap!
Koshino Hiroaki caught it on the perimeter, didn't even look up—just rose and fired.
Swish!
Perfect.
The net fluttered.
Ryonan 67, Tsukubu 45.
A 22-point lead.
But Tsukubu didn't give up.
Natsume took a deep breath, charging across half-court, his eyes burning.
'I can beat him with speed,' he thought.
He pushed, changed hands, spun, feinted—every move sharp and practiced.
But no matter what he did, Ake was there.
Every shift, every fake—blocked effortlessly.
Ake didn't even need contact. He just slid into position, an invisible wall made of perfect timing.
The audience gasped.
After several failed attempts, Natsume had no choice but to pass.
He swung the ball toward Godai on the wing—
And Ake didn't even move.
A flash of white darted from the side.
Sendoh!
He intercepted cleanly, slicing the pass like a blade.
Natsume and Godai's eyes widened.
'What just happened—?!'
Sendoh didn't stop to explain. He sprinted downcourt, the court clearing in front of him.
And Ake?
He was already walking back on defense.
Spectators blinked.
"Huh? Why's he going back?"
"Sendho's on a fast break—shouldn't he support?"
"This guy's weird!"
Kiyota scratched his head, baffled. "What's that redhead even doing?"
Maki frowned, rubbing his chin. He could tell Ake wasn't lazy—there was purpose in his calm.
Fujima's voice was low. "He already knows the shot's going in. That's why he's heading back early."
"Hmph. Arrogant." Hanagata scoffed.
And then—
BOOM!
Sendoh leaped between two defenders, slammed the ball home with one hand, and the crowd exploded.
Tsukubu barely had time to react.
And before they could reset, Ryonan's defense tightened like a trap.
Every pass Tsukubu made was intercepted or pressured. Every drive met resistance.
Then—
Swipe!
Ake struck again, stealing cleanly from Natsume in a perfect read.
Natsume reached instinctively, but Ake was already gone—smooth behind-the-back crossover, ball flicked straight to Uozumi.
Uozumi thundered upcourt, tossing the ball high—
And Fukuda came flying in, catching mid-air—
SLAM!
An alley-oop.
The gym erupted.
Tsukubu's fragile spark of hope was snuffed out completely.
That was Ake's plan all along. End the fight before it could begin.
Within a minute, he stole the ball three more times.
Three clean steals. Three perfect assists.
To Sendoh. To Fukuda. To Uozumi.
Each one flawless.
Each one devastating.
By the end of those three minutes, Tsukubu's morale was completely broken.
Natsume bent over, gasping, eyes hollow. He didn't even know how to dribble anymore.
The rest of the game? Garbage time.
Ake stepped off the court once victory was certain.
But every eye in the gym remained on him—stunned, reverent, and just a little afraid.
"Is that really just a first-year?"
"He played only three minutes and killed their momentum completely."
"His passing… those steals… terrifying."
No one was watching the game anymore—only him.
Beep—
The final whistle blew.
Ryonan 113 – Tsukubu 74.
A 39-point victory.
Ryonan advanced to the Elite Eight.
Tsukubu's players stood silent, heads bowed.
Godai removed his wristband, let it drop softly to the floor, and walked away, his back heavy with exhaustion.
Meanwhile, Ryonan's players celebrated—high-fives, laughter, relief.
And Ake?
He simply looked up at the scoreboard, his face unreadable.
For him, this was just another step forward.
Another necessary victory.
Nothing more.