The whistle blew.
Akami didn't even try for the tip. He let the Shiritsu center take it, immediately dropping back into a deep crouch.
Kaito took the ball. "Five-Out!" he barked.
Instantly, the four other Shiritsu players cleared the paint, sprinting to the corners and the wings. They left Akami standing alone under the basket, a massive island in an empty sea of hardwood.
"Choose, Akami!" Kaito shouted, dribbling at the top of the key. "Stay there and watch us shoot, or come out here and let us break your ankles!"
Akami didn't move. He didn't even look at Kaito. He looked at the floor.
"You're talking about 'choice,'" Akami whispered, his voice a low, tectonic hum.
"But you're forgetting the fundamental law of the buffet."
"The buffet?" Kaito blinked.
"If you want the best cuts," Akami's amber eyes snapped upward, glowing with a sudden, terrifying hunger. "You don't wait for them to come to you. You go to the carving station."
Akami didn't "slide" to the perimeter. He lunged.
It was a move that defied his size. In two strides, he covered the fifteen feet between the rim and the three-point line. Kaito, shocked by the speed of the 240-pound giant, tried to pull back for a crossover.
But Akami was already there. He didn't guard Kaito; he smothered him. He used his massive wingspan to create a "Black-Out Zone." Everywhere Kaito looked, there was only white silk and dark jersey.
"Too close!" Kaito gasped, losing his handle.
Akami's hand shot out. It wasn't a swipe; it was a snatch. He ripped the ball out of
Kaito's grip with such force that the strategist stumbled backward.
Akami didn't pass. He didn't wait for Teru or Hyuga. He turned and sprinted—a full-court, high-speed freight train.
The Shiritsu defenders tried to get in his way.
One guard tried to take a charge. Akami didn't even deviate from his path. He just dropped his shoulder and "absorbed" the contact. The guard flew four feet to the left, looking like he'd been hit by a wrecking ball.
Akami reached the opposite free-throw line. He took one step, two steps, and then... he didn't dunk.
He performed a Euro-step.
The 6'4" monster shifted his weight mid-air, sliding past the final defender with a feline grace that silenced the entire Shiritsu crowd.
He finished with a soft, finger-roll layup that kissed the glass and dropped through the net.
Kaminari 2, Shiritsu 0.
Akami landed, his chest heaving. He adjusted his white durag, the silk shimmering.
"That was 150 calories," Akami rumbled, looking directly at a stunned Kaito. "I have about 2,000 left in the tank for this half. How many 'strategies' do you have left, Glasses?
Because I'm starting to get an appetite."
Teru, standing at half-court, just stared. "He... he just Euro-stepped. A guy who weighs as much as a small car just Euro-stepped."
Mio, on the sidelines, checked her stopwatch. "6.2 seconds coast-to-coast," she whispered, her hands shaking. "The Mountain isn't just sliding anymore. It's an avalanche."
The second quarter became a masterclass in "Metabolic Warfare."
Kaito was desperate. He signaled for a Full-Court Triple-Trap. Shiritsu's three fastest players swarmed Akami the moment he touched the ball in the backcourt, their hands slapping at his ribs, their sneakers creating a high-pitched frantic squealing on the hardwood.
They were trying to force a "Panic Burn"—to make Akami sprint, pivot, and gasp until his massive engine seized up.
Akami didn't panic. He stood perfectly still in the center of the trap, the ball tucked under one massive arm like a loaf of precious sourdough. He let the defenders bump him, his 240-pound frame absorbing their impact like a deep-tissue massage.
"You're... trapped!" Kaito yelled, darting in to poke at the ball. "Give it up! You're out of air!"
Akami looked down at Kaito, his white silk durag perfectly straight, not a single drop of sweat out of place.
"Trapped?" Akami rumbled, his voice a low, tectonic hum. "You're confusing 'trapped' with 'providing a windbreak.' I'm currently saving 12% of my core energy because you three are blocking the draft from the air conditioner."
Suddenly, Akami's shoulders twitched. He didn't dribble out; he leveraged out. He used a "Heavy-Pivot," swinging his trailing leg in a wide, sweeping arc. His hip caught Kaito's center of gravity, and the strategist was sent stumbling back four feet as if he'd been hit by a revolving door.
Akami took one power-dribble—BOOM—and launched a "Satellite Pass." The ball whistled over the heads of the entire Shiritsu defense, landing perfectly in Teru's hands for a breakaway layup.
Kaminari 32, Shiritsu 18.
The halftime buzzer was approaching, and Shiritsu looked like they had been through a car wash. Kaito's glasses were fogged, his jersey was untucked, and his "calculated" expressions had been replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.
On the final possession of the half, Kaito tried one last "Hero Drive." He crossed over Hyuga, stepped past Goro, and saw the rim.
But Akami was waiting.
Akami didn't even leave his feet. He just stood there, his arms folded across his chest, looking like a gargoyle made of dark oak and white silk.
Kaito went for a high-arching floater. Akami waited until the ball reached its apex, then reached up—not a jump, just a massive, shoulder-straining stretch—and plucked it out of the air with one hand.
The gym went silent. It wasn't a block; it was a theft of dignity.
"The trajectory was inefficient," Akami muttered, looking at the ball in his palm. "Too much air resistance. You're wasting your potential, Glasses."
The buzzer sounded. HALFTIME.
The Kaminari team collapsed onto the bench, gasping for air and pouring water over their heads. But Akami didn't sit. He walked straight to Mio, his amber eyes wide and intense.
"Mio-san," Akami rumbled, his voice trembling with a different kind of urgency.
"What is it? Are you hurt?" Mio asked, reaching for the medical kit.
"The 'Emergency Dessert' reserves," Akami whispered, his gaze darting to his gym bag.
"The glucose levels are reaching a critical threshold. If I don't get a shot of sucrose in the next ninety seconds, the 'High-Intensity' mode will be replaced by 'Deep Hibernation' mode. And I don't think the referee will let me nap in the paint."
Mio rolled her eyes, but she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped package. "I figured. It's a double-stuffed chocolate crepe from that shop you like. I kept it in a cooler bag."
The transformation was instantaneous.
Akami took the crepe with the reverence of a king receiving a crown. He unwrapped it, the scent of cocoa and cream filling the air.
"Double-stuffed," Akami whispered, his amber eyes glowing. "High-density sugar. Optimal plating."
Across the court, Kaito sat on the Shiritsu bench, head down, his chest heaving. He looked up just in time to see Akami Kazu—the man who had just dismantled the regional champions—unhinge his jaw and inhale a chocolate crepe in two bites.
"He's... he's eating?" Kaito gasped, his voice cracking. "We're in the middle of the game, and he's... he's having a snack?!"
Akami finished the crepe, licked a stray bit of cream from his thumb, and tightened his durag. He looked across the court, his sleepy fog completely gone, replaced by a sharp, terrifying clarity.
"The dessert was excellent," Akami called out, his voice echoing through the dome. "The sugar is hitting the bloodstream now.
Kaito-kun... I suggest you call your parents."
Kaito blinked. "Why?"
"Because the second half," Akami rumbled, stepping back onto the hardwood with a heavy, resonant THUD, "is going to be very, very expensive for your reputation. And I don't think you can afford the bill."
The second half whistle shrieked, and the "Crystal Dome" felt like it had been sucked into a vacuum.
Kaito led Shiritsu back onto the floor, but they weren't the same "synchronized dancers." They looked like they were walking toward an executioner. Kaito's glasses were taped at the bridge, and his eyes were bloodshot from over-analyzing a monster that didn't follow the laws of physics.
"Full court!" Kaito croaked, his voice cracking. "Don't let him breathe! If he gets to the paint, he's a black hole!"
Akami didn't run to the paint. He stood at the center circle, his white silk durag glowing under the stadium lights. He didn't look tired.
He looked... recharged. The double-stuffed chocolate crepe had hit his bloodstream like high-octane racing fuel.
Shiritsu tried their signature "Orbit" play—four players circling the perimeter while Kaito looked for the gap. They moved fast, a blur of purple jerseys.
Akami didn't chase. He stood in a "Low-Torque" stance, his feet spread wide, his massive arms dangling. Every time a Shiritsu player tried to cut past him, Akami didn't slide—he pivoted.
It was a "Heavy Rotation." He used his massive weight to "bump" the cutters without ever committing a foul. It was like trying to run through a revolving door made of solid lead. One by one, the Shiritsu players bounced off his chest, their momentum dying on impact.
"He's... he's a wall!" the Shiritsu shooting guard yelled, clutching his bruised shoulder.
"Not a wall," Akami rumbled, his voice a low, tectonic vibration.
Kaito desperately threw a lob pass over Akami's head. Akami didn't jump. He launched. He used a "Power-Spring," his heavy sneakers leaving the hardwood with a sound like a gunshot. He snatched the ball at its highest point, landed, and didn't even look for a teammate.
Akami dribbled once—BOOM—and the floor vibrated. He crossed half-court in three strides, his white durag capes whipping behind him like the wings of a predatory bird.
Kaito and two other defenders formed a "Triple-Wall" at the free-throw line. They lowered their shoulders, preparing for the collision.
Akami didn't collide.
At full speed, he performed a "Behind-the-Back Wrap-Around." The ball disappeared behind his massive frame and reappeared on his left side. He didn't slow down. He used a "Spin-Move" that generated enough centrifugal force to send
Kaito spinning in the opposite direction, his glasses finally flying off his face.
Akami reached the rim. The Shiritsu center, 6'9" and desperate, went up for the block with everything he had.
"STAY DOWN!" the giant screamed.
Akami didn't stay down. He rose higher. He met the center in the air, his shoulder absorbing the contact like a sponge. With a roar that shook the glass backboard, Akami hammered the ball down with both hands.
CRACK-BOOM!
The entire basket assembly groaned. The hydraulic dampener hissed in protest. Akami let go and landed silently, his amber eyes locked onto the Shiritsu bench.
Kaminari 54, Shiritsu 28.
The game ended ten minutes later. Shiritsu hadn't scored a single point in the fourth quarter. They were physically and mentally bankrupt.
Kaito sat on the floor, his head in his hands, his broken glasses resting on his sneakers. He looked up as a shadow fell over him.
Akami was standing there, draped in four towels, his white durag slightly askew. He wasn't gloating. He looked... bored.
"The calorie count is finished," Akami rumbled, looking down at the fallen strategist. "Total burn: 2,850. Total intake: 1,900. I am currently at a 950-calorie deficit, Kaito-kun. This is a fiscal disaster for my metabolism."
Kaito looked up, his voice trembling. "How... how can you think about food? You just destroyed the #1 team in the region. You just put up 40 points and 20 rebounds!"
Akami adjusted his durag, his eyes drifting toward the exit. "Statistics are just numbers on a page. But a deficit... a deficit is a hunger that cannot be ignored."
He looked at Mio, who was already packing up the gear.
"Mio-san," Akami called out. "I'm going home."
Mio smiled, her eyes bright with victory. "Take care,' Akami-kun. See you tommorow."
Akami slowly walking out of the court.
...
To Be Continued.