The next day.
Ryonan High School — Basketball Gym.
As usual, Akashi arrived after school.
The instant he pushed open the gym doors, he sensed it.
Something was off.
The air itself felt different—subtly tense, faintly discordant.
His sharp gaze swept across the court like the edge of a blade and immediately locked onto the unfamiliar presence.
Fukuda Kicchou.
He was bent over near the sideline, tying his shoelaces, already changed into his jersey. Judging by the state of his clothes, he hadn't been there long.
The moment Akashi's eyes settled on him—
Fukuda's entire body stiffened.
A sudden chill surged up from the soles of his feet, racing straight to the back of his skull, as if someone had blown icy breath against his neck.
He shuddered violently.
His spine went rigid.
Even his breathing halted for a fraction of a second.
Instinctively, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Framed by the doorway, a crimson silhouette stood in silence.
Short red hair burned like living flame.
Heterochromatic eyes—one gold, one red—gleamed with an eerie, inhuman brilliance amid the shifting light.
Sunlight poured in from behind him, outlining his figure in gold and crimson, as if the entire gym existed solely to illuminate his presence.
For an instant, Fukuda's mind went completely blank.
A ridiculous illusion surfaced.
The figure before him didn't feel human.
It felt like a sovereign—
A monarch bathed in holy light, gazing down upon the mortal world with cold, unquestionable authority.
How… how could that be possible?
Fukuda shook his head violently, forcing the thought away.
Yet his heart continued to pound, and sweat seeped into his palms.
Akashi gave him only a fleeting glance.
Cold. Detached.
Like icy water passing over stone.
Then his gaze moved on, as though Fukuda were no more than a speck of dust.
Akashi walked into the gym, his footsteps quiet, measured.
He stopped at the sidelines, arms crossed, silently observing the players on the court.
He gave no instructions.
Issued no commands.
His expression did not change.
And yet—
The rhythm of the entire gym subtly aligned itself around him.
Fukuda stood frozen, his throat tightening.
He had intended to step forward.
To question him.
To test this so-called first-year captain.
But the moment had come—and the courage never did.
His lips parted, then closed again.
In the end, he said nothing.
Watching Sendo, Uozumi, and the others move into structured drills, Fukuda gritted his teeth and finally joined them.
He didn't understand why.
But every time his eyes drifted toward the crimson figure on the sidelines, an inexplicable unease filled his chest.
Just as sweat soaked the court and the screech of sneakers echoed nonstop—
The gym doors opened again.
Coach Taoka Moichi walked in.
He headed straight toward Akashi, stopping beside him.
Folding his arms, his eyes followed Fukuda as he trained intensely.
"I brought Fukuda back for you," Taoka said calmly. "The rest is up to you."
The words sounded casual—but there was probing beneath them.
Taoka had always valued Fukuda's potential.
Not as monstrously talented as Akashi.
Not as versatile as Sendo.
But his off-ball instincts and finishing near the basket were undeniably sharp—a rough gem worth polishing.
The question was—
How would Akashi use him?
And how far could he take him?
Taoka was genuinely curious.
Akashi's gaze never left the court.
Calm. Penetrating.
As if every dribble and every footstep were laid bare before him.
"He has excellent off-ball instincts and strong finishing near the basket," Akashi said flatly.
"But his mid-range and long-range shots are unstable. His shooting form lacks consistency. His defensive awareness is weak, and his help defense is only average."
A pause.
"A typical offense-heavy streetball type."
Each word landed cleanly.
Precise.
Unwavering.
Dead-on.
Coach Taoka's pupils shrank.
He turned to Akashi sharply, frozen in disbelief.
Just from watching?
Only a few minutes on the sidelines—
Yet these conclusions matched what it had taken Taoka years of coaching experience, data, and game footage to piece together.
Even his own past evaluations hadn't been this fast.
Or this accurate.
A chill ran through his chest.
This wasn't merely keen observation.
This was something else entirely.
A monster.
For the first time, Taoka had to admit—
In terms of reading people, he was utterly inferior.
That thought flashed briefly through his mind before he forcibly suppressed it.
Straightening his posture, Taoka cleared his throat.
"Well said," he said evenly. "That puts my mind at ease."
His face remained composed.
Inside, turmoil raged.
But no matter how shaken he was, he could not show it.
He was the coach.
And a coach could not lose face.
Then Akashi spoke again.
"However," he said calmly, "he does possess one quality—though it can't quite be called a strength."
"Oh?" Taoka raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What is it?"
Akashi's lips curved ever so slightly.
"Self-esteem."
Taoka froze.
"…Self-esteem?"
Was that supposed to be a strength?
Akashi continued before Taoka could respond.
"His self-esteem is excessively strong—borderline obsessive. The more you suppress or deny him, the worse the outcome."
He glanced toward Fukuda, who was charging down the court with his head lowered.
"But if you continuously praise and encourage him, the effect will be entirely different."
Silence fell.
Taoka instinctively rubbed his chin, his expression turning grave.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
Why had Fukuda talked back back then?
Wasn't it because Taoka had criticized him publicly—crushing his pride?
Taoka had always labeled it rebellion.
But now—
What if it had been mishandled pride instead?
His heart trembled violently.
For the first time, his long-held coaching philosophy wavered.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Sharp applause rang through the gym, instantly silencing everything.
Akashi stood at the sideline.
"Gather."
Just two words.
No emotion.
No emphasis.
Yet everyone moved immediately.
The players lined up instinctively, backs straight.
Fukuda stood among them, sweat still beading on his forehead.
Akashi's gaze swept over the line, briefly pausing on Fukuda.
"Starting today," he said evenly, "you'll be divided into two teams for scrimmage."
A pause.
"There is only one rule."
"No passing—of any kind—except when shooting."
The gym fell deathly silent.
No passing?
Then what was the point?
Basketball was a team sport.
Koshino opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Ikegami frowned deeply.
Even Sendo looked puzzled.
Yet—
No one objected.
Even Fukuda swallowed his doubts.
Coach Taoka, however, felt something click.
His pupils constricted as realization struck.
He turned toward Akashi, voice low with shock.
"You're trying to make Fukuda—"
Akashi nodded calmly.
"Off-ball movement is his strength. Taking away passing forces him to rely solely on instinct and positioning."
He continued evenly.
"His defense is weak. Removing passing slows offensive flow and reduces defensive complexity, minimizing his weaknesses while maximizing his strengths."
Taoka stood rooted in place.
Lightning seemed to strike his mind.
This was—
A training method custom-built for Fukuda Kicchou.
"But the others?" Taoka asked, frowning. "What about their development?"
Akashi answered without hesitation.
"There isn't much time before tryouts. Team cohesion is complete, and individual growth has plateaued."
He looked across the court.
"It's better to invest time where returns are highest."
Taoka had nothing left to say.
Everything had already been calculated.
Akashi was maximizing combat power with ruthless efficiency.
Understanding this only made Taoka feel bitter.
Like a decorative coach.
Sometimes, he thought, having players this exceptional is its own burden.
"…Very well," he said at last. "We'll proceed as you say."
Evening.
The setting sun cast long crimson shadows across the gym floor.
Players packed up quietly.
Sweat-soaked jerseys clung to tired backs.
Then—
Fukuda stopped.
He turned.
His gaze locked onto the silent crimson figure.
"First-year Captain."
His voice echoed clearly.
"Show me what you're really capable of."
The gym froze.
Whispers erupted instantly.
"He's challenging Akashi?!"
"Is he insane?"
"Who do you think will win?"
"Does that even need asking?"
Fukuda heard every word.
Each one pierced his pride like a needle.
His fists clenched.
Any remaining hesitation burned away.
Akashi met his gaze.
Calm.
Detached.
Not contempt.
Not anger.
Indifference.
And that indifference hollowed Fukuda's chest.
Akashi stepped onto the court.
"On this team," he said coldly, "I don't tolerate meaningless questioning."
A pause.
"This is the first—and last—time."
Silence suffocated the gym.
"As long as you're here, you obey my commands," Akashi continued, turning fully toward him.
"Because I am absolute."
He stopped beyond the three-point line, standing sideways, back to the hoop.
"Begin."
Fukuda stared at him.
Akashi felt like a mountain.
And he—
Was staring up from the abyss.
For the first time in his life—
Fukuda Kicchou felt small.