Ryonan's bench.
When the players returned to the sideline, there was no triumphant joy on their faces. Calmness marked each expression, as if leading Shoyo by thirteen points was simply routine.
If this had been a past Ryonan game, such composure would have been impossible. Yet they were thrilled internally.
Who wouldn't feel exhilarated suppressing a veteran Kanagawa powerhouse to this extent?
From the very start, every move had followed Akashi's rhythm. When to defend, when to anticipate and steal, when to initiate a fast break—every step flowed like a pre-rehearsed script. This advantage wasn't a fluke; it was meticulous planning.
Every player had long been accustomed to this tacit understanding: follow the rhythm, trust Akashi, and act without disrupting the pace.
Coach Taoka Moichi observed their composure and allowed a slight smile. This was no longer a team dependent on a single ace; under Akashi, they had become a true, cohesive fighting force.
He turned to Akashi. "Fujima Kenji isn't one to keep suffering losses. He must have realized your tactical objectives by now. Shoyo will adjust their playstyle next—they won't be so easily fooled."
Akashi's gaze remained calm, his eyes like an ancient well. "No matter. This was within my expectations. I never intended to defeat Shoyo with a single move."
Taoka nodded, impressed by Akashi's composure—free of arrogance, free of haste. Even with a large lead, Akashi maintained clarity and judgment.
"So, what's your plan for the next phase?" the coach pressed.
Akashi's lips curved faintly. "Shoyo will likely slow the pace of both offense and defense. They'll rely on height to take more mid-range shots, stabilizing their position while gradually pressuring our inside. They'll try to close the gap slowly."
The coach pondered. Accurate as always. Shoyo's best chance was indeed to exploit height, forcing Ryonan's defense outward and opening scoring opportunities.
"Fujima Kenji found the key to breaking our defense," Taoka mused, his gaze shifting to Akashi. "But fortunately, our ace has already foreseen it. The subsequent adjustments are all yours."
Akashi simply nodded, calm but confident. Shoyo's adjustments were merely the next step in his plan.
Beep… The timeout ended.
As predicted, Shoyo's rhythm slowed. No longer rushing for fast breaks, the ballhandler moved with settled composure.
Hanagata stood near the free-throw line, feet shoulder-width apart, hands poised. Takano Shoichi and Mitsuru Nagano positioned themselves at 45-degree angles, ready for a pass. Kazushi Hasegawa moved constantly on the perimeter, cutting, circling, searching for openings.
Fujima dribbled, glancing at Akashi. "You're skilled. Anticipating our tactics pushed us to this point. I underestimated you. But it won't be so easy to defeat Shoyo."
His wrist flicked, spinning the ball around him, and he moved toward the wing.
Akashi's tone remained flat. "I'm not trying to defeat your Shoyo."
Fujima froze, brow furrowing. He didn't understand.
Akashi continued, "Shoyo's defeat is inevitable. All I'm doing is systematically advancing that process."
Fujima's eyes darkened. Anger flashed. Akashi wasn't merely trying to win; he had already decided the outcome, treating the game as a predetermined process. Arrogant, conceited, disdainful… the words flashed through his mind.
Yet Fujima did not pause. He knew Akashi was anticipating him. He feigned a confrontation stance, subtly shifting his dribble, and in a sudden motion passed the ball to Mitsuru Nagano on the wing. A faint, provocative smile curved his lips.
Akashi watched, calm as ever. He made no move to intercept; he didn't even glance at Nagano. He already knew the shot trajectory.
Sendoh, defending Nagano, lacked Akashi's Emperor Eye. Reacting in real time, he could only try to cover possibilities—but couldn't fully block the play.
Nagano, instead of shooting immediately, passed to Hanagata near the free-throw line. Hanagata did not clash under the basket; he stepped back, widening the distance. Uozumi tried to close the gap—but Hanagata leapt, unobstructed.
Raising the ball above his head, Hanagata shot.
Swish…
Ryonan 13, Shoyo 2.
Finally, Shoyo scored. The shot reignited morale, the team surrounding Hanagata in celebration, releasing pent-up frustration.
In the stands, Shoyo's cheerleaders roared again:
"Shoyo… Shoyo… Shoyo…"
"Victory… Victory… Victory…"
Possession switched. The ball landed in Akashi's hands. Thump… thump… thump… It bounced rhythmically.
Akashi's gaze swept over the tense Shoyo players. Calmly, he spoke:
"I'll put it bluntly. From the moment the score widened, Shoyo was already beyond salvation."
Shock rippled through the team. A 13-point gap? Only 11 now. Time remained. Hope was still alive—yet Akashi's words cut deep.
He continued, flat and unyielding:
"You have scoring opportunities—but unless you stop our offense completely, your outcome is simple. Only one result awaits: defeat."
A subtle flick of his wrist, and the ball landed in Sendoh's hands.
Sendoh exploded forward, tip-toeing across the half-court like a released arrow. Shoyo's players barely had time to react.
Hanagata planted his feet, arms outstretched, trying to block. But Sendoh feigned left, tilted his shoulder, and in a blink, switched the ball to his right hand. Hanagata's fingertips only brushed the ball; his balance shifted.
Sendoh pushed off, body brushing past Hanagata, who tried to recover—but Sendoh's subtle back block slowed him just enough.
Sendoh soared into the restricted area. Mid-air, he adjusted as Mitsuru Nagano rushed to block. Sendoh tilted, pulled the ball to his right, and executed an aerial scoop shot.
The ball sailed cleanly through the net.
Akashi's voice cut through the moment, calm yet absolute:
"None of you can stop Ryonan's offense. It's that simple."