Bzzzt—
A sharp whistle cut through the noise in the gym.
Akita called a timeout.
Domoto Goro stood courtside, eyes locked on the glaring score displayed on the board.
Kanagawa 76 to Akita 56.
A 20-point gap.
That number hit him like a sledgehammer.
He didn't hesitate. He raised his hand and signaled the referee to stop the game.
He knew that if he didn't interrupt the tempo now, everything would spiral out of control.
At the start of the second half, Akita had still managed to hang on. They kept the score tight and didn't let the gap widen too much.
But the moment Aoi Kunisaku started going full throttle, everything changed.
It felt like it all happened in a blink. Akita had no room to fight back.
They didn't even get a chance to react before being forced into full retreat.
It was too sudden…
Domoto took a deep breath. His eyes were heavy with pressure and frustration.
He had to stabilize the players, or the aftermath would be unthinkable.
One by one, the Akita players returned to the bench. Their steps were heavy. None of them looked good.
The game wasn't just slipping away. It was suffocating.
Domoto Goro stood in place, eyes sweeping across the team until they stopped on Sawakita Eiji.
His head was down. His chest heaved. His jersey was soaked through. His eyes held nothing but exhaustion and frustration.
Domoto had believed Sawakita could hold on a little longer.
Even if he couldn't shut down Aoi Kunisaku completely, at least he could stall his rhythm and buy some breathing room for the team.
But reality turned out to be even harsher than he had feared.
The second half had barely begun, and Sawakita was already thoroughly overwhelmed.
More than that—he had been defeated by Aoi Kunisaku without suspense, without warning.
He didn't even have the chance to struggle.
Domoto sighed quietly, a complicated look on his face.
He wasn't blaming Sawakita. He just felt powerless.
This wasn't a problem one player could fix.
He could see it clearly. Sawakita's performance in the second half had actually improved.
His footwork was quicker. His defensive reads sharper. Even under heavy pressure, he stayed focused.
But the problem was—against Aoi Kunisaku, even that improvement was meaningless.
When you're facing someone who seems to come from another dimension, no matter how hard you fight, even your best still looks like you're standing still.
Truthfully, before the game even began, Domoto had already vaguely anticipated this outcome.
He knew Aoi Kunisaku too well.
That kind of opponent wasn't something you could beat with effort alone. He was the type of player who crushed everything on talent alone.
Still, Domoto had held on to a sliver of hope.
Even just a tiny bit.
He hoped for a miracle.
He hoped that Sawakita Eiji would explode at some point and actually suppress Aoi Kunisaku.
But reality was like a bucket of ice water, dousing that last trace of hope cold.
Domoto drew a deep breath and forced his voice to stay steady. His eyes swept over every player.
"The situation's bad. We need to reset the tempo."
He paused. His gaze landed on their tired but focused faces. Then he continued, "The biggest threat right now is their number 9. We have to find a way to shut him down."
"But how are we supposed to do that?" Matsumoto Minoru blurted out before he could stop himself, his voice filled with frustration he'd been holding back.
He was probably the one who'd suffered the most from Aoi Kunisaku's pressure.
It felt like the moment the ball touched his hands, Aoi Kunisaku would appear right in front of him.
Whenever he tried to attack, Aoi Kunisaku would close in like a shadow and swipe the ball away effortlessly.
Whenever he jumped to shoot, Aoi Kunisaku's hand would lash out from the wing and smack it down.
Even when he tried to help on defense, he couldn't stop the guy's footwork. All he could do was watch Aoi Kunisaku blow by again and again.
Steals, blocks, getting beat…
He had felt it all.
Right now, Matsumoto Minoru was burning up with helpless anger.
Then Fukatsu Kazunari spoke, his voice low but calm. "Aoi Kunisaku's definitely the most dangerous, but we can't overlook Rukawa Kaede either. His individual skill is overwhelming, and Kanagawa's overall strength is way above what we expected."
He paused. A serious look crept into his eyes.
"And that Center of theirs… I don't know how, but he's going toe-to-toe with Kawata. Bit by bit, even our advantages are being chipped away. If this keeps up, we'll fall into a completely passive game."
Matsumoto Minoru nodded, brows furrowed, his voice low and heavy. "It's not just them. That Sendoh guy isn't easy to deal with either. I can feel it… He hasn't even gone all out yet."
Just then, the long-silent Sawakita Eiji finally spoke. His voice was soft, but it fell like a pebble into still water, stirring waves across the bench.
"Sendoh hasn't gone all out... because he has 'Wild Instinct' too."
The words had barely left his mouth when silence slammed down on the entire bench.
The air froze. Everyone sat frozen, their faces blank with shock and disbelief.
That Sendoh... he had it too?
The news was like a bomb, detonating in the hearts of every player.
"For real?" Matsumoto Minoru stared at Sawakita Eiji, eyes wide with disbelief. "Sendoh... has 'Wild Instinct'?"
Sawakita didn't elaborate. He just nodded slowly. His face was calm, but heavy. "A year ago, Sendoh wasn't on my level."
He spoke quietly. "But in that time, he's grown way too fast."
He paused, his eyes dark as if recalling something. "We faced each other once. Back then, he could barely keep up with me. But if he activates 'Wild Instinct' now, I probably won't be able to gain the upper hand."
As soon as the words dropped, the tension on the bench thickened again.
Everyone looked at one another, no one speaking. The only sound was heavy breathing hanging in the air.
Matsumoto Minoru stood there, his mind blank, his expression full of complex emotion.
He muttered under his breath, barely audible. "If that's true… doesn't that mean I don't even stand a chance?"
Even though he was considered the team's "number two ace," he knew better than anyone—he didn't have 'Wild Instinct.'
And in a game like this, that was becoming a fatal flaw.
His eyes lost focus. His chest felt heavy, like a weight was pressing down hard.
That feeling of helplessness crept in from deep inside, making him feel faint.
Domoto Goro remained silent at the side. He didn't say a word.
His brows were tightly furrowed. His eyes deep with thought. He seemed to be running countless scenarios through his head.
But no matter how he calculated it, reality stood like a wall that couldn't be broken.
Akita was nearly trapped in a dead-end.
Their overall strength didn't match Kanagawa's. Individually, they couldn't keep up either.
This wasn't a gap you could close with willpower alone.
If no miracle happened next, the outcome of the game was all but decided.
They'd be crushed. Left without a single way to respond.
A quiet sadness welled up in Domoto's chest.
Domoto Goro stayed silent for a long while, brows still furrowed. Finally, he raised his head. His gaze was firm. In his eyes burned a light of grim resolve.
"This isn't the time to dwell on things. We've seen the full scope of our and their power. All the cards are on the table."
"The good news is, their entire offense revolves around Aoi Kunisaku. The bad news is, their entire offense revolves around Aoi Kunisaku."
"If we want to turn this around, the only way is to shut him down. But I'll be honest, I don't have a solid plan."
"We're 20 points behind. By any standard, this is already a loss. But I don't want to see anyone giving up yet. The game's not over. Whether or not we turn it around—it's all up to you."
The moment he finished speaking, everyone from Akita looked shocked.
They stared at each other, eyes full of disbelief. As if they couldn't believe those words had just come out of their coach's mouth.
It was the first time they'd heard Coach Domoto speak with such desperation. Like he was throwing everything on the table.
…
Bzzzt…
Timeout over. The game resumed.
Both teams returned to the court.
As Akita's players were still trying to think about how they could make a comeback, a formless yet intense pressure suddenly surged toward them from the other side.
Everyone felt their hearts jolt. Instinctively, they all looked up.
Aoi Kunisaku stood at center court on Kanagawa's side, eyes like blades as he swept his gaze across every one of them.
His gaze was sharper than before the timeout. It felt like it could pierce their minds, straight to the core.
His presence had grown heavier and more dangerous, like a volcano gathering strength, on the verge of eruption.
That suffocating pressure had been present before. But now it felt aggressively invasive.
Once again, Sawakita Eiji stood in front of Aoi Kunisaku. The space between them barely one step.
But this time, something felt different.
Aoi Kunisaku's gaze swept over him. Yet it didn't lock onto him. It didn't press him. It was as if his presence no longer mattered.
That's not to say Aoi Kunisaku had completely ignored him.
There was still a bit of attention in his eyes. Almost like he was just confirming whether Sawakita was still there.
But mostly, it was a detached, indifferent calm.
Sawakita Eiji's heart sank slightly.
He began thinking hard. Trying to figure out how to shift his defense. How to find any way to restrain Aoi Kunisaku.
The next moment—
Aoi Kunisaku moved.
His body burst forward like a panther, instantly tearing through Akita's yet-to-be-formed defense.
Everyone was still in the stage of resetting on court, but Aoi Kunisaku was already in combat mode.
Whoosh…
A gust of wind swept across the center of the court, like the air itself had been split.
In Sawakita Eiji's vision, Aoi Kunisaku's figure flashed by—so fast it almost felt like an illusion.
"This side," Sawakita reacted on pure instinct. He twisted toward the left, trying to block Aoi Kunisaku's breakthrough route.
But the moment he turned—
He saw something that made his chest tighten.
Aoi Kunisaku had already opened up more than half a body's distance.
That wasn't a slight gap. It was enough to be fatal.
Sawakita Eiji's pupils shrank. Alarm bells blared in his mind.
His body reacted faster than his thoughts. He pushed off hard and accelerated to chase.
He felt like he was moving in slow motion.
No. That wasn't it.
He realized sharply—he hadn't slowed down. His reflexes and speed were intact despite his fatigue. It was Aoi Kunisaku who had gotten faster.
A deep, unfamiliar unease welled up in Sawakita's chest.
Aoi Kunisaku was like a panther locked onto prey. His eyes were sharp and focused.
His target—the one currently holding the ball—was Fukatsu Kazunari.
Without hesitation, Aoi Kunisaku sprinted straight toward him.
Fukatsu Kazunari immediately sensed that familiar oppressive pressure closing in.
This time, he didn't panic. He didn't blindly pass.
He scanned the court quickly, assessed the situation, and in the shortest time possible, picked the safest passing route.
The next second, he made his move, sending the ball toward Matsumoto Minoru.
But just as the ball left his hand—
Aoi Kunisaku shifted too.
It was like he had already predicted this moment. With a slick and precise change in direction, he broke away from his original pursuit path and charged straight toward the passing trajectory.
The ball flew across the air toward Matsumoto Minoru.
But Aoi Kunisaku—he was like a streak of red lightning, slicing the air faster than the ball itself, surging toward his new target.
As the ball barely reached Matsumoto Minoru's hands—
Aoi Kunisaku had already appeared right in front of him.
He bent low, took a wide stance, and swept his arm upward like a hooked claw.
Smack…
A crisp and jarring sound exploded in the center of the court.
The ball was forcefully hooked from Matsumoto Minoru's hands, sailing into the air in a wide arc—as if time itself slowed for that one moment.
Matsumoto's pupils contracted. His eyes filled with shock and horror.
It wasn't until the ball was lifted that he finally registered Aoi Kunisaku's presence.
In that instant, it felt like a chill stabbed straight through his spine. Cold sweat burst from his back, and every hair on his body stood on end in fright.
His heart skipped a beat.
The pressure came so fast, so suddenly—it felt like standing in sunlight one second, only to be yanked into an abyss the next.
Before he could recover from the shock—
Aoi Kunisaku had already regained control of the ball. Cleanly, smoothly, without wasted motion.
Then his figure flashed.
A streak of red. He vanished from Matsumoto's sight.
Only Matsumoto Minoru remained frozen in place, legs weak, chest heaving hard.
"Get back on defense!" Fukatsu Kazunari saw the steal happen. His face darkened and he shouted the warning almost like a roar.
His voice boomed across the court, filled with urgency and unease.
Hearing the call, Akita's players snapped back to their senses. They turned and sprinted toward their own half.
But just as they started to run—
Aoi Kunisaku had already darted out like the wind.
A blur of red light raced ahead of them all, growing smaller and farther by the second. It didn't look like running—it looked like gliding.
Akita's players ran and looked up. That red figure only grew more distant. His speed was so fast it made them question their own eyes.
A touch of despair crept into their expressions.
He was too fast.
Sawakita Eiji had gone all out. His shoes nearly sparked against the hardwood. His eyes blazed with frustration and fury.
But even with every ounce of speed he had, he still couldn't catch Aoi Kunisaku.
That red silhouette was like an unreachable phantom, getting farther and farther away.
"Damn it," Sawakita gritted his teeth and growled. His eyes were so fierce they looked like they could rip the air apart.
But deep down, he knew better than anyone.
No matter how unwilling he felt—it didn't matter.
Because this gap wasn't something willpower could close.
Aoi Kunisaku advanced with calm control, dribbling steadily, as if he had foreseen everything.
With the ball in hand, he cruised easily into Akita's paint.
No hesitation. No wasted motion.
He jumped.
His body stretched mid-air like an eagle. One hand raised the basketball high. His eyes locked on the rim.
Next second—
Slam Dunk.
Bang…
A thunderous boom exploded through the gym. The rim shook violently.
The ball dropped through the net cleanly.
Kanagawa 78 to 56 Akita.
Akita tried to respond.
They pushed the offense past the three-point line, hoping to create a stable scoring chance.
The ball landed in Matsumoto Minoru's hands.
But the moment he was about to act, Sendoh Akira was already on him.
The two locked horns outside the arc. Tension rose with every feint, shift, and attempt to break free.
Matsumoto Minoru tried multiple times to break past—fakes, crossovers—but Sendoh stood firm like a wall. He didn't give even the tiniest window to shoot.
Time slipped by. Sweat started to bead on Matsumoto's forehead.
Then at the worst possible moment—
His eyes drifted toward Aoi Kunisaku.
Ever since that last steal, that feeling of being completely shut down had haunted him like a shadow.
He couldn't shake the thought: if he hesitated for even a second, that red figure would appear again. Like a panther, it would snatch the ball right from his hands.
The constant tension had frayed his nerves. His gaze wandered. His hands slowed.
That lapse was all Sendoh needed.
He slid forward with a light step, slipping right into the opening as Matsumoto shifted his weight. His hand shot out like a blade.
Smack…
A sharp slap rang out outside the three-point arc.
Sendoh's hand struck the ball dead on. The basketball shot out from Matsumoto's grip, arching wildly through the air.
"Shit," Matsumoto's eyes shrank. Alarms rang in his mind.
He lunged forward without thinking. He threw out a foot, trying to make up for the mistake.
But—
Whoosh…
A red blur moved faster than he ever could.
Aoi Kunisaku appeared like a ghost. One scoop, and the ball was his. Clean, effortless.
The ball… was gone.
Matsumoto stood there, eyes wide. Frozen like he'd been struck by lightning.
He slowly lifted his head. His dazed gaze followed the red blur pulling away from him.
Number 9.
That blinding number burned into his eyes like a brand. It seared into his chest.
Aoi Kunisaku. Again…
Why?
Why is it always me?
A wave of helplessness surged from the pit of his stomach and swallowed him whole.
He stood still. Chest heaving. His eyes hollow. Even breathing felt like a struggle.
Not rage. Not frustration.
Total collapse.
He was breaking down.
That feeling of being repeatedly ambushed—like a dull blade cutting slowly through his confidence.
He felt like crying.
"Aoi Kunisaku…!" Sawakita Eiji roared from behind, sprinting with everything he had.
His eyes locked on the red figure ahead. His steps were fast and fierce. He looked like he was burning his body just to keep pace.
Heh…
Aoi Kunisaku's lips curled into a nearly feral smile.
He didn't turn his head, but he could feel the chase behind him.
He kept charging, still holding the ball, like a beast ready to tear apart its prey.
In the blink of an eye, he was in the paint. His red jersey slicing a trail under the lights.
But—
Just when everyone thought he'd go all the way—
His body jolted.
Skrrt…
Both feet slammed onto the floor. He stopped cold just in front of the free-throw line. Like someone hit pause.
It was a stop so abrupt, so fast, it didn't even look real.
Sawakita Eiji, still at full sprint, had no time to react.
His body surged forward. His brain screamed to hit the brakes—but it was already too late.
Thud…
A muffled collision thundered across the court.
Sawakita slammed into Aoi Kunisaku's back. His chest seized up from the impact. He nearly lost his footing.
But Aoi Kunisaku—he moved with the force, like he'd planned it all.
His momentum turned into a smooth leap forward. Every motion was controlled, natural, rhythmic.
It looked exactly like the start of a perfect layup.
He took the first step—and jumped early.
The ball flicked from his fingers like he'd known the result before it happened, floating toward the hoop.
His second step hit the floor. The ball was already rising above the backboard.
By the time he landed the third step, the ball had dropped clean through the net.
Swish…
The shot was good.
Kanagawa 80 to 56 Akita.
And at that same moment—
Tweet…
The referee's whistle shrieked.
The ref raised his arm and pointed at Sawakita Eiji, his voice cutting through the air:
"Akita Number 9, offensive foul. Basket counts. One free throw."