The third quarter began without ceremony.
No dramatic pause.
No roaring statement.
Just the quiet, merciless click of a machine starting back up.
Hakuro Academy inbounded the ball, and the moment it touched Ryu's hands, Seiryō felt it.
Not speed.
Not power.
Precision.
Ryu didn't rush the dribble. He didn't need to. His red aura burned low and steady now, no longer flaring with ego. It moved like a furnace—contained, efficient, inevitable.
"Same spacing," Hiroto said calmly as he jogged into position.
Hakuro flowed.
That was the word.
Not running plays—transitioning states.
Ren slid to the corner, his defender forced to trail him an extra half-step. Haruto hovered near the dunker spot, timing his cuts with unnerving patience. Minato stayed high, hands ready, eyes scanning like a radar dish.
Yuuto noticed it immediately.
They aren't reacting to us.
They're reacting to each other.
