"Now you see how unreliable teammates can be, don't you?" Ake's second personality whispered temptingly in his mind.
Ake once again slipped past Meizawa's double-team and passed the ball to Yamamoto.
This time, he clearly reminded him, "Don't rush in. Look for an opening first—create space before attacking."
Ake's words were loud and clear. And Yamamoto heard them just as clearly.
But what happened next left Ake completely speechless.
Yamamoto sensed someone closing in on him. Remembering Ake's warning, he looked left and right, trying to find an open teammate.
He spotted Kirihara Hayato and, without hesitation, hurled the ball toward him.
His aim was spot-on—but the pass itself was atrocious.
Ake's expression froze as he watched the ball land directly in the hands of a Meizawa defender. It felt like the light above his head had gone out.
He stood there silently, not even reacting to Meizawa's counterattack. Instead, he stood rooted in place, lost in thought.
He recalled how hard everyone trained together—how much effort they had all put in, and how much progress they'd made.
Yet now, when things got tough, they were crumbling under pressure.
He glanced over at Sendoh and couldn't help but imagine what that guy must've felt last year. It was a wonder Sendoh could still treat everyone so kindly after going through something like this.
Moments later, Meizawa scored another easy basket.
Seiyo 48 – Meizawa 62.
The gap widened to 14 points.
The situation was growing dire.
"It seems… I can only rely on myself now," Ake thought to himself, determination flashing in his eyes.
He knew there was no point depending on his teammates anymore. If they wanted to win, he'd have to open a path by himself.
This time, when he dribbled up the court, Ake didn't even think about passing. He was going to take Meizawa's double-team head-on.
Bang… Bang… Bang…
With sharp focus, Ake's eyes gleamed. He jab-stepped forward, pulled back instantly, spun behind his back, and pivoted—executing a seamless combination that left his two defenders completely off balance.
Meizawa's double-team couldn't react in time. Ake cut through the gap like water flowing through cracks and stormed toward the basket.
Kirihara, Kobayashi, and Yamamoto ran into open spots, all turning toward Ake—waiting for his pass.
But this time, Ake didn't even glance at them. He drove straight into Meizawa's paint.
Footsteps pounded behind him. Someone was chasing him down.
Without panic, Ake gathered the ball with both hands and jumped.
The defender leaped up behind him, ready to block.
But just as the opponent extended his arm, Ake twisted his wrist midair—and tossed the ball backward, letting it bounce right off the defender's hand.
The Meizawa player froze in disbelief.
The ball deflected off his palm, softly rebounding toward the hoop… and dropped straight in.
Swish.
The crowd gasped.
Seiyo 50 – Meizawa 62.
Ake landed lightly and turned to face the stunned defender.
"Damn it…" the Meizawa player cursed under his breath, his face dark with embarrassment. He'd just been used—tricked into scoring an own basket.
It was humiliating beyond words.
Kirihara, Kobayashi, and Yamamoto ran over to celebrate, smiling as if nothing was wrong—as if it didn't matter that Ake hadn't passed to them. A basket was a basket, after all.
Ake didn't know whether to laugh or sigh.
He glanced over at Sendoh, who responded with a calm thumbs-up.
Ake couldn't tell if Sendoh truly understood what was happening—or if he just didn't want to acknowledge it.
From that moment on, Ake's style changed completely.
He was no longer the calm passer orchestrating plays. He turned into a relentless attacker, storming through Meizawa's defense again and again.
Even their double-teams couldn't stop him. It was as if Ake could predict their movements before they even acted.
Each time they closed in, he'd already slipped past.
Frustration grew on Meizawa's side. Ake's breakthroughs became more and more frequent—and every time, he scored.
Kirihara, Kobayashi, and Yamamoto quickly realized Ake had decided to go solo.
But none of them complained. They thought it was the smartest move.
As Ake started to close the gap, excitement returned to their faces.
Sendoh, however, was quietly watching.
The current Ake reminded him too much of himself from last year—trying to carry everything alone, fighting desperately while his teammates dragged him down.
Back then, he gave everything he had… and still lost. His teammates apologized afterward, but their attitude never changed. They just brushed it off as "the opponent was too strong."
Even for someone as calm as Sendoh, it had been infuriating.
54–66.
58–70.
64–76.
Ake kept scoring, but Meizawa's counterattacks always answered back. The point gap stubbornly held at twelve.
"This can't go on," Ake muttered, breathing hard, his eyes sharp with focus.
Five minutes remained.
He knew there was only one way left to break the stalemate—the Emperor's Eye.
But that power consumed tremendous mental energy.
If he exhausted himself before turning the game around, it would all be over.
"What are you waiting for? The Emperor's Eye is your gift," his second personality whispered again.
Ake didn't respond.
He knew exactly what the voice wanted—to take control the moment his will weakened.
That was why he avoided using the Emperor's Eye unless absolutely necessary.
But he wasn't ready to lose, either.
As Meizawa launched another attack, Ake's eyes suddenly lit up.
One deep crimson. One scarlet-gold.
The Emperor's Eye—activated.