Shohoku bench.
"This is bad… really bad! Old Man…" Sakuragi Hanamichi pressed one hand against Anzai Mitsuyoshi's round stomach, the other gripping his chin, shaking it like a marionette. His eyes were wide, his voice almost bouncing off the ceiling. "That monkey-head… he—"
His words nearly drowned out the roar of the gym. The red-haired first-year radiated pure panic.
Ayako quickly intervened, grabbing his hands. "How can you call Coach 'Old Man'? Show some respect! Address him properly—Coach Anzai!"
Sakuragi blinked, then turned his head to her, expression grave, tone unusually serious for the boy.
"This is bad, Ayako… this is too dangerous."
Ayako tilted her head, puzzled. "Why are you polite to me, but not to the coach? I don't understand you."
On the court.
Uozumi stood like a giant tower in the paint, arms spread, aura radiating authority and confidence.
"Come on… let's block one more shot!" His voice boomed, filled with iron-blooded resolve.
"Okay!" Ryonan's players echoed, their morale ignited, the shouts rolling through the gym like an invisible storm.
From the bench, Sakuragi's jaw tightened.
"That monkey-head… just because he blocked shots from the four-eyed geek, Rukawa Kaede, and the gorilla, he thinks he owns the court!"
Satoru Kakuta stood arms crossed, eyes fixed on Uozumi.
"This momentum… it's contagious. He's making everyone else even more active."
The substitutes nodded in agreement.
Sakuragi's eyes gleamed. Opportunity. He flung an arm around Anzai's neck, shouting, "Old Man! It's time! The secret weapon… me!"
Before anyone could stop him, he sprang to his feet, claws poised like a beast ready to pounce.
"It's finally my turn! Sakuragi Hanamichi is unleashed! Rukawa Kaede, sit down!"
Shohoku's substitutes grabbed him, dragging him back, but his smirk said it all. Mischief had been set in motion.
Ryonan bench.
"It seems lively over there," Aida Hikoichi said, tilting his head, observing the chaos across the court.
Coach Taoka Moichi's eyes followed, falling on Sakuragi struggling against his teammates. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular… clearly a promising talent, but reckless.
Akashi, meanwhile, simply observed. Calm. Impassive. No reaction, no comment. A player who can't control his emotions is nothing more than a castle built on sand.
On the court.
Ryonan had established dominance from the jump ball. Their offense and defense flowed like a war machine—every pass, every cut, every retreat calculated to perfection.
Shohoku tried everything—outside cuts, strong inside plays, pick-and-rolls—but Ryonan's defense strangled every attempt. Shots were denied, passes intercepted, momentum stolen. The more Shohoku struggled, the tighter the trap seemed.
Then Ryonan counterattacked.
Sendo advanced with measured steps, eyes scanning like a hawk. Rukawa pressed, but Sendo's wrist flicked a brilliant bounce pass through three defenders, landing in Ryoji Ikegami's hands. He cut inside, leapt, and laid it in. Swish.
The bench erupted. Cheers rolled like volcanic fury.
Coach Taoka Moichi's excitement broke through. His fists almost clenched. This was perfection—smooth offense, ironclad defense, textbook chemistry. And with Akashi still on the bench, he knew the team's strength was far from fully unleashed.
Five minutes in, the scoreboard read: Ryonan 15 – 0 Shohoku.
The gym felt oppressive. Shohoku's players were tense.
Kogure muttered, "Extend to 30 points? This is… disrespectful."
Takenori Akagi's muscles tensed; fists clenched like iron. Rukawa's narrowed eyes betrayed combativeness, though his face remained stoic.
Meanwhile, Akashi's heterochromatic pupils flickered—disappointment hidden beneath his usual calm.
This wasn't about skill. Ryonan had the upper hand. The system worked. But their mindset was flawed—they underestimated Shohoku. Complacency hung like a fog, subtle but dangerous.
Careless defense, a distracted assignment, or overconfidence could tip the scales in an instant—and Akashi would never allow it.
Then… movement at the sideline.
A red figure slinked behind Coach Taoka Moichi like a cat.
Sakuragi Hanamichi.
Akashi's eyebrow lifted, a faint curve of amusement. He watched, silent, arms crossed, enjoying the spectacle.
Coach Taoka Moichi shivered, sensing something amiss.
Sakuragi pressed his palms together, fingers pointed like spears, a wicked grin spreading. Then—lightning.
Pfft!
A swift strike, and Coach Taoka's scream erupted, a shrill, distorted howl echoing through the gym.
"Ouch…" His body buckled, staggering, fingers clutching his rear. The entire arena froze.
Ryonan players looked at each other, baffled. Shohoku's bench? Black lines on faces, cold sweat dripping.
Sakuragi stood smug at the sideline, as if saying, Mission accomplished.
Coach Taoka finally caught his breath, pointing a trembling finger.
"What are you—! Referee… referee…"
Beep! Timeout.
The referee ruled: Shohoku, technical foul.
Takenori Akagi's rage exploded. He grabbed Sakuragi by the collar, dragging him back to the bench like a sack.
The stadium erupted in laughter. Shohoku's players bowed their heads in shame.
Coach Taoka groaned, rubbing his sore backside.
Akashi leaned back, arms crossed, corner of his mouth curling ever so slightly.
All Sakuragi's doing. None of it concerned him.