The laughter faded. The clamor receded.
Back to the game.
Shohoku still faced a nearly impenetrable wall. Their offense remained suffocated under Ryonan's ironclad defense. After two quick turnovers, Ryonan launched another counterattack, increasing the lead from 15–0 to 19–0. One more point, and the 20-point mark loomed.
"Damn it…" Kogure Kiminobu bent over, one hand bracing his knee, the other swiping sweat from his face. Throat dry, heart tight with frustration. He had expected Ryonan to be strong—but not this impenetrable. Not a single point scored yet.
The other Shohoku members shared the same stunned expressions. Tactical simulations, study of habits, intensive training—all for naught.
But in the midst of this oppressive silence, one pair of eyes blazed.
Rukawa Kaede.
His muscles coiled like drawn bowstrings. His gaze cut like a blade. Despite being shut out, his fighting spirit burned hotter than ever. Every heartbeat aligned with the rhythm of the court. He was ready to explode, to seize the ball, and to counterattack with deadly precision.
And then—Beep!
A sharp whistle sliced through the air. Rukawa's momentum dissipated instantly. Muscles tensed, eyes flared, heartbeat pounding… and suddenly, everything halted.
He whirled toward the referee, glare sharp. But the official remained calm, issuing a standard hand gesture:
"Ryonan calls a timeout."
The arena froze.
Shohoku players were baffled. Ryonan leading? Why would they call a timeout now?
Even Ryonan's players, returning to the bench mid-play, exchanged puzzled glances. Confusion rippled through the substitutes, and even Coach Taoka Moichi, usually composed, wore an expression of incredulity.
All eyes turned to Akashi, standing in front of Ryonan's bench, calm as ever. That timeout was his instruction.
No one questioned it. They knew better. If Akashi made a decision, it had a purpose.
Coach Taoka simply watched, arms crossed.
"You played very well. Keep it up." His praise was minimal, leaving the floor to Akashi. Morale mustn't falter, not even slightly.
Akashi's gaze swept slowly across the starters—Uozumi, Sendoh, Tomoyuki Uekusa, Koshino Hiroaki, Ryoji Ikegami. Calm. Unmoved. Then, in a voice soft yet sharp as a blade:
"I am somewhat disappointed with your performance."
A hush fell. Bewilderment flashed on every Ryonan face. Disappointed? Why? They were leading 19–0. Perfect execution. Complete control.
Akashi continued, eyes still fixed, voice still calm:
"This is good—but it is only your due strength."
He paused, letting the words settle. "I said before the game: no matter the opponent, treat them with your utmost rigor."
Some players began to understand. Sendoh's lips curled into a wry smile. This guy… he's terrifying.
Akashi's tone didn't intimidate with volume—it was the clarity behind it. A warning, not anger.
"Do not be complacent. Do not be careless. Shohoku is not as weak as you imagine."
The words were simple—but his gaze was lethal. Heterochromatic eyes devoid of pride or arrogance, only foresight.
"I do not want irreversible consequences from a moment of carelessness. Maintain your focus… understand them… find their weaknesses… and finally—crush them."
No mercy. No staged pauses. Only ruthlessness under extreme rationality.
He turned and returned to his seat. Nothing more. A quiet daily reminder.
But Ryonan's bench remained frozen. The air thickened. Even breathing seemed cautious. Expressions were complex. Coach Taoka felt it too.
The words were extreme—yet precise. Absolute. Shohoku must not be underestimated.
And Shohoku's bench? Silent. Their nerves frayed, but the timeout offered a brief, much-needed reprieve.
"Ryonan… top four in the prefecture…" Yasuda Yasuharu muttered, awe and despair mixed in his voice.
"So strong… we can't even organize an offense…"
Tetsushi Shiozaki picked at the edge of his seat, whispering low:
"If this continues… it's hopeless…"
Twenty points—the psychological threshold—loomed. Shohoku's confidence teetered. With Ryonan's current defense, even advancing past half-court felt monumental.
Rukawa Kaede, coming off the court, remained silent. No complaints. No sighs. Just a fixed gaze on Ryonan's bench, frustration simmering. His counterattack had been ready—thwarted by this sudden timeout.
Ayako muttered in confusion, "Why call a timeout while leading? Doesn't make sense…"
Sakuragi Hanamichi smirked smugly, patting his thigh. "They must be worried about me coming onto the court."
But through it all, one person remained steadfast: Anzai Mitsuyoshi.
Quiet, observant, instinctive. He knew.
This timeout was deliberate. Not random. Strategically timed.
One more point for Ryonan, and Shohoku's psychological defense would crumble. One point less, and a small window of opportunity remained—a potential turning point.
Anzai closed his eyes, whispering inwardly:
"This game… I'm afraid…"