Again.
Kawanobe dragged the ball past half-court.
His dribble was sluggish, his shoulders heavy, every step looking as though sandbags were tied to his ankles.
The shot clock ticked down mercilessly.
24… 23… 22…
Ryonan's defense compressed inward like a steel vice.
Sendoh shadowed the ball-handler without giving an inch.
Uekusa cut off every passing lane with ruthless precision.
Uozumi stood in the paint, unmoving—an iron gate guarding the rim.
Kawanobe's players were stranded beyond the three-point line, unable to penetrate, unable to pass, unable even to hesitate.
Three seconds remained.
The ball ended up in Yuta Watanabe's hands, trapped in the corner near the sideline.
Sendoh's raised arm blocked the sky in front of him.
Akashi's presence loomed behind—silent, suffocating.
Yuta glanced at the clock.
1 second.
No options.
No time.
He clenched his teeth, shut his eyes, and flung the ball toward the basket on pure instinct.
The arc was crooked.
The force was weak.
The shot itself was ugly.
And yet—
Thump.
The ball struck the center of the backboard.
It rolled along the inside of the rim… slowly… unnaturally…
Swish.
It went in.
For a moment—
The entire stadium froze.
No cheers.
No gasps.
Even the air itself seemed to harden.
Kawanobe's players stood rooted to the floor, eyes vacant, as if struck by lightning.
Some had their mouths half-open.
Some still had their hands raised.
No one celebrated.
Because no one believed it.
Was it luck?
A miracle?
Even Kawanobe's bench—players who had barely managed to shout half a "Nice shot!"—awkwardly swallowed the words back down.
Ryonan was stunned as well.
Koshino Hiroaki blinked, then curled his lip, glancing at the dazed opponents.
"…It actually went in," he said flatly. "You guys are really lucky."
Uozumi snorted coldly.
"Tch. Dumb luck."
Ikegami spread his hands, helpless but calm.
"Nothing you can do about shots like that."
The game resumed.
Kawanobe had finally erased the zero on the scoreboard.
2 points.
Yet that miracle was nothing more than a spark—too weak to even light their eyes.
Their fighting spirit had already been extinguished minutes ago.
It felt like charging onto a battlefield full of ambition, only to realize the enemy had already claimed the summit, looking down in silence.
A forty-point gap pressed down on their chests like a mountain.
Catch up?
Only if Ryonan suddenly committed fouls every possession, missed every shot, and allowed Kawanobe to score ten straight times without reply.
Reality was far crueler.
Ryonan never loosened their grip.
Beep.
The halftime whistle cut through the court—clean, decisive.
The scoreboard froze.
Ryonan 71 — Kawanobe 11
A full 60-point difference.
Silence filled the arena.
No one spoke.
This was no longer an "advantage."
This was domination from the opening tip—pinning the opponent to the floor and never letting them rise.
Kawanobe's players walked back to their bench one by one, heads lowered, footsteps heavy as iron chains.
They sat down.
No words.
No water.
No eye contact.
Their eyes were hollow, as if their souls had already been pulled out.
This game had ended by the third minute.
When the second half began, Kawanobe made its decision.
One by one, the starters were subbed out.
In their place came nervous substitutes.
They had surrendered.
Akashi's gaze swept across the opposite bench.
"You guys come down too."
His voice was calm. Absolute.
Ryonan's starters immediately rose.
Akashi turned slightly.
"Fukuda. Hikoichi. You're in."
Aida Hikoichi and Fukuda Kiccho stepped onto the court alongside three rarely-used substitutes.
Excitement flickered across their faces—mixed with nervousness, and the pent-up energy of players who had waited too long for their turn.
Even with substitutes on both sides, the balance never shifted.
Akashi's training never distinguished between starters and benchwarmers.
Fundamentals.
Discipline.
Tactical awareness.
Every Ryonan player had been sharpened under the same ruthless standard.
The second half lacked the overwhelming brutality of the first—but Ryonan's offense still flowed cleanly, and its defense remained suffocating.
Kawanobe's substitutes tried.
Then failed.
Turnover.
Miss.
Brick after brick.
Their movements stiffened.
Their eyes dulled.
Their steps slowed.
By the midpoint of the second half—
94 — 20.
They moved like empty shells, waiting for the final whistle to free them.
On the sideline, Akashi watched with arms crossed.
No pity.
Only faint weariness—like a hunter staring at prey already dead.
He stood.
"Coach, I'll head back to the locker room."
Coach Taoka didn't even look up.
"Mm. Go. We have another game this afternoon."
"Understood."
Akashi turned and left without looking back.
For him, this match had ended at halftime.
When the final buzzer sounded—
Ryonan 115 — Kawanobe 33
An 82-point difference.
The gym fell silent once more.
Kawanobe's players stood frozen, shoulders slumped, heads bowed.
When they arrived, their eyes had burned with unwillingness to lose.
Now, they shuffled away like a defeated army—backs bent, steps unsteady.
The morning match ended cleanly.
Efficiently.
The afternoon came quickly.
Ryonan vs. Shichikubo.
Fewer spectators.
Akashi still didn't play.
He sat beside Coach Taoka, arms crossed, gaze cold and supervisory—watching his team execute predetermined procedures.
The lineup remained nearly identical.
The whistle blew.
The height difference was immediately obvious.
When the ball rose at center court, Uozumi ascended like an iron tower, tipping it effortlessly to Uekusa.
Fast break.
Pass.
Cut.
Layup.
Swish.
Shichikubo hadn't even set their defense.
From that moment on, the game lost all suspense.
The cheers faded.
Applause became perfunctory.
Soon, spectators slouched in their seats.
Some nodded off.
One even slept openly—mouth agape, a transparent snot bubble trembling with each breath.
Even Ryonan's bench began fighting sleep.
Coach Taoka yawned.
At halftime—
77 — 15.
The second half dissolved into pure garbage time.
Substitutes entered.
Time dragged.
Finally—
Beep.
The final whistle sounded like salvation.
The scoreboard locked in.
Ryonan 140 — Shichikubo 40
A 100-point difference.
History rewritten.
Two records broken in one day.
Whispers spread through the silence.
"A hundred points…"
"That first-year captain never even played…"
"This Ryonan is terrifying."
Ryonan exited calmly.
Some substitutes whispered excitedly, exchanging high-fives.
Akashi did not react.
No smile.
No pride.
Only cold tranquility.
As if today's victories were nothing more than pebbles beneath his feet—
Stepped on without notice.
Forgotten immediately.