"What did you say?!"
Kengo Murasame's face twisted. His eyes sharpened, veins in his neck bulging as he shouted, anger dripping from every word. "Do you even know who you're talking to, you stinky brat?!"
Akashi's calm disregard struck at the very core of his pride. To him, the captain of Miuradai being treated as nothing more than a noisy clown was intolerable.
Arrogance. Too much arrogance.
The condescending tone, the complete indifference, the refusal to even meet his gaze—anger surged violently through Murasame's chest.
The Miuradai bench erupted in murmurs, shouts, and gestures.
Akashi, however, remained still. Hands hanging loosely at his sides, eyes cold and unblinking.
Murasame's chest heaved, and then slowly, a cruel smile curved his lips. Malice flickered in his eyes.
"Heh… ignorant little brat," he hissed, lowering his voice. "You think putting on a jersey and becoming captain lets you boss people around here? Since you want to know your place…"
He paused, letting the words hang, a sinister smile spreading. "Then I'll show you—the basketball court isn't as nice as you imagine."
Whoosh… whoosh…
The referee tossed the ball high above the two teams.
Uozumi and Kengo Murasame leapt. Though Murasame wasn't the center, his height made him the jump-ball contender.
Uozumi used every ounce of strength and skill, touching the ball first.
Slam!
The crisp sound echoed as he tipped it backward.
The ball flew in a straight, low line, landing perfectly in Akashi's hands, who had already retreated half a step.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Footsteps thundered. Players surged like a tide, muscles coiled, eyes sharp, movements precise. Miuradai continued their subtle fouling tactics, eyes darting, arms brushing, sleeves concealing tiny illegal moves, all in the hope of going unnoticed.
Araki Kazuo advanced toward Akashi, sneering with disdain. "You talked back to the captain? I'll teach you a lesson." He feinted, positioning himself for a dirty hit.
Then, a gust of wind passed by his side.
Araki froze.
His eyes widened.
Ryoji Ikegami now held the basketball, charging toward the basket with lightning speed.
Miyamoto Kazunari, assigned to guard him, was frozen, utterly confused.
What just happened? How did the ball get there?
Araki's eyes darted to Akashi. His hands were empty. His posture calm, upright, as if nothing had occurred. Only his eyes reflected the chaos, deep and unshakable.
Thump… thump… thump…
The sound of the basketball hitting the floor was urgent, echoing like drumbeats against everyone's chest, rushing toward Miuradai's basket.
The defenders reacted, but they were already half a step too late.
Ikegami leapt like an arrow released from a bow. Jump, flick, swish—the ball went cleanly through the net.
Ryonan 56–32 Miuradai.
Kengo spun toward Araki. "What happened?! How did your ball end up in their hands?!"
Araki's face flushed. "It… it was stolen by the opponent…"
"Stolen? Didn't you get past him?"
"I… I did," Araki admitted. "But… the ball… it was gone."
Kengo's brows knitted. He couldn't make sense of it. Every calculation failed.
Possession Switches
Araki dribbled cautiously upcourt, eyes locked on Akashi.
Akashi stood motionless, center of gravity perfect, as calm as a statue.
Araki tried a sidestep, seeking a new angle, attempting to bypass the invisible net Akashi seemed to weave around him.
No matter which direction he shifted, Akashi anticipated, cutting off every path.
Sweat dotted Araki's brow. His breaths came faster. It wasn't being blocked—it was being read. Every thought, every decision, mirrored and countered before it could act.
Finally, Araki stopped outside the three-point line, chest heaving. Safety first. He passed the ball.
Whoosh…
Less than two meters, and Akashi intercepted it, fingers closing around the ball like it had always been his.
Araki's heart sank. He stared, mind blank.
How? He was two steps away—how could he…?
There was no time to rationalize. Akashi already turned, steps flowing forward, moving toward Miuradai's basket like a leopard stalking its prey.
Araki bolted after him. Too late.
Miuradai's players froze. Half a beat, and it was over.
Swish…
Ryonan 58–32 Miuradai.
The stands, the bench, even spectators—everyone was silent, stunned by the impossible precision and speed.