"Hey… hey, hey! What just happened?"
"Ryonan scored three points in an instant!"
"I didn't even see how they stole the ball—it was over before I blinked!"
A brief silence swept the stands, then whispers and exclamations erupted like a rising tide. Spectators exchanged confused glances, eyes wide with disbelief. It wasn't that they doubted the score—it was that their own eyes couldn't comprehend it.
Hanagata Toru, ever composed, observed Akashi calmly. "The timing was accurate, the execution decisive. Footwork concealed, ball-handling excellent… but…" He paused, adjusting his glasses. "If it's only this, it's nothing extraordinary. Perhaps the rumors exaggerated his abilities."
"Is that so?" Fujima Kenji muttered, frowning subtly. He studied Akashi closely, unease creeping in despite his calm exterior. Fellow point guards could see what others couldn't: Akashi's steals weren't coincidences—they felt premeditated, as if he had already predicted the ball's trajectory.
Miyagi Ryota crossed his arms lazily. "The first-year captain? Not much! Anyone could do that."
Kogure Kiminobu leaned closer. "Don't be fooled. That's only the surface."
Takenori Akagi's gaze was sharp. "He hasn't even used his full strength."
Ayako's voice grew serious. "He rarely takes action himself. When he does, it's deadly. He isn't showing off—he's forcing his opponents to reveal their weaknesses."
Miyagi murmured quietly, "So… mysterious…"
On the Court
Kengo Murasame could no longer contain himself. He strode to Araki Kazuo, voice low and tight. "Araki… what are you doing?"
"I… I was careful," Araki replied, sweat on his forehead, frustration thick in his tone. "But the opponent seemed to anticipate my every movement…"
Kengo narrowed his eyes. No matter how strong the kid was, he was only a first-year.
"Forget it," Kengo said sharply. "Switch with me. I'll guard him."
Relief washed over Araki. "Yes, captain…"
The ball returned to Miuradai's control. Passing through several hands, it finally reached Kengo Murasame. His eyes swept the frontcourt, cutting through the red figure at the arc like a knife.
"No matter who you are…" he thought, a sneer forming. "Ryonan is just a stepping stone. Kainan is our target."
He dribbled forward, rhythm steady, strides large, fully confident in controlling the half-court.
As he crossed the three-point line, Akashi subtly advanced, knees bent, arms spread—a silent wall.
Kengo stopped, gazing at the first-year. "You're Ryonan's captain?" he said coldly.
Akashi didn't respond, only stared back with heterochromatic eyes as cold and unfathomable as an abyss.
Kengo's temper flared. "Not much, are you? The so-called Final Four Ryonan is about to fall."
He dribbled, shifting weight, preparing a half-turn breakthrough, ready to use subtle body contact for leverage.
Then—Clap!
The crisp sound snapped through him like a slap.
The ball vanished from his hand.
Akashi's fingers retracted, the curve of the basketball still lingering at the tips. A theft so effortless it was almost invisible.
Before Kengo could react, Akashi had already ghosted past, advancing toward Miuradai's basket. Steps swift, silent, unstoppable.
"Stop!" Kengo roared, pivoting, trying to strike subtly with his shoulder—his usual tactic to unbalance opponents. But his move hit nothing. Akashi had already widened the distance.
Damn it… he cursed silently, gritting his teeth. Just my carelessness… how could a first-year…
Double-Team Attempt
As Akashi approached the three-point line, Miuradai's center, Akio Kawasaki, burst from the flank. Arms spread, an iron tower blocking the path.
Kengo closed in from behind. Front and back—Akashi was seemingly trapped.
To outsiders, the ball should have been stolen. Nine times out of ten, it would have been.
But in the stands, Takenori Akagi and others leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
Swish… Clap… Swish… Swish… Clap… Swish…
Four sharp sounds punctuated the court. Everyone glanced up at the scoreboard.
Ryonan 61–32 Miuradai.
Miuradai's players froze. They hadn't seen a single movement.
The first swish: Akashi, under the double-team, flicking a pass like an arrow.
The clap: Koshino Hiroaki, now open at the three-point line, catching the pass.
The second swish: Koshino jumping and shooting.
The final swish: The ball sinking through the net.
Perfectly executed, yet seemingly impossible.
Kengo and Akio stood dumbfounded. They hadn't even noticed the pass.
In the stands, Fujima Kenji's unease deepened. Akashi's actions—the stealthy steal, the fake drive, the perfectly timed assist—were masterful, yet still within the realm of a brilliant point guard.
"Was it a flash of inspiration, or premeditated?" Fujima wondered.
Hanagata Toru adjusted his glasses, noting the precision. He shook his head with a faint smile. A gap opened in the double-team, and the teammate seized it. Nothing extraordinary… yet.
What he didn't know: Akashi's full strength had barely been touched.
Three minutes after Akashi entered, Ryonan unleashed a 10–0 offensive surge. Steals, fast breaks, three-pointers, dunks—all flowing seamlessly.
The score widened to 64–34. Thirty points. A crushing hammer on Miuradai's confidence.
They had planned to wear Ryonan down with fouls, grind them out, and eventually overtake them.
Instead, they were being dominated.
Especially Kengo Murasame.
Backcourt, face ashen, veins throbbing, a mix of anger, humiliation, and… doubt flickering in his eyes.
"Give me the ball," he growled, voice low and forced. Teammates obeyed without protest.
Kengo's chest burned with a dangerous mix of rage and wounded pride. This kid is ruining everything… no, I'll teach him a lesson.
A sinister smile crept across his lips. I'll break him.
What he didn't realize: every twitch, every flicker, every heartbeat had already been noted by Akashi. Passive observation of micro-expressions—breathing, muscle tension, gaze—was nothing for him.
"We are Miuradai; Ryonan is nothing!" Kengo barked, charging forward.
But as Miuradai surged, their offensive torrent suddenly froze.
The double-edged precision of Akashi was about to trap them in ways no one could have imagined.