After the timeout, Tsukubu immediately found themselves hitting a wall at every turn.
Their forwards, Kenta Mine and Izumi Takashi, were harried by Fukuda Kiccho's off-ball defense. Like a shadow, Fukuda anticipated every run, cutting off passes or sticking tightly the instant they received the ball. Every inside route was blocked unless they retreated for a long-range three—but their outside shooting was far inferior to Godai Tomokazu's, and several attempts rattled off the rim, giving Ryonan fast-break opportunities.
Meanwhile, Godai Tomokazu himself was relentlessly guarded by Koshino Hiroaki. No matter where he moved, Koshino stayed glued to him, arms wide, shadowing every step.
Initially, Godai had hoped to rest by standing still, waiting for teammates to create openings. But Koshino applied subtle pressure, leaning slightly, sometimes brushing against him, as if wrestling silently. Every step of acceleration Godai attempted was met with Koshino's precise footwork, blocking paths half a step ahead.
Frustration built to a near-boiling point. The team's primary three-point weapon was neutralized, energy wasted on futile efforts.
Even inside, Nango Koichiro's attempts were stifled. Uozumi's massive hands swatted away nearly every shot, forcing Nango to expend energy fruitlessly. Despite Nango's explosiveness, he could not match Uozumi's trained strength, timing, or stability. Height alone wasn't enough—the difference in weight and experience created a fatal imbalance.
Tsukubu's offense stagnated. Three-pointers blocked by Koshino, mid-range cuts denied by Fukuda, inside attacks shut down by Uozumi. Passes faltered, movements became chaotic, shots clanged, and anxiety etched itself across their faces.
Minute by minute, what had been an evenly matched battle tilted decisively in Ryonan's favor. Passing errors rose, running slowed, shooting accuracy fell. Even Natsume Hiroshi's dribbling grew unstable, Izumi Takashi's fast breaks repeatedly stopped by Sendoh.
The scoreboard reflected the shift:
46–39… 52–41… 60–43.
Tsukubu's collapse was undeniable.
Kawasaki Kazumi stood at the bench, dumbfounded. Every adjustment he had made—the careful rotation of Godai, the forwards sharing offense, the pick-and-roll plays—was systematically anticipated and neutralized. It was as if Ryonan had predicted every move before it happened.
His gaze swept Ryonan's bench, landing on the red-haired captain, Akashi Seijuro. Memories from the timeout resurfaced. Akashi had spoken calmly, issuing instructions with authority. Could it be… this young man had orchestrated the entire counterattack?
A preposterous thought surged: this sixteen- or seventeen-year-old had not only read through Kawasaki's tactics but deployed precise countermeasures, blocking Tsukubu's offensive options entirely.
Kawasaki clenched his fists, stunned. He had coached for years, faced exceptional players and cunning coaches—but never someone like Akashi. Sitting quietly on the bench, yet controlling the game as if moving pieces on an invisible chessboard.
Beep. The first half ended.
Ryonan 64, Tsukubu 45. A 19-point lead.
Minutes ago, the game had been fierce and balanced. Now, Tsukubu was suppressed, without a chance to recover.
In the stands, Hanagata Toru furrowed his brows. "What sharp offense… Tsukubu completely suppressed."
Fujima Kenji's expression mirrored the gravity of the situation. "I didn't expect Ryonan's strength to have improved this much. Their system could threaten Shoyo."
Especially Sendoh Akira, whose individual skills—breakthrough rhythm and predictable passes—had reached a remarkable level.
Fujima's gaze shifted to Ryonan's bench, fixating on Akashi. The thought struck: if Akashi played in the second half, linking with Sendoh… victory could be nearly certain.
Meanwhile, Shohoku's players watched from the sidelines.
"Is this Ryonan's full strength?" Miyagi Ryota muttered, solemn. Tsukubu had been a formidable team in past prefectural contests, but now Ryonan was suppressing them effortlessly.
Mitsui Hisashi turned to Kogure Kiminobu. "How many points did you lose by in practice against Ryonan?"
Kogure recalled: "Fifty points… and Akashi only played near the end."
"Fifty points?" Mitsui's jaw tightened.
Kogure nodded bitterly. "If he'd played earlier, it might have been even worse."
Even Shohoku, at full strength, would have to give everything to contend—and with Akashi on the court, victory would be far from certain.
In the reporter's area, Nakamura Taizo stared at the scoreboard. "Leading by 19 points… unimaginable for top-four teams in the prefecture."
Aida Yayoi shook her head calmly. "It's not just raw strength. Tsukubu was targeted tactically."
Nakamura paused. "Targeted?"
"Yes. Before the timeout, they relied on fast breaks and three-pointers. Afterward, their perimeter was locked, inside game suppressed, and mid-range lanes blocked. All three scoring points neutralized. Ryonan's strategy functioned like a precise sniper shot—targeted, flawless, almost impossible to counter."
Nakamura's eyes widened. "So… Ryonan saw Tsukubu's tactics in advance?"
Aida's gaze lingered on Akashi. "It seems very possible. Either the coach is a tactical genius, or someone on the bench predicted everything—down to the finest detail."