On the court—
Moroboshi Dai soared like an eagle with outstretched wings, swatting down another three-point attempt from Jin Soichiro with a block that was not only powerful but also precise, sending the ball directly into the hands of Aichi's small forward instead of out of bounds.
As Moroboshi landed with knees bent to absorb the impact, his sneakers screeched against the hardwood, and without missing a beat, he launched himself forward like a spring-loaded war machine, sprinting toward Kanagawa's basket in just a few long strides.
The small forward met his eyes with perfect timing and, without hesitation, flicked the ball into the air in a soft arc, sending it toward the streaking silhouette ahead.
In that moment, the court felt like it had been fast-forwarded; before the crowd's gasps had even settled, Moroboshi was already cutting through the paint, his eyes locked on the rim while his dribble rhythm pounded the floor in sharp succession like rapid drumbeats.
Using the brief gap to his advantage, Moroboshi suddenly leapt, his body stretching mid-air into a perfect arc just as Rukawa Kaede gritted his teeth and chased from behind, his hair catching in the wind as he pushed for a block—but he was just a fraction too late.
The sound of the ball slicing through the air echoed crisply, drawing a clean arc under the lights, as though it were pulled toward the rim by some unseen force, and then—
Swish.
The net curled with a clear snap, and the ball dropped clean through the center of the hoop.
In the plays that followed, similar scenes kept repeating.
Just as Uozumi Jun prepared to rise for a dunk, Morishige Hiroshi was already planted under the rim like a tower, extending his arms wide enough to blot out the hoop, and no matter how much Uozumi powered through, his shots collided with what felt like a brick wall, always getting knocked down hard.
Shifting their approach, Kanagawa turned to perimeter shooting, but Moroboshi's defense moved like a shadow—every time someone raised the ball to shoot, he would slip into the path like a phantom, his fingertips brushing just enough to disrupt the shot or swatting it clean to the sidelines.
Everyone had expected Kanagawa's powerhouse lineup to dominate Aichi, but the match had flipped their expectations completely.
With Morishige guarding the paint like a living fortress and Moroboshi weaving an impenetrable net along the perimeter, the two formed a seamless wall of defense, one sealing off the inside, the other disrupting the outside, creating a synchronized interior-perimeter lockdown.
Under the weight of this tandem, Kanagawa's offense crumbled again and again, while Aichi capitalized on fast-breaks to steadily score, widening the gap and forcing Kanagawa into an increasingly passive and restricted state.
On the scoreboard, Kanagawa's points seemed frozen—they had only managed to score once during their initial response and hadn't moved since—while Aichi's score, though rising slowly, was undeniably growing.
2 to 8.
2 to 14.
2 to 18.
…
The game clock ticked on as nearly 7 minutes passed in the first half, and the gym's air felt frozen with a kind of silence that left everyone breathless.
No one had expected the match to unfold like this.
The audience sat in stunned disbelief, their eyes glued to the flashing scoreboard, reading and rereading those numbers as if they'd change, their expressions a mixture of confusion and shock.
After all, this Kanagawa squad had been hailed pre-game as one of the strongest championship contenders, built from the national tournament's champion and runner-up, plus top-tier players from Shoyo and Ryonan, teams that were every bit as elite on paper.
Yet here they were, this loaded team now completely overwhelmed by Aichi's offense, unable to strike back at all.
The brutal scoreline, the players' drained and anxious faces, every detail clashed with what everyone thought they knew, shattering assumptions and leaving jaws dropped.
Nobody had expected this.
The team everyone had favored to win it all was now being dragged through the mud.
On Kanagawa's bench—
"Monkey-boss, what the hell are you doing?! Wreck that guy already!" Sakuragi Hanamichi shouted, pacing with frustration as he yanked at his own hair. "And that mushroom-head pretty-boy—hurry up and think of something!"
(Note: "Mushroom-head pretty-boy" is Sakuragi's nickname for Fujima Kenji.)
Ayako was stomping her feet too, her voice rising with urgency as she tugged on Shimizu Kanon's sleeve and pleaded, "Kanon, this is bad! We're completely getting shut down—hurry, we need a plan!"
"Ayako-senpai, don't panic yet," Shimizu Kanon said calmly, trying to ease her nerves. "Morishige Hiroshi and Moroboshi Dai's coordination is strong, yes, but it's not without flaws. You've got to believe in them—and besides, we're not even using our full strength yet."
Hearing those words, Ayako blinked, startled for a second, but the anxiety weighing on her slowly began to ease.
That's right!
The lineup out there right now was only mid-to-upper-tier at best. They hadn't even played their top-end lineup yet.
Not to mention Aoi Kunisaku—he's the trump card.
Thinking that, Ayako finally managed to loosen up a little, though when her eyes fell back on the score difference flashing on the board, it still felt like a heavy stone sat in her chest.
Sure, they had their aces in reserve, but seeing such a wide gap on the board—it was impossible to feel totally confident.
Like the saying goes: better safe than sorry.
She was feeling that firsthand now.
If, by any chance, the Kanagawa players all collectively lost their edge at the same time, they'd end up the laughingstock of every high school in all of Japan.
But as soon as that thought spun through her head, she shook it hard, like trying to knock the bad omen right out.
If it really came to that, getting anxious now wouldn't change anything.
And anyway, there were still three coaches and Shimizu Kanon on their side—it wasn't her place to worry herself sick about it.
On the court—
Kanagawa had possession now.
Fujima Kenji tapped the basketball with his fingertips as his gaze swept over the scoreboard, but not even a ripple stirred in his expression.
He looked as calm and steady as ever, like the deficit wasn't even his to carry.
He tapped the ball twice with his knuckles, then turned his head and shot a glance at Rukawa Kaede. The latter instantly understood, dropped low, and exploded into motion.
His sneakers scraped the floor with a sharp squeal as he tore through Aichi's perimeter defense and charged straight toward the paint.
Rukawa's movement instantly set off alarm bells in Morishige and Moroboshi's minds.
Morishige pivoted, digging his heel into the hardwood. His massive body shifted with force, wind tearing at the hem of his jersey.
Moroboshi bent his knees and dropped his stance, eyes locked on Rukawa's shoulder like a hunting beast ready to pounce on the next move.
As both defenders focused in, Uozumi Jun slipped into the paint from the side, taking up position under Aichi's rim.
Fukuda Kicchou, too, faked a step during his run, shook off his defender, and cut sharply into the key.
Meanwhile, Jin Soichiro kept circling along the perimeter with smart footwork, the number on his jersey drawing trailing shadows under the lights.
Kanagawa's movement snapped together like gears meshing in a precision machine, tearing open slivers of space in Aichi's defense.
The four of them stirred the court like a stone dropped into a still lake, instantly sending ripples of tension through the entire Aichi lineup.
Everyone on Aichi held their breath, eyes fixed on the rapidly shifting formation, nerves pulled taut.
Even Morishige and Moroboshi, who had been solely focused on their marks, found their attention split. Instinctively, they both flicked their eyes toward the moving Kanagawa players.
The Aichi players were clearly rattled, their eyes full of tension.
In that razor-edge moment, what they feared most was Fujima passing the ball, blowing open their defense.
But right then—
Fujima did something that made jaws drop.
He stood firmly just outside the three-point line, knees bent in a solid stance. Then suddenly, he jumped. His body shot up like an arrow, eyes fixed on the hoop with full focus—he was going for a three.
The moment hung suspended.
Aichi's players all froze in shock, their faces lighting up with disbelief.
A three-pointer?
In all the scouting reports they had studied before the match, Fujima Kenji's three-point stats were hardly notable. In fact, it was one of his weaker points.
So this abrupt choice felt totally out of character.
"He's faking it," Moroboshi muttered, eyes sharp.
But the moment he saw Fujima's full shooting form, he didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward in long strides and, with a powerful push off the ground, launched into the air with arms stretched high—ready to shut down the shot with a block.
And then—just when everyone thought it was going to be a three-point attempt—
The play flipped.
Fujima's shooting form suddenly collapsed.
He tucked his arms in tight and locked the ball in his grip.
Then, with a twist of his wrist, he hurled it hard toward the floor beneath him.
Whoosh—
The ball slammed the hardwood with a clean, cutting bounce.
What?!
Moroboshi's heart skipped a beat. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, veins twitching at the corners of his eyes as shock hit him.
Boom—
The ball struck the court with a solid thud.
The orange sphere popped back up, bouncing half a man's height.
At the same instant, Rukawa Kaede slashed in from the arc like a black arrow. His fingertips snagged the ball's rising arc perfectly, palm locking around it in one smooth motion.
His gaze swept the key like a flash of lightning.
Uozumi Jun stood firm on the left side of the paint like a steel tower, while Morishige Hiroshi's massive shadow pressed in from the right.
Digging the tip of his sneaker into the court, Rukawa Kaede launched off the floor, slipping past Uozumi's left side with a sharp screech of rubber on wood.
The three players' positions now formed a perfect triangle.
Uozumi's broad back cut down the middle, splitting him and Morishige to either side like a living wall and blocking Morishige just far enough away.
This was a technique he'd learned from watching Aoi Kunisaku play.
And it worked like a charm.
The only difference was—Aoi could treat his opponent like a moving screen; he had to rely on his own teammate as one.
That brief opening was all he needed.
Without hesitating, Rukawa bent his knees and sprang upward, clutching the ball tight as his eyes locked onto Aichi's rim.
Morishige's eyes flared wide in alarm.
He lunged forward, ready to block, but Uozumi's mountainous back firmly held its ground, blocking the path.
Morishige wanted to contest the shot, but Uozumi left him no space.
All he could do was jump in place behind him.
Whoosh—
The ball fired from Rukawa's palm like an arrow off a bowstring.
Morishige reacted in the same instant, throwing up his arms as his muscles tensed into steel cables, fingertips straining skyward—only to meet empty air.
That shot angle was viciously precise.
The orange ball skimmed just half an inch above Morishige's fingers and ripped through the wind on its way toward the hoop.
Swish—
The net sang with a crisp ring as the ball sliced through and dropped cleanly through the basket.
The scoreboard ticked upward.
Kanagawa 4 — Aichi 18
"Nice shot," Fujima Kenji said, eyes lighting up as he reached out his palm to Rukawa, voice laced with open praise.
Rukawa gave him a side glance, the corner of his lips twitching just barely. He raised his sweaty hand and met Fujima's with a soft smack.
Clap… clap… clap…
Fujima clapped his hands again, eyes sweeping over the Kanagawa lineup as he called out with clarity and confidence, "Let's keep it up. We'll catch up from here."
His encouragement swept away much of the gloom that had been choking the team. A little fire returned to their eyes, and the weight on their shoulders lightened.
"Fujima's got all the qualities a guard needs," Taoka Moichi said, watching him glide through the crowd. "He's really not far behind Maki Shinichi. If not for his physical limitations, Shoyo might have gone just as far as Kainan."
Coach Takato Riki didn't disagree. He nodded and replied, "You're probably right. But talent counts as strength too. That's why Maki has always edged him out."
In other words—Fujima was good, but his physique would always hold him back.
On the court—
Whistles and squeaking sneakers echoed like a taut net of sound.
Fujima stood just outside the three-point line, scanning Aichi's tight defensive formation.
He knew better than anyone what it meant to be physically outmatched in a high-intensity match.
So he never let himself get trapped. Instead, he played smart.
He began directing his teammates' positioning—not just to shift the defense's focus away from him, but also to create new offensive openings.
With each adjustment, the tide slowly started to turn.
Kanagawa's earlier collapse was beginning to steady.
They'd broken the scoring drought, but the situation was far from fixed.
Kanagawa was still trailing Aichi on the board.
Fujima's eyes burned with focus. In the rapid transitions of offense and defense, he finally caught a subtle gap in the coordinated defense of Morishige and Moroboshi.
But Aichi's offense was still like a crashing wave, coming one after another.
No matter how hard he worked to organize their defense, it was tough to stop the onslaught.
The coordination between Morishige and Moroboshi was beyond anything they'd anticipated.
They didn't just form a wall on defense. On offense, they moved like clockwork—reading each other perfectly and executing seamless plays.
Inside the paint, Uozumi fought with everything he had, but he still couldn't hold back Morishige's overwhelming force.
Whenever Morishige charged toward the rim with the ball, his massive frame bulldozed forward like a thunderclap. Uozumi gritted his teeth and braced for impact, but every time, it felt like throwing a stone at a tank.
More than once, Morishige's dunks hit with such brutal power that Uozumi stumbled backward, body swaying wildly, nearly toppling to the floor.
Though he held his ground with sheer grit, the flush in his face, his ragged breath, and his unsteady footwork told the story—he was struggling.
Meanwhile, with Morishige drawing all the defensive pressure inside, Moroboshi darted around the court like a fish in open water, slipping past defenders with ease.
Using his sharp positioning and instinctive court sense, Moroboshi Dai kept finding perfect chances to shoot. As long as Morishige Hiroshi drew the defenders' attention, one well-timed pass was all he needed. Moroboshi could then pull the trigger without hesitation, and the ball would arc beautifully through the air and fall clean into the basket.
Who would have thought that these two players—each from different schools and once rivals—would now put aside any past friction and sync so flawlessly on the court?
One was a wrecking ball in the paint, impossible to ignore.
The other was a fluid force on the outside, darting in and out with deadly timing.
Every pass, every drive, every shot—they all showed a chemistry no one had expected going into the game.
As the clock ticked on, Kanagawa's situation grew worse.
They had hoped to find a breakthrough and close the gap, but reality struck back like a hammer.
Not only did the gap not shrink—in fact, under the relentless pressure from Morishige and Moroboshi, it looked like it was about to grow even wider.
Time slipped by in the back-and-forth struggle.
Before anyone realized it, the scoreboard had crept up to 33–51.
That bright red number felt like twin blades stabbing into every Kanagawa player's chest.
There were only 2 minutes left in the first half.
An 18-point gap hung over them like a crushing weight.
And worse—if Aichi scored just once more, the difference would pass 20 points.
Even though 18 and 20 aren't far apart numerically, the mental pressure between the two is worlds apart.
Now, every Kanagawa player was gasping for breath, sweat pouring down their chins, uniforms soaked and clinging to their backs.
Even Fujima Kenji, usually the picture of composure, couldn't hide the urgency in his eyes. His brows were twisted into a tight knot.
His gaze fell, almost instinctively, on Morishige Hiroshi.
He was the reason Kanagawa was in this mess.
If it were just Moroboshi on the court, Kanagawa's current defense could probably keep things together.
But Morishige in the paint? He was a beast—an unstoppable force that made calling him a "paint monster" feel like an understatement.
Just standing in the key with his steel-frame body, he cast a shadow that darkened the court and overwhelmed everyone around him.
Fujima knew that if Uozumi Jun could just hold out a little longer inside and buy them some breathing room on the perimeter, they'd still have a shot to chip away at the lead.
But right now, Uozumi was being completely outplayed.
Every time he tried to box out, he fell short.
Every jump for a block, he was a split-second too slow.
Even the rebounds—his specialty—were being ripped out of his hands by Morishige's raw strength.
There was a desperate, scattered air about him. He couldn't gain the upper hand at all.
It wasn't just Fujima who noticed—everyone on the Kanagawa bench could see it clearly.
"I thought Uozumi could at least hold the line for a while... Didn't expect him to collapse this fast," Taoka Moichi muttered, letting out a long sigh as he watched the chaos unfold.
But there was no blame in his tone. Only gravity.
He'd read the scouting report on Morishige Hiroshi, of course.
Now, watching that massive presence tearing up the paint, he was more convinced than ever: this kid was the most talented center he'd seen in his entire coaching career. No contest.
The way Aoi Kunisaku was undoubtedly the most gifted forward he'd ever coached—Morishige was the center version of that.
Just look at the kid's build.
Wide shoulders. Thick arms and legs like steel beams. Yet he moved without a hint of clumsiness. His jumps were like coiled springs.
Just on physical gifts alone, plenty of pro-level post players might lose out to him.
The more Taoka thought about it, the deeper his frown grew.
He knew that even if Uozumi gave everything he had, the raw difference in talent meant he was doomed to take hit after hit.
And the scariest part?
Morishige Hiroshi was still just a first-year. He had so much time left to grow.
Once his technique and game sense caught up with that body—who could say what kind of monster he'd become?
He might end up shaking the entire basketball world in Japan.
Just as Kanagawa was suffocating under the weight of the score gap, something suddenly ripped through the court—a wild, thunderous aura that burst like lightning across the hardwood.
Every eye turned instinctively toward the source.
And when they saw who it was, every pupil on the court shrank in shock.
Faces froze.
A wave of sheer awe rolled through the crowd.