On the court—
A red blur suddenly tore through the air like lightning.
The figure moved so fast it was dizzying to watch. Before anyone could react, it had already darted straight toward Moroboshi Dai, who was holding the ball on offense.
No one even saw how the red figure made the move. All they saw was a flicker.
The next moment, the ball in Moroboshi's hands was gone.
Everyone snapped to attention—only to realize that the ball was already under that red figure's control, racing in the opposite direction. Moroboshi remained frozen where he stood, arms still held in the posture of holding the ball, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Bang…
Bang…
Bang…
The sharp sound of the ball pounding against the court thudded like a war drum in their ears.
All heads turned.
The red figure was crouched low, driving the ball like a bullet toward Aichi's basket. The sneakers screeched across the floor, and the wind it kicked up seemed to rip shadows right off the court.
"T-That's impossible…" Moroboshi muttered in shock, stunned in place.
He instinctively looked back. That red figure had already launched into the air for a fast-break layup. His spine arched like a drawn bow, the number "11" on his back flickering under the gym lights.
What had just happened?
He didn't even have time to blink, and the ball was gone.
Morishige Hiroshi silently watched that streak of red, his throat bobbing slightly.
He didn't turn to defend right away.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he simply couldn't.
By the time he realized the ball had been stolen, that figure was already a blur tearing into their half of the court.
He knew his weakness all too well.
Against that kind of raw speed, chasing back full force would do nothing.
Every player on Aichi's side had their eyes wide open, watching as that red streak sliced through the key like no one was there and then launched upward.
With a sharp crack from his takeoff, the body soared into a perfect arc. The arm swept forward with the sound of the wind, and the ball exploded toward the rim.
Clang!
The rim shuddered violently. Even the backboard rocked, and the ball slammed down through the net like a tamed beast falling into a cage.
The scoreboard updated instantly.
Kanagawa 35 – Aichi 51
Right now, every player drenched in sweat on the court, every substitute frozen at the bench, and every spectator holding their breath in the stands had their eyes locked onto that red figure.
No one cared how many points the shot was worth.
Because all of them were being gripped by the crushing aura that exploded out of that presence.
That figure in red was none other than Rukawa Kaede.
But at the same time, he wasn't quite the Rukawa Kaede they all knew.
Right now, his back was straighter than usual. Veins throbbed along his neck with every breath. His bangs were stuck to his sweaty forehead, and his eyes gleamed with a terrifying intensity—like blades dipped in ice, or wildfire raging across a dried plain.
He stood beneath the basket, chest heaving, the edge of his jersey fluttering in the breeze, revealing lean muscles around his waist and core. The sheer aggression pouring off of him was almost physical, like an enraged beast—dangerous, primal, instinctive.
This was...
Those who knew what it meant stared in stunned silence.
Sakuragi Hanamichi muttered from the bench, his throat dry. "Rukawa Kaede... don't tell me…"
His thoughts flashed back to late-night training, when he'd caught Rukawa alone in the gym. Moonlight filtering through the windows lit up his sweat-soaked back.
Back then, Rukawa had looked just like this—dangerous, focused, ruthless.
Just like how he himself had once felt.
Sendoh Akira still wore his usual lazy smirk, but there was a glint of admiration in his gaze. "I knew he had it in him."
He remembered their one-on-one during training camp. That sudden, suffocating pressure when Rukawa had broken past him—that had been the sign.
Maki Shinichi gave a quiet nod. "He's awakened at last."
He knew exactly what that look meant.
Ayako blinked hard, then said in surprise, "Rukawa Kaede… could it be…?"
Shimizu Kanon nodded, smiling faintly. "It's just as you're thinking. Rukawa Kaede's awakened his own 'Wild Instinct'."
Taoka Moichi, Takato Riki, and Anzai Mitsuyoshi all looked visibly shocked.
Taoka Moichi said, "I thought it might happen eventually, but I didn't expect him to awaken his 'Wild Instinct' this early."
After all, Sendoh only awakened it in his second year.
Rukawa had done it a full year earlier than Sendoh.
Takato Riki didn't seem too impressed by Taoka Moichi's remark and replied, "Don't forget, there's someone who awakened even earlier."
As soon as he said that, Taoka Moichi immediately thought of Aoi Kunisaku.
None of them actually knew when Aoi had awakened his Wild Instinct.
But judging from everything he had shown so far, it was likely he awakened even before entering high school.
That thought sent a jolt through both of them. Their eyes turned toward Anzai Mitsuyoshi, who was calmly sipping tea on the sideline, and complex emotions rippled in their gazes.
There was envy. Jealousy…
After all, who wouldn't be jealous?
Both men muttered the same thought deep inside: 'This old guy's luck is way too good… it's honestly infuriating.'
On the court—
Morishige Hiroshi's sharp gaze locked onto Rukawa Kaede, now with a much more cautious edge.
Being an awakened one himself, he instantly recognized Rukawa's current state.
But true to his nature, he didn't show a hint of surprise. In fact, the corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly.
It was the instinctual reaction of a hunter who had just caught the scent of a powerful prey.
The stronger the opponent, the more it stirred the battle lust inside him.
He flexed his fingers, joints cracking faintly as he did, and the fighting intent in his eyes grew sharper.
Even if Rukawa had awakened his Wild Instinct, he was confident he could handle it with ease.
On the other side—
Moroboshi Dai's face had completely changed.
He stared at Rukawa's current form, and of course he knew what it was.
Wild Instinct.
He locked eyes on the overwhelming energy swirling around Rukawa's body, and his throat felt choked with cotton.
That familiar yet elusive aura now slashed at his heart like a scalpel, carving deep into his long-held resentment.
It was the very gift he had dreamed of for so long, but never possessed.
"Why… why don't I have that kind of talent?" he growled under his breath, eyes bloodshot. His nails dug into his palms as he glared at Rukawa with envy, jealousy, and fury—wanting nothing more than to be him.
With Rukawa's awakening, there was finally a sliver of hope for Kanagawa to close the gap.
From that moment on, Rukawa played like a man reborn, radiating a fierce aura as he entered a berserk mode.
He moved like a fox—nimble, deadly, unpredictable. His eyes locked onto opponents, hunting for every opening—disrupting, stealing, and intercepting.
Several of Aichi's offensive plays were completely broken by Rukawa's aggressive stops.
The defensive wall built up by Morishige and Moroboshi with their tight inside-out coordination started to crack under Rukawa's relentless assault.
But Rukawa's physical build still wasn't a match for Morishige's.
Several times, he forced his way from the perimeter to the paint only to get stuck at the last second, unable to press further.
Even if he tried to shoot over Morishige, there was always the risk of getting blocked.
Thankfully, Rukawa didn't fall into the trap of thinking he was invincible just because he awakened Wild Instinct.
He made a snap decision to pass. With a whip of his arm, the ball shot back to the three-point line, landing precisely in Jin Soichiro's hands.
Jin caught it, didn't hesitate, locked eyes on the rim, jumped, and let it fly.
The whole motion was fluid and sharp.
Whoosh—
The ball sliced through the air in a graceful arc before dropping cleanly through the hoop.
Swish—
The net curled upward, and the ball settled in.
"Damn it," Moroboshi muttered, snapping out of his daze. He clenched his jaw, cursing himself in frustration.
He'd been so locked onto Rukawa's overwhelming presence that he lost track of Jin, who found the opening and took the shot.
The battle continued to rage.
Aichi had possession.
Their point guard had just received the inbound pass and barely touched the ball when he felt a cold chill at the nape of his neck.
That was the unique pressure of a beast drawing near, like a blade's edge grazing his spine.
He didn't even have time to turn his head. A blast of wind laced with sweat barreled down on him. His body tensed up instantly.
The red figure exploded toward him like a storm, energy surging off his frame as if it had weight.
He didn't need any feints. Just the sheer speed and pressure from the charge alone were enough to throw the point guard off balance.
The moment the Aichi guard tried to shield the ball, a flash of red streaked past, and a long arm snapped across the dribble lane like a clamp. As his fingertips scraped across the ball, it was already bouncing loose with a loud pop.
Rukawa again.
The Aichi guard spun around in a panic, only to see the red blur already dashing several meters away like an arrow shot from a bow, his sneakers screaming against the floor.
Seeing this, Moroboshi Dai quickly sprinted back on defense. Luckily, he wasn't slow, and the distance between him and Rukawa Kaede visibly shrank.
The two of them streaked past the half-court line, wind howling past their ears as the outline of Aichi's hoop grew sharper.
Outside the paint, Rukawa Kaede suddenly decelerated mid-step. The sharp halt from his jump-step kicked up a spray of dust.
Sensing the opportunity, Moroboshi Dai clenched his teeth and lunged forward from behind. His arm shot out like a blade, his fingertips nearly grazing the collar of Rukawa's jersey.
But Rukawa seemed to have predicted the block coming.
At the peak of his jump, he pulled his right hand back and transferred the ball to his left in a smooth arc. His core twisted with explosive strength as he bent in the air like a drawn bow.
Moroboshi Dai's block missed, brushing nothing but the sweaty breeze he left behind. When he looked up again, Rukawa's body was contorted at an unbelievable reverse-layup angle, and the ball gently rolled from his fingers, spinning off the right side of the rim.
Swish…
The ball dropped cleanly through the net.
Such quick reactions.
Moroboshi Dai clenched his molars so tightly they nearly sparked. His eyes were stormy with jealousy and frustration, and even the tips of his ears turned red from the surge of emotion.
Every tiny detail of that layup burned like needles in his eyes.
The curve of Rukawa's fingertips on the ball as he caught it, the clean motion of his wrist when switching hands, the way his body hung in the air like a dancer frozen in time—it was as precise as if it had been measured with a ruler.
That perfect blend of refined skill and wild instinct was like a scalpel, carving slowly into his chest.
The next moment—
A flash of cold steel flickered in his gaze.
Just as Rukawa Kaede descended from the shot, Moroboshi's eyes turned sharp. He shifted his weight with intent, and his body lunged toward Rukawa like a spiked vine, reckless and full of hidden malice.
Thud…
A dull, heavy impact rang out.
Rukawa, still in his landing motion, took the hit directly.
His body jolted violently. When he touched down, his ankle twisted with a sickening sound, and he staggered forward three steps, fingers nearly scraping the floor before he caught himself.
He hung his head low, bangs falling over his eyes, but the veins bulging at his neck betrayed his rising fury.
When he stood upright and turned, his glare was ice forged into a blade, slicing straight into Moroboshi's face.
But Moroboshi only acted like nothing happened. He even shrugged and opened his hands as if the hit had been pure coincidence.
Yet Rukawa said nothing.
He simply looked away and walked past him, his steps steady, the sound of his sneakers ringing crisply across the floor.
It was the stride of someone stepping over an insignificant stone. Or maybe, someone ignoring a bug not even worth squashing.
He completely and deliberately ignored Moroboshi Dai.
Moroboshi's nails dug into his palms again.
On the outside, he remained calm. But inside, a fire was roaring.
If anyone else had dismissed him, he might've just sneered and moved on. But coming from Rukawa Kaede, this silent disregard felt like a blunt knife slicing through his most sensitive nerves.
After all, this was the guy who awakened the Wild Instinct he longed for most.
Before he realized it, his jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt—not from rage, but from the crushing sense of defeat.
That helplessness, the feeling of being trampled by sheer talent, was harder to endure than any physical blow.
Kanagawa's bench.
"That bastard did that on purpose! What a cheap move!" Mitsui Hisashi's fist slammed onto the bench with a loud bang, and he spat the words out through clenched teeth.
Dirty hits like that—hidden, sneaky, and underhanded—were far worse than any blatant foul.
Miyagi Ryota looked just as pissed. His tone was sharp as he growled, "I've had it with that guy. Coach, put me in—I'll teach him what 'Kanagawa rules' really mean!"
He rolled up his sleeves and started moving toward the court. His sneakers screeched against the floor as he stepped forward.
Seeing how worked up they were, Ayako quickly stepped in to stop them. She raised her voice and said, "You two, calm down! We knew from the start they'd use dirty tricks. Trust our players. Rukawa might be a bit dense sometimes, but he's not dumb enough to let himself get hurt that easily. There's only a little time left in the first half. Let's wait and see."
Hearing her say that, both Mitsui and Miyagi finally cooled down a little, though their fists were still clenched tight.
But there was one person who wasn't happy at all—Sakuragi Hanamichi, who never got along with Rukawa Kaede.
Right now, he stared at Rukawa, who was still bouncing around on the court full of life, looking completely disappointed. In his heart, he was thinking something nasty: 'What a shame. That damn Rukawa should've broken a leg and been subbed out. Then this genius could come in and finish the game!'
On the court.
The squeaking of rubber soles on hardwood echoed nonstop. The scoreboard's numbers flickered under the lights, blurry from the glare.
Rukawa Kaede, on Kanagawa's side, looked like someone had flipped his engine switch. The usual lazy glint in his eyes was gone—replaced by a razor-sharp edge.
He crouched low, pressing in on Aichi's ball handler. With one stretch of his long arms, he snatched the ball in a clean, ruthless steal, his sneakers letting out a sharp screech on the floor.
And even more shocking—when Moroboshi Dai broke through with the ball and was about to go for a layup, Rukawa burst in diagonally like a shadow. He rose up and planted his palm squarely on the basketball.
That thunderous counterattack felt like it opened Kanagawa's scoring floodgates.
Rukawa pushed the ball up the court, jersey soaked in sweat. The number on his back flickered with each movement.
He did a quick crossover, broke past a defender, then flicked the ball to an open teammate under the hoop. It turned into an easy, clean layup.
In the next possession, he caught a pass at the three-point line. He bent his knees slightly, jumped, and his hair whipped up from the momentum. The ball cut through the air in a perfect arc, hitting nothing but net. The swish rang soft and sharp.
In just a few minutes, the scoreboard flipped like pages in the wind.
Kanagawa pulled off a solid 6–0 run.
The gap Aichi had built started melting away like spring ice.
Just when everyone thought the point difference would stay within single digits until the first half buzzer—
BANG!
A crash like thunder shook the whole arena.
The metal rim groaned under the impact, the hoop structure trembling so hard it nearly took the backboard with it.
Morishige Hiroshi charged from behind the three-point line like a meteor trailing a storm. Every stride across half-court sent sparks off his sneakers where they scraped the floor.
When he jumped just inside the free-throw line, the entire gym felt like it paused under the pressure.
His muscled back was taut like a steel wall. Veins bulged along his arms as he crushed the basketball toward the rim.
The sheer violence of the dunk made even the bench seats vibrate.
Uozumi Jun, trying to stop him, was bent like a rain-beaten stalk of rice. His broad shoulders jerked backward the moment of impact. His knees buckled, spinning slightly, and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Thud…
The dull crash of Uozumi hitting the floor mixed with the gasps of the crowd. His shoes scraped long white streaks into the floor, like claw marks from a monster.
Tweet—
A sharp whistle cut through the tense air above the court.
It was the buzzer ending the first half.
Morishige Hiroshi still hung on the rim, arms flexed. His drenched jersey clung to his back. The muscles in his arms looked like chiseled stone.
Head hanging low, eyes hidden in shadow, a cold gleam flashed underneath as he looked down at Uozumi, who was struggling to lift himself off the floor.
The instant their eyes met in midair, it felt like sparks were silently exploding between them.
Uozumi's throat bobbed. Veins throbbed at his forehead as he pressed his hand into the floor so hard it seemed ready to punch through the wood.
Morishige's chest rose and fell. His lips curled in a faint, cruel smirk. His legs still dangled from the rim, swinging ever so slightly, like a silent display of the dunk's aftermath.
That moment felt frozen. The air stood still. Even time seemed to pause.
The surrounding noise faded, becoming distant and quiet.
On the electronic scoreboard—
The score halted at 44–55.
As Uozumi and the others dragged their heavy steps toward the bench, Ayako and Shimizu Kanon were already waiting with towels and bottled water.
Their voices were full of warmth and encouragement. "Good work, everyone."
The team nodded back. Their faces were tired, but a bit of fire still lingered in their eyes.
Only Uozumi's steps were extra heavy. His massive frame looked drained, hunched over like something had been sucked out of him.
He didn't even notice his shoelaces had come loose, letting the rubber soles scrape along the floor with a dull shuffle.
He didn't take the towel from Ayako, nor the water from Shimizu Kanon. He just collapsed silently onto his seat.
Sweat dripped from his sharp jawline, soaking a dark patch into his jersey collar. He didn't seem to feel a thing. He just stared blankly at his own hands.
Those hands that had just tried to stop Morishige Hiroshi's assault now dangled uselessly on his knees. The knuckles, strained from overuse, were pale and slightly blue.