The Weight of Defeat
The locker room smelled of sweat, antiseptic, and crushed dreams.
Kenji Tachibana sat on the bench, slowly unwrapping the tape from his throbbing finger. The purple bruise had darkened, spreading like ink beneath his skin. He flexed it experimentally, biting back a wince. Still usable. Barely.
Around him, his teammates moved in slow motion—Rin pressing an ice pack to his knee, Jiro slouched against the wall with a towel over his head, Haru muttering numbers under his breath like a prayer. Akira was nowhere to be seen.
The door banged open.
Coach Morita stood there, his usual scowl softened into something dangerously close to... satisfaction?
"Round of Sixteen," he grunted, tossing a convenience store bag at Jiro's lap. Melon bread spilled out. "For a team of rejects who didn't even exist six months ago? Not bad."
Silence.
Then—
"Did you just... compliment us?" Daichi whispered, as if speaking too loud might shatter the moment.
Coach snorted. "Call it what you want. No practice until break. Rest. Or don't. Just don't embarrass me worse next season." He turned to leave, then paused. "...You fought hard."
The door slammed behind him.
Jiro's jaw dropped. "Holy shit. He's proud of us."
Kenji stared at his hands. If only they knew why we really lost.
---
Haru's Relentless Mind
"We're going," Haru announced the next morning, slamming his tablet onto the cafeteria table.
Rin didn't look up from his noodles. "To hell? Finally."
"To the quarterfinals." Haru's glasses glinted. "We need data on the remaining teams. Especially—"
"No," Akira said flatly. He'd reappeared at dawn, his uniform rumpled, dark circles under his eyes. "We're done."
Haru adjusted his glasses. "Statistically, your emotional resistance to improvement is—"
"We're going," Kenji interrupted.
All eyes turned to him.
He didn't elaborate. Hecouldn't. But if there was even a chance Kaito Kurogane would be there...
He needed to see.
---
The Arena of Ghosts
The Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium buzzed with energy, the air thick with popcorn and anticipation. Shinwa's team shuffled into the stands, drawing a few curious glances—the scrappy underdogs who almost made it.
Then the jumbotron flashed:
QUARTERFINAL: RYUSEI HIGH vs. SHIRANUI ACADEMY
"What the—?" Jiro lurched forward. "We beat Ryusei!"
Haru's fingers flew across his tablet. "Ah. Hoshigawa Prep was disqualified for using an ineligible player. Ryusei was next in line via tournament bylaws." His brow furrowed. "Oddly convenient timing."
The lights dimmed.
Ryusei's team strode onto the court—and the crowd erupted.
At the helm, draped in Ryusei's yellow and silver, stood KaitoKurogane.
Kenji's stomach twisted. Why is the Kurogane heir d playing now?
---
The Heir's Symphony of Destruction
The game wasn't a match. It was an execution.
- Kaito's Commands:
Every play was called with chilling precision, his voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. "Switch to Zone B. Fujimori, target their center's left knee. Miyazaki, alley-oop at 48 degrees. Hoshino, you're clear."
- Taiga Fujimori (PF #4):
A red-haired hurricane who played like he was personally offended by defense. He laughed as he bulldozed opponents, his elbows just shy of fouling.
- Shusei Miyazaki (PG #7):
A porcelain-faced prince with a smirk that made Jiro's eye twitch. His passes were surgical—always to the exact millimeter where only his teammates could catch them.
- Renjiro Hoshino (SF #11):
The most dangerous of all. He moved like liquid, his every motion effortless. Akira went rigid beside Kenji, his fists clenched. Former friends. Now enemies.
Halftime Score: 48-22.
Shiranui's players looked like they wanted to forfeit.
---
The Shinwa Breakdown
Jiro: "That red-haired bastard's definitely fouling. Look at his pivot foot—"
Rin: "Hoshino isn't even trying. That's what pisses me off."
Haru: His tablet whirred. "Kaito's play-calling is... statistically impossible. It's as if he knows Shiranui's plays before they run them."
Kenji's blood ran cold. He probably does.
Then—
Akira: Silent. Still. Staring at Hoshino with something between fury and grief.
Kenji followed his gaze.
Hoshino, mid-dunk, glanced directly at Akira—and winked.
---
The Message
Final Score: 102-58.
Ryusei didn't celebrate. They simply walked off, as if the massacre was expected.
As Kaito passed beneath Shinwa's section, he lookedup.
Directly at Kenji.
His lips moved.
"You're next."
Then he was gone, leaving only the echo of a threat—and the sickening realization:
This was never just a game.
---