Fukatsu wanted payback—with interest.
And the first step was simple: he needed the ball.
But Nango never let him breathe.
He shadowed Fukatsu relentlessly, sticking to him so tightly that receiving even a basic pass became an impossible luxury.
Earlier, Fukatsu's drive-and-kick to Kawata made Nango assume Sannoh had shifted to a more team-oriented offense—using Fukatsu as the hub.
So Nango's counter was simple:
Cut off Sannoh's initiator.
Smother Fukatsu.
Crush their system.
Fukatsu repeatedly tried to shake him off—using nudges, feints, and sudden cuts—but Nango anticipated everything, following every movement like a second shadow.
Nobe couldn't find a single passing window.
Tch! He's glued to me! Doesn't he worry about stamina?!
Frustrated, Fukatsu finally relented and signaled Nobe to pass to Matsumoto instead.
He never imagined that one day—as a point guard—he would struggle just to receive an entry pass.
This game was driving him insane.
Mitsui's defense wasn't nearly as aggressive as Nango's.
He waited until Matsumoto dribbled two or three steps inside the arc before picking him up.
This allowed Matsumoto to establish rhythm—and he quickly discovered Mitsui's footwork was too slow.
He danced the ball in place, then suddenly slashed forward.
Mitsui spread his arms to cut him off—
—but Matsumoto decelerated instantly, then burst forward again, completely shaking Mitsui with a brutal change of pace.
Instead of driving deeper, Matsumoto stopped at the free-throw line and rose for a calm mid-range jumper.
Swish.
It went in.
But Fukatsu merely sighed inwardly.
Exactly as he feared—Matsumoto was only thinking about scoring.
No ball movement. No reads. No connection.
Exactly what Shohoku wanted.
Fukatsu shot a long look at Nango, who was jogging back to receive the inbound.
How could he shake off this monster?
Or… remove him from the court entirely?
Nango dribbled leisurely across half-court, waiting for Rukawa to get into position.
Sawakita frowned, then baited him:
"Aren't you going to challenge me? Or are you scared to try?"
Nango blinked.
"Didn't you just say my performance was over? I'm taking your advice."
"...Coward."
Sawakita lowered his arms, pretending to relax his defense.
Then—
he lunged.
A lightning-fast steal attempt.
Slap!
Nango casually spun the ball behind his back, dodging the cheap move, stepped forward, and raised his hand for another three.
Swish.
Perfect arc. Clean net.
Nango gave a polite nod.
"Thanks."
Then turned and jogged back on defense, not sparing Sawakita another glance.
Sawakita trembled with rage.
"That brat…"
Coach Domoto sighed.
Sawakita's skills were unmatched—he was truly Japan's number one high school player.
But sometimes… he acted like a child.
Unlike the composed Fukatsu or calm Kawata, Sawakita was easily provoked.
"Another three…" Coach Taoka muttered, shaking his head. "Does he think he can beat Sannoh with just shooting? Too naive."
Sugiyama nodded.
"He should attack the paint more. No one on Sannoh's perimeter can match his physique. He could collapse their defense. Living on threes is too dependent on rhythm."
Hyuga mumbled through a bubble of gum,
"Still… he's three-for-three. His confidence is insane. If Sawakita can't stop him, Sannoh's in trouble."
Endo added calmly,
"It's not just him. Shohoku's entire shooting percentage is high. They don't look like first-time finalists at all. Instead, it's Sannoh who looks nervous."
Coach Kawasaki laughed loudly.
"Beautifully said! These kids were born for the big stage."
Then his tone shifted.
"But still—Sawakita should make his move now. Let's see what he brings."
After crossing half-court, Sawakita boxed out Rukawa near the three-point line and called for the ball.
Matsumoto immediately fired a bounce pass.
The crowd erupted instantly.
"Sawakita's finally taking over!"
"Let's go, ace!"
Kogure blinked in shock.
"He just touched the ball… and the entire arena started cheering?"
Sendo smirked.
"Interesting. Rukawa… can you stop him?"
Sakuragi tensed beneath the basket.
If Rukawa got burned, he'd jump in immediately.
Sawakita, having calmed down with the ball in his hands, even wore a faint smile.
Rukawa hated that smile.
The arrogance.
The casual superiority.
The way Sawakita looked down at people.
He couldn't let his guard down—this was the man he wanted to surpass.
Sawakita dribbled low and slow.
"I've watched your games. You can't stop me."
Rukawa's eyes narrowed.
Seeing he got no response, Sawakita dropped the playful tone.
He focused.
His eyes angled toward the paint—
—but his body exploded in the opposite direction.
One step.
That was all it took.
He blew past Rukawa instantly.
So fast!
Rukawa turned and chased, but Sawakita had already shifted to full speed.
There was no catching him now.
Sawakita glided toward the paint, took one more step, and lifted off—
preparing to end it with a dunk.
"BALD HEAD!! GET DOWN!!"
Sakuragi roared from behind.
He shoved Nobe aside and launched upward with panic-inducing bounce, arms swinging wildly.
Sawakita was stunned for a moment.
So high? And so fast?
But his hands never panicked.
He switched the ball to his left.
Waited for Sakuragi's arm to swing past—
then gently shifted the ball back to his right.
A one-handed toss.
Soft spin.
Kiss off the glass.
Drop through the net.
A masterclass in finesse.
The crowd exploded.
"Amazing!"
"So smooth!"
"Sawakita's skills are unbelievable!"
Even Nango noticed a man near his parents stand up—
wearing glasses, a hat, neatly trimmed beard.
He pointed and yelled:
"Eiji! Beautiful!"
It was Sawakita's father—Sawakita Tetsuji.
This was his son's final high school game in Japan.
There was no way he would miss it.