Kawanobe laboriously dribbled the ball past half-court, their rhythm sluggish and steps heavy, as if they were dragging sandbags tied to their feet.
Seconds ticked away—
24... 23... 22...
Ryonan's defense stood like an unbreakable wall, pressing tighter with each passing moment.
Sendoh shadowed the ball-handler, Uekusa blocked the passing lanes, and Uozumi guarded the paint. Kawanobe's players were trapped beyond the three-point line, unable to move forward or find an opening.
The clock neared the final three seconds.
Yuta Watanabe, cornered near the sideline, clutched the ball. Sendoh's arm loomed in front of him while Uekusa's presence closed in from behind.
He glanced at the clock—it showed just one second left.
No time.
Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut and flung the ball desperately toward the rim.
The basketball arced awkwardly, wobbling through the air without strength or grace.
Yet—thump!—it struck the middle of the backboard.
Then, as if nudged by fate itself, it rolled slowly, eerily, around the inside of the rim...
Swish.
The ball dropped in.
It actually went in.
The stadium fell into absolute silence. Even the air seemed to freeze.
Kawanobe's players stood stunned, eyes blank, as though lightning had struck them.
Some had their mouths open, others had their hands raised mid-motion—none cheered, none celebrated. Even they couldn't believe what had just happened.
Was it luck?
A miracle?
Even the bench players, who had started to yell "Good shot!", choked back their voices awkwardly.
Ryonan's players were equally dumbfounded.
Koshino Hiroaki stood still, blinking once before curling his lips into a smirk. He glanced at the confused Kawanobe players and said dryly,
"It actually went in. You guys are really lucky."
Uozumi exhaled sharply through his nose. "Hmph. What a fluke."
Ikegami Ryoji spread his hands and shrugged. "Nothing we can do about that one."
The game continued.
Kawanobe's miraculous, heaven-sent shot finally changed the "0" on the scoreboard to a "2," but that tiny spark wasn't enough to reignite their spirit. Their fighting will had burned out long ago.
It was like a group of soldiers charging into battle full of ambition, only to realize their enemies were already standing on the mountaintop, looking down at them.
A forty-point gap weighed on Kawanobe's chest like a mountain.
Catch up?
Impossible—unless Ryonan suddenly started missing every shot, committing fouls, and making mistake after mistake, while Kawanobe miraculously scored ten times in a row.
But reality was merciless. Ryonan didn't give them even a second to breathe.
And so, the next round of Ryonan's dominance began.
Beep!
The whistle signaled the end of the first half.
The scoreboard froze.
Ryonan 71 – 11 Kawanobe.
Silence filled the gym.
A sixty-point lead.
This wasn't a competition—it was an execution. Ryonan had pinned their opponent down from the very first second and never let them stand up.
Kawanobe's players trudged back to the bench, heads lowered, their steps heavy as if shackled by chains. They sat without speaking, without drinking water, unable even to look at each other.
Their eyes were hollow.
Their souls had already left the court.
The truth was clear—this game had ended by the third minute of play.
When the second half began, movement stirred on Kawanobe's bench.
The starting players were replaced one by one, silently taking their seats.
Nervous substitutes took the floor.
It was a quiet surrender.
Ake's calm gaze swept over the court. His voice was level but cold.
"You guys come down too."
His words meant only one thing—Ryonan's starters would rest as well.
Turning to Aida Hikoichi and Fukuda Kiccho, he said, "Fukuda, Hikoichi, you're in for the second half."
The two players stepped onto the court with a mix of nerves and excitement, joined by three substitutes who rarely saw playing time. Their eyes shone—not from confidence, but from pent-up energy finally being released.
Even with both sides fielding their benches, Ryonan still dominated easily.
Because under Ake's training, there was never a distinction between starters and substitutes.
Every player had been honed through grueling drills—physically, mentally, and tactically.
Even Ryonan's bench was built like steel.
So while the second half lacked the crushing power of the first, Ryonan's offense still flowed smoothly, and their defense remained suffocating.
Kawanobe's substitutes tried to organize themselves, but as the score gap widened further, their morale began to crumble.
One turnover.
Then another.
Miss after miss.
Their movements grew stiff, their eyes empty, their pace slow.
By midway through the half, the scoreboard showed 94 to 20.
Kawanobe's players moved like machines—passing weakly, defending barely at all.
Their bodies were on the court, but their spirits had long since left.
On the sideline, Ake stood with his arms crossed, watching quietly.
There was no sympathy in his eyes—only calm detachment, like a hunter who'd long lost interest in his fallen prey.
He finally turned to Coach Taoka Moichi. "Coach, I'm heading to the locker room."
Coach Taoka, still watching the court, simply nodded. "Go ahead. Don't forget, there's another game this afternoon."
"Understood," Ake replied evenly, his steps steady as he disappeared down the tunnel.
Behind him, the game dragged on, but for him, it had already ended at halftime.
Ryonan had two games that day:
Kawanobe in the morning, and Shichikubo in the afternoon.
Shichikubo's level was about the same—or perhaps even weaker.
Ake hadn't considered either game a challenge. To him, they were just two boxes to tick off, stepping stones toward the next stage.
He wasn't worried. He already knew how both games would end.
And he was right.
The final whistle blew: Ryonan 115 – 33 Kawanobe.
An 82-point victory.
The crowd fell silent again. Even breathing felt loud in the stillness.
Kawanobe's players stood with their heads bowed, their bodies drooping.
No one spoke.
No one cried.
They didn't even have the strength to feel regret.
When they arrived that morning, their eyes burned with determination—they had sworn to fight hard, even if they couldn't win.
Now, they looked like men who had lost their spines, dragging themselves toward the tunnel like a defeated army.
The first half had been a massacre.
The second, a cleanup.
The last ten minutes—a training drill for Ryonan's substitutes.
The first game ended swiftly and efficiently.
Time passed.
The afternoon sun slanted through the gym windows, dust floating in the golden light as the second game began—Ryonan vs. Shichikubo.
The crowd was smaller now.
Ake still didn't play.
He sat beside Coach Taoka, arms crossed, watching quietly like a commander overseeing a routine operation.
The starting lineup was almost identical to the morning's: Sendoh, Uozumi, Uekusa, Koshino, and Ikegami.
The same seamless offense, the same airtight defense.
As usual, Ikegami and Fukuda would each play one half.
Ake's goal wasn't just to win—it was to crush the opponent's will while giving the substitutes real-game experience. These matches were practice, nothing more.
Beep! The whistle sounded.
At center court, the difference in height was already striking. Shichikubo's players were small and thin; their center barely reached 185 cm, while the others hovered around 175–180.
Next to Uozumi, they looked like middle schoolers.
The referee tossed the ball.
Uozumi rose like an iron tower, towering over his opponent. His palm slapped the ball perfectly to Uekusa, who immediately launched a fast break.
Ryonan's attack flowed effortlessly—Sendoh, Koshino, and Uekusa moving like parts of a single machine. Shichikubo's defense hadn't even formed before their line was torn apart.
One screen.
One cut.
One layup.
Swish.
By the time the ball fell through the net, Shichikubo's players had barely made it past the three-point line.
The gap in strength couldn't be bridged by tactics or effort.
As the game dragged on, the cheers faded. The early applause turned hollow, then vanished altogether.
Spectators slouched, their eyes glazed.
Some even began nodding off mid-game, heads bobbing, soft snores echoing in the still gym. One man's snot bubble trembled at the tip of his nose—an absurd image mocking the one-sided match.
Even Ryonan's bench players were fighting drowsiness. Some rested their chins in their hands, others blinked heavily to stay awake.
Coach Taoka himself yawned, rubbing his temples in boredom.
This wasn't a match anymore—it was a long, monotonous training drill.
By halftime, the score was 77 to 15.
A 62-point lead.
The outcome was long since decided.
The second half descended into garbage time.
Both teams switched to substitutes.
Ryonan's lineup of Hikoichi, Fukuda, and three reserves moved smoothly, playing at their own pace.
Time crawled by.
Finally, after forty long minutes—
Beep! The final whistle sounded.
Ryonan 140 – 40 Shichikubo.
A 100-point victory.
They didn't just break the record for the largest point difference in the tournament's history—they did it twice in one day.
82 points in the morning.
100 points in the afternoon.
Silence. Then, whispers spread like ripples.
"Is this Ryonan? They're monsters."
"A hundred-point gap... that's insane!"
"Last year's Ryonan was strong, but this year... they're something else."
"And their first-year captain didn't even play."
"Unbelievable."
After the game, Ryonan's players walked off the court calmly, their movements steady, their expressions relaxed—as if they'd just finished another training session.
A few substitutes couldn't hold back their excitement, exchanging quiet cheers and high-fives. For them, playing and scoring in an official match was an honor.
But Ake remained composed.
No smile.
No pride.
Only calm, unshaken focus.
To him, these two victories were nothing more than small stones beneath his feet—stepped on once, and forgotten the next moment.