The morning light over Tokyo felt sharper than usual – clean, cold, and almost expectant. The days after Tōō's fall carried a strange electricity in the air. Reporters were still buzzing about the impossible scoreline, and the name Rui Hachimura had already trended across every sports feed in the country.
But inside Seirin's locker room, it was calm. Before Meisei, there had been Kubasaki. And it hadn't been easy.
Even now, as Seirin gathered in the locker room the following morning, their bodies still carried the echoes of that game – the bruises, the fatigue, the adrenaline that refused to die down.
Kubasaki had not been a powerhouse by name, but they had come prepared. Their players were sharp, disciplined, and unrelenting – the kind of team that didn't rely on stars but on consistency. Every possession was fought for, every inch of space contested.
In the first half, Kubasaki had dictated the rhythm. Their captain, a stocky guard with an uncanny midrange jumper, tore through Seirin's defensive gaps. Their motion offense forced switches that made Kagami useless. Kuroko's passes were intercepted more times than Riko wanted to count. By halftime, Seirin trailed by nine.
The second half became a war of adjustments.
Hyūga found his rhythm from deep, firing threes from broken plays. Izuki began to read Kubasaki's rotations – the "Eagle Eye" opening seams where there hadn't been any. Kiyoshi battled under the rim like his life depended on every rebound.
Kuroko, quiet all game, found his moment in the final minutes – the Vanishing Drive slicing through Kubasaki's tight formation to create chaos where order had ruled. That one spark turned the tide.
With thirty seconds left, the score was tied. The crowd was on its feet. Kubasaki had the ball. Their captain tried to iso. Kiyoshi walled him off, forcing a wild floater that hit back iron. Hyūga secured the rebound. Izuki pushed the floor.
The clock ticked down: six… five… four…
Kagami received the pass beyond the arc, defender in his face. No hesitation. A single dribble. A rise. The buzzer and the swish came as one sound.
Seirin 84 – Kubasaki 82.
There had been no celebration, not really – just gasping relief, heads thrown back, a flood of exhaustion and pride. They had survived.
When the adrenaline finally settled, Riko only said one thing: "They fought harder than anyone expected. And we still found a way."
Now, the next morning, as they prepared for Meisei, that win sat heavy but proud in their bones. They had earned the right to be here – even if what waited ahead might be another storm.
Kagami sat lacing his shoes tighter than usual, jaw set. Hyūga leaned against the lockers, spinning a ball between his palms. Even Kuroko looked more intense than usual – the faint stillness in his eyes sharpened into purpose.
They weren't thinking about Rui's dominance anymore. They were thinking about themselves. Because today, it was their turn.
Riko clapped her hands, snapping everyone to attention.
"All right," she said, her voice brisk. "Forget the noise, forget yesterday. We play our game. Whether we win or lose – we go out there and make it our best basketball. No fear, no excuses. Got it?"
"Got it!" the team shouted in unison.
Kuroko nodded once.
"Even if they're stronger, we'll make them play at our pace."
"Yeah. I don't care who's waiting – I just wanna play." Kagami cracked a grin, bouncing on his toes.
"That's the spirit. Let's give 'em something to remember." Hyūga smirked.
When Seirin stepped out toward the court, the crowd was already swelling. The arena felt heavier today – thicker with expectation after the spectacle of the opening match. Cameras flashed. Commentators murmured about whether Seirin could survive against the reigning champions, Meisei High School.
The announcer's voice boomed through the PA system as the teams warmed up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Day Three of the Winter Cup! Up next – Seirin High versus last year's national champions, Meisei High!"
The spotlight panned over Meisei's bench – tall, confident players in clean white warmups. Even without Rui on the court yet, they looked intimidating. Their movements were crisp, professional – like a machine.
Then, right as Riko was running through last-minute adjustments, the announcer's voice came back, hurried, almost breathless:
"Oh–oh, what a turn of events! We've just received breaking news! Yesterday, immediately following their victory over Tōō Academy, Meisei's star forward, Rui Hachimura, and his younger brother Allen Hachimura have officially left Japan!"
The crowd gasped – a ripple of confusion spreading through the stands.
"According to the JBA, both brothers have accepted an invitation to join one of America's elite prep programs – reportedly eager to 'compete on a larger stage.'"
The noise grew. Reporters scrambled, fans erupted, and even Seirin's bench looked stunned.
"Wait, what?! They just left? Right before our game?" Koganei whistled low. He leaned toward Hyūga with a grin. "Guess we got lucky, huh?"
But Riko's sharp glare cut through his excitement instantly.
"Lucky?" she repeated. "Don't be stupid."
"Uh… sorry?" Koganei froze.
Riko crossed her arms, eyes still locked on the Meisei bench.
"They're still last year's champions. And they still have Ryota Sato. He's the national team's shooting guard, remember? Don't forget how they got here – their system made Rui shine at first, not the other way around." She exhaled, steady but intense. "We might not be facing a monster, but we're still facing a machine. Don't think for a second this'll be easy."
"Good. I didn't want easy anyway." Kagami smirked, rolling his shoulders.
"We beat champions or we learn from them – either way, we move forward." Hyūga nodded.
Kuroko's voice was calm, barely above a whisper. "Let's show them what Seirin basketball means."
~~~~~
The stands were alive with murmurs, flashes, and whispers. Cameras turned to every corner, commentators filled the air with speculation, and beneath the noise – in a quieter, private corner of the bleachers – Aomine Daiki sat slouched with his hood up, one leg swinging restlessly against the seat ahead of him.
Beside him, clipboard on her lap and a straw poking from her drink, Momoi Satsuki was glued to the court. Her pink hair caught the lights as her eyes darted across the warm-ups below.
"Can you believe this, Aomine?" she started. "If Rui Hachimura hadn't left yesterday, Seirin would've had to face him right now. I still can't believe their luck…"
"Yeah. Lucky bastards." Aomine's jaw clenched. His voice was low, rough, carrying the kind of frustration that doesn't need volume to be loud.
Momoi turned to him, brow raised. "Don't tell me you wanted them to get crushed."
Aomine's gaze stayed fixed on the court. "Nah," he muttered. "I just don't like that I'm the only one from the group who didn't make it far. That guy ruined us yesterday – and now Seirin's getting the easy road because of it."
"Aomine…" Momoi sighed softly.
He leaned back, arms crossed, voice tight. "I'm not mad at Seirin. I'm mad at myself."
For a moment, they both went quiet – watching Seirin line up for warmups on one side of the court, Meisei on the other.
Momoi broke the silence first. "Still, don't underestimate Meisei just because Hachimura's gone. Look at their lineup. They're disciplined, they shoot well, and they have experience. I've studied some of their data from last year."
Aomine gave a faint grunt, uninterested at first. But then Momoi's tone shifted – sharp, analytical.
"See that number five? Ryota Sato."
"The tall shooting guard?" Aomine looked up, finally paying attention.
"Mm." Momoi nodded. "Third-year. He's been overshadowed by Rui in the past season, but he has been one of the best scorers in Japan for a while now – he just didn't get the spotlight. Mid-range, three-point, off the dribble, spot-up – he can do it all. His fundamentals are textbook. If Rui is Japan's strongest weapon, Sato is its most polished."
"So what, another shooter?" Aomine snorted. "Does he carry cacti, ducks, and scissors everywhere too?"
Momoi smiled faintly. "Not just that. He's already on the national team. Not NBA material, but here in Japan, he's expected to become a star – maybe a face of the league someday."
Aomine's brows twitched, but he didn't comment. He just watched Sato sink three after three in warmups – smooth, automatic, effortless.
Momoi continued, "He's probably on the same level as you and Kagami right now. Maybe even higher, skill-wise."
"Higher, huh? You're pushing it." That caught Aomine's attention.
"I'm being realistic," she said, shrugging. "Aomine, you rely on instinct – that's your strength and your weakness. Sato is the opposite: structure, balance, and perfect form. That's what makes this Meisei team scary. Rui is gone, but now the whole system runs through Sato."
Aomine frowned, tapping his finger against his knee, eyes narrowing at the court. "Tch. Guess we'll see if all that structure means anything when the ball's live."
Momoi's gaze slid to the other end of the court, where Meisei's center was setting screens during drills. "And that's not all. Look at number four. Daiki Tanaka."
Aomine groaned immediately. "Oh, don't remind me of that asshole." Aomine's tone was flat, but the vein in his forehead pulsed. "Fuckingsmartass. Strong as hell, and my mom never shuts up about him. Always: 'Why can't you be more like Tanaka-kun? He studies, he helps his team, he's disciplined–'"
"Sounds like family pride." Momoi couldn't help but laugh a little.
Aomine scowled. "Sounds like hell. The guy's smart, yeah – too smart. Reads plays like a damn book. He's got that big brain thing going on in the post. Strong screens, perfect positioning. I hate it. You can't move him an inch."
"So he's the opposite of you." Momoi smirked.
"And that's why I hate him."
They both fell silent again as the announcer's voice boomed through the arena:
"And now, for today's second-round Winter Cup matchup – Seirin High School versus Meisei High School, the reigning champions!"
The crowd erupted. The players lined up.
Momoi flipped open her small notebook, already scribbling down predicted matchups.
"Alright," she murmured, her eyes moving from name to name. "Here's how it's shaping up…"
She ran through the chart aloud, her analytical rhythm cutting through the crowd noise:
PG: Izuki vs. Suzuki – "Speed versus vision. Suzuki's quicker, but Izuki can read patterns. If he slows the tempo, Seirin has a chance."
SG: Hyūga vs. Sato – "This one's rough. Sato has the height, strength, and shooting edge. Hyūga will have to get hot early or he'll drown."
SF: Kuroko vs. Ito – "Tricky one. Ito's a steady defender, not the flashy type, but he'll probably struggle with Kuroko's passes and movement. Still, he won't fall for tricks easily."
PF: Kagami vs. Yamamoto – "Kagami's going to bully him. Yamamoto's a great perimeter stopper, but he's too small to handle Kagami's leap and muscle."
C: Kiyoshi vs. Tanaka – "This one's a battle of wills. Tanaka's stronger, but Kiyoshi's got that unpredictability and point guard skills. He'll try to drag him away from the basket."
She closed the notebook. "Overall… Meisei's got the edge in spacing and balance. But Seirin's got heart. They're unpredictable, and that's something even data can't fully measure."
Aomine sighed and leaned back again, eyes still on the court. "Yeah, yeah. But no Rui, no problem, huh?"
"You really wanted to see them get crushed that badly?" Momoi smiled faintly.
He turned to her, expression unreadable. "...No. I just wanted to see where I stand."
Momoi didn't answer. The whistle blew, and both teams moved to center court. Aomine's gaze hardened – a mix of resentment, curiosity, and hunger flickering behind it.
"Guess we're about to find out who got lucky," he muttered.
Momoi's voice was softer, but the meaning sharper:
"Or who deserved their chance."
The referee raised the ball. The Winter Cup continued.