"Something." – Japanese
"Something." – English
~~~~~
Tyrone glanced at the guys on the court, his voice calm but commanding.
"Okay, fellas, we're starting just like we did with Shūtoku. Let's establish T-Rex early. Let him get some gravity. Start the defense relaxed and increase the intensity gradually through the first quarter. Our Balkan Bron needs some more data."
The rest of the squad didn't reply – just a collective nod. They knew the drill.
At center court, Deng and Murasakibara stood ready for the tip-off.
The difference was immediate. Deng, towering at 7'1'' with a 7'7'' wingspan, won the jump easily, swatting the ball cleanly toward Tyrone.
Yōsen dropped back into their fortress defense.
Tyrone took two dribbles and handed it off to Ector.
Ector, who'd grown another inch since joining the program, now stood a solid 6'3'', built like a bullet. Across from him, Fukui, barely 5'9'', looked like he'd wandered into the wrong place.
Onitsuka opened with something simple. Tyrone planted a rock-solid screen – boom – freeing Ector to explode off the mark.
The entire gym froze. His acceleration was unreal – blinding.
Even Aomine, watching from the stands, scowled and muttered something under his breath. He'd always prided himself on being the fastest. Now, someone else had just matched him stride for stride – and maybe even beat him.
Ector didn't pass. He didn't hesitate. He tore straight to the rim like a lightning strike.
Murasakibara materialized in front of him, all long limbs and smug confidence – until the moment of contact. Instead of taking off right away, Ector sidestepped, lowering his shoulder into Murasakibara's chest.
That 165 lbs of muscle, multiplied by raw acceleration, hit like a hammer. The 218 lbs center staggered – just for a heartbeat – but that heartbeat was enough.
Ector rose and detonated.
SLAM!
A dunk right on top of the Generation of Miracles' giant.
The arena erupted – shock, disbelief, chaos.
Ector flexed, veins bulging, his body honed by months of Marcus's brutal conditioning. He looked Murasakibara dead in the eyes and said in Japanese:
"Look at your big sorry ass – I dunked on you, fucker! I'll dunk again! You can't stop me!"
A group of students near the baseline screamed, "HE DUNKED ON MURASAKIBARA!"
The announcer, half-choking on his words, shouted into the mic, "WHAT A START FROM ONITSUKA TIGERS – AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER JAM!"
On Yōsen's bench, Coach Araki's jaw dropped. Her wooden sword slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Even stoic Himuro blinked, stunned, while Okamura muttered under his breath, "Did that really just happen…?"
But the one who took it the hardest was Murasakibara himself. He stood there, motionless, the veins in his neck twitching. His lazy, half-lidded stare – gone. Something darker replaced it. He looked down at Ector like a predator finally provoked.
"Don't touch me," he muttered, brushing off Okamura's hand when the power forward tried to calm him. "...That guy's dead."
Up in the stands, Seirin couldn't believe their eyes.
Hyūga leaned forward. "Wait – did that just happen? Did he dunk on Murasakibara?"
"Clean. No foul. Straight up." Kiyoshi nodded slowly, face still slack.
In front of them, Kaijō was already losing it. Kise had his phone up, recording, laughing like a maniac. "Oh my God, this guy's crazy! I love it! He just dunked on Murasakibaracchi!"
Kasamatsu reached over and smacked his shoulder. "Stop filming and watch, idiot! This isn't over yet."
Shūtoku were silent, they expected this to happen. It already happened to them. They knew what was coming next.
And on the far side, Aomine – the man who'd once stood unchallenged at the top of Japan's high school scene – just stared in silence. His grin was gone. His eyes were cold, focused.
Yōsen set up their half-court offense. The crowd's roar had died to a low, nervous hum.
Murasakibara lingered in his team's paint gloomy like a storm cloud. His glare never left Ector.
At the top of the key, Himuro called for the ball. His movements were liquid – smooth, deliberate. The kind that always looked slower than they actually were.
Jesus slid into position in front of him, loose stance, expression unreadable.
Himuro gave a testing dribble – left, right – then dipped his shoulder just enough to bait a reaction.
Nothing. Jesus didn't bite. His gaze followed, calm and steady.
Himuro exhaled quietly, shifting weight. Then came the move – the pump fake. A perfect illusion: elbow up, wrist flick, everything mimicking the release.
Most defenders flinched. Some jumped.
Jesus didn't move. He only tilted his head slightly – as if appreciating the technique.
Himuro smiled thinly. He's disciplined, he thought. But he's still human. He reset, rose for real this time – quick, balanced, textbook form.
Swish.
The net whispered. The crowd clapped in recognition – that was classic Himuro.
He landed lightly, turning back to look at his defender. He expected to see frustration, maybe irritation – the usual reaction from someone who'd just been faked out and scored on.
But Jesus was just standing there. Calm. Grinning. Not mockingly, not angry – just interested. Like he'd found a new toy worthy of playing with.
"Nice fake," Jesus said, voice smooth as silk. "You almost made me blink."
Then his grin sharpened – playful, but with a hint of danger.
"But if that's your best move… I'm gonna get bored real quick."
For the first time, Himuro's smile faltered. There was something unsettling about that tone – not arrogance, but certainty.
The next possession began with Onitsuka running the same set – simple, direct, efficient. Only this time, the screener wasn't Tyrone. It was Deng. The seven-footer stepped up like a moving wall, his massive frame erasing Fukui from the play entirely. Ector exploded off the pick, the court splitting open before him.
He didn't hesitate. Two steps – contact – takeoff.
BOOM!
Another dunk. Another shockwave through the crowd. Once again, Murasakibara was on the wrong end of it.
The arena was shaking now – half disbelief, half wild excitement. But Yōsen didn't panic. They just went back on offense.
Himuro took the ball up the floor, calm as ever. He looked at Jesus, who still guarded him with that loose, almost lazy stance. The first pump fake – smooth, perfect – and Himuro rose.
Swish.
Jesus didn't flinch much, but his eyes sharpened slightly. The second possession – same move, same shot.
Swish.
The third – again. Jesus started to move more actively now, closing space, tracking the rhythm.
Fourth. Pump. Rise. Swish.
The duel became hypnotic – Himuro's technique versus Jesus' patience. Each time, the ball cut through the net with surgical precision.
And down the other end, the clash between Ector and Murasakibara mirrored it. The first four drives, Murasakibara's mass was a step too slow. Ector's mix of speed and explosive contact made every dunk look personal.
But by the fifth time, something shifted. Murasakibara's lazy stare narrowed. He wasn't angry – he'd simply figured it out.
When Ector drove again, Atsushi braced for the collision, absorbing the hit. The air cracked, but Ector didn't panic. Instead of forcing it, he twisted mid-air – switching hands and flicking the ball around Murasakibara's arm.
The lay-up rolled off the glass, spun around the rim once – and dropped.
Still good.
Even Murasakibara exhaled through his teeth. "Tch. Annoying."
Back on the other end, Himuro faced Jesus again. Fifth possession. Same setup. Same pump fake. But this time, Jesus didn't move. His stance shifted lower, eyes locked. The fake failed.
Himuro didn't break rhythm – he transitioned instantly into his Mirage Shot, the one that slipped through a defender's outstretched hands like smoke.
The ball traced a ghostly arc and kissed the net. Swish.
Jesus' brows lifted, not in surprise – but in even bigger interest. That shot had style. Something rare enough to earn his respect.
From the sideline, Coach Kuhlmann raised a hand.
"Timeout."
The whistle blew.
The scoreboard flashed: Yōsen 13 – Onitsuka 10. Himuro had scored from deep on three of those possessions, keeping Yōsen ahead.
…