The Onitsuka bench gathered tight, sweat still steaming off their shoulders. Coach Erik Kuhlmann stood calm in front of them, clipboard in one hand, his tone even but cutting.
"Alright," he said. "What did you notice out there?"
Jesus was the first to speak, still breathing steady. "That guy's shot…" – he jerked his chin toward Himuro – "it's strange. Looks like he shoots it twice. I can't tell where the real release is."
Kuhlmann gave a small nod, then looked to Tyrone, who was already resting his elbows on his knees, eyes sharp with amusement.
"Your read?"
"Simple. It's not some magic shot. He's six foot, I'm six-seven. The ball's right under my eyeline when he tosses it. He lets it drop, catches, then fires – works on shorter guys, but not on me. I can see the fake happen before it's done." Tyrone grinned faintly.
"Then you're on him. Shut it down." Kuhlmann's mouth curved in satisfaction.
"Done deed Coach." Tyrone cracked his knuckles, eyes locked on Himuro across the court.
The coach turned to Jesus again. "You're switching to the forward – Wei Liu. He's tall, but heavy-footed. Guard him high; don't let him dribble comfortably. On offense, drag him out of the paint and blow past him – or step back and shoot. He can't follow either way."
Jesus smirked, finally relaxed. "A slow guy? Perfect. I'll make him dance."
Next came Ector, still bouncing the ball absently, that dangerous glint in his eye.
"You've got gravity now," Kuhlmann said. "They're overhelping the paint on your drives. Use that. Feed Deng on the rolls, dish to Tyrone or Jesus on the wings. And if you see the opening – take the three. No hesitation."
Ector's grin flashed. "Copy that, coach."
Finally, Kuhlmann's gaze shifted to Deng, towering calm and expressionless at the edge of the bench.
"Aliir, keep owning the glass. Don't chase blocks unless necessary. You're the anchor – everything else rotates around you."
Deng nodded once. "Understood."
Kuhlmann glanced at the scoreboard – Yōsen 13, Onitsuka 10 – then back at his players. His voice dropped low, each word deliberate.
"They got a few good tricks. Let them. We'll take everything else."
He clapped his hands once. "Now go fix the score."
~~~~~
When play resumed, something in Onitsuka's spacing changed. Their movement slowed just slightly, yet the tension tripled.
Yōsen inbounded. Himuro brought it up the right wing, ball gliding smoothly in his hands. Waiting for him now was Tyrone Mason – tall and coiled like a spring.
The crowd murmured. They'd seen Himuro humiliate defenders before – his Mirage Shot a thing of poetry and deception. He set his feet, shoulder fake, eyes sharp. The ball rose – the fake release – and as it dropped again toward his palm, Tyrone's hand was already there.
SLAP!
The ball never made it back to Himuro's hands. Tyrone swiped it midair, one-handed, and without even looking – slung a bullet pass upcourt.
"Ector!"
Troy was already gone. The blur of red and black cut through the lane. One step, two – and then the BOOM! of a one-handed lob finish echoed across the arena.
13–12.
The crowd exploded. Up in the stands, Aomine leaned forward. "That was clean," he muttered. "He didn't even give that guy a chance to land the trick."
Momoi scribbled something. "He's got the height and instincts for it. That wasn't luck."
Back on the floor, Yōsen tried to recover quickly. Himuro hesitated on the next possession, wary now. Instead, the ball swung to Wei Liu, guarded by Jesus Iglesia.
Bad idea.
Wei tried to dribble – one slow bounce, another – and Jesus was already in his pocket. His stance was low, sharp, eyes locked on the ball. Wei tried to shield it with his frame, but Jesus' hand darted in like lightning – clean steal.
"Too slow, big man," Jesus grinned, already pushing the break.
Two steps past half court, he slowed, scanning. Then his eyes flicked left – a flash of red and black cutting through the baseline. Tyrone Mason.
The pass came like a bullet. Tyrone caught it mid-stride and, without breaking pace, exploded toward the rim. Waiting for him was Atsushi Murasakibara.
The crowd rose as one. Everyone in Japan knew the script – you don't score on Murasakibara. You don't. At least, that was the truth until today.
Because six times already, Ector Troy had rewritten it. Each dunk had been power and cunning – Ector catching the initial shoulder contact before taking off, absorbing the collision, and using Murasakibara's own balance against him. Five violent slams and one feathery lay-up – each a testament to finesse and guts.
But Tyrone Mason wasn't finesse. He was force.
Where Ector danced through contact, Tyrone welcomed it. He launched off his left foot, and met Murasakibara chest-to-chest.
The sound wasn't a clash – it was a collision. Tyrone's 210 pounds moving at full sprint, amplified by a 7'0'' wingspan and freakish acceleration, hit Murasakibara like a truck. For an instant, the two hung suspended – equals in height, equals in reach.
Then physics decided the winner.
Murasakibara went flying backward, arms flailing. The 6'10'' center – the immovable shield of Yōsen – was thrown off his footing completely, sliding backward across the paint as Tyrone finished through him, hammering the dunk with a violence that shook the entire rim.
BOOOOOOM!
The backboard rattled. The stanchion shuddered. And the arena lost its mind.
Gasps turned into roars, roars into cheers. Commentators were shouting over each other:
"He–he sent Murasakibara flying!"
"Is that even possible?! That's the Generation of Miracles' center!"
Up in the stands, Aomine sat bolt upright, eyes wide for the first time in years. "Oi… what the hell did I just see?"
Down on the court, Murasakibara was still on one knee, glaring up in disbelief. Tyrone, still hanging on the rim, dropped down smoothly, landing like a heavyweight.
He turned to Murasakibara, eyes cold but calm, and said just loud enough for him – and the first few rows – to hear:
"Now we're even with Ector."
He patted his chest once, turned, and jogged back to defense as if he hadn't just erased Japan's largest human being from under the rim.
13–14. Onitsuka took the lead.
The dunk still echoed through the rafters when Yōsen inbounded. Murasakibara didn't even wait for the play call this time. He walked straight into the paint – head lowered, shoulders rolling forward, the lazy look gone. His eyes burned now with something rare for him: irritation.
The ball found him immediately. One bounce. Two. The court trembled.
He'd had enough of these foreigners putting on a show. If dunking on him was their idea of fun – he was about to remind everyone whose paint this was.
Except standing between him and the rim wasn't a regular defender. It was Aliir Deng.
And for the first time in Murasakibara's life – someone was bigger.
Deng loomed in front of him, long and solid like a skyscraper. Seven foot one, two hundred and thirty pounds of carved, compact muscle. His arms stretched out like iron bars – his wingspan seven foot seven.
Even from across the court, it was obvious: Deng made Murasakibara look almost… normal-sized.
The crowd fell quiet.
"Wait – he's taller?" someone whispered.
"He's taller and heavier," another corrected.
"Holy shit…"
Murasakibara caught the ball deep and lowered his shoulder. The first bump came – heavy, violent. But Deng didn't move. Not an inch.
It was like hitting a steel door. Murasakibara blinked, confused for a heartbeat, then snarled and went again – harder. The impact echoed through the gym. Still nothing.
Deng's expression didn't change. Calm. Cold. Impassive. He wasn't fighting the force – he was absorbing it. Every shove that should've sent him reeling just sank into him and disappeared, like pushing against the Earth itself.
Murasakibara gritted his teeth – real, visible effort now. Nobody in Japan had ever made him use strength like this. Nobody had ever matched him physically. He spun, trying to catch Deng on the pivot and hook a shot over his shoulder – but Deng's arm came up like a hydraulic gate. BANG!
The ball ricocheted off the backboard.
Before anyone could blink, Deng grabbed it one-handed – palming the rebound like it was a toy. The crowd erupted.
"That's–that's impossible!" one commentator yelled. "Murasakibara's finally met someone bigger!"
Yōsen's coach, Masako Araki, clenched her jaw. "Wake up! Tighten the paint!"
But Onitsuka wasn't attacking the paint anymore.
Next possession, Ector slowed the ball down, standing tall at the top of the arc. Deng positioned near the high post, Tyrone wide on the right, Jesus on the left wing. Yōsen's defense compacted instinctively – afraid of the drive.
Ector smirked. "Good."
He motioned to Deng – a fake screen, then a slip. The defense froze. Ector took one hard step inside – and zipped a no-look pass to Jesus in the corner.
Wide open. Release. Swish.
13–17.
Onitsuka's offense flowed now like water – unpredictable but perfectly timed. Every drive drew two defenders, every rotation left someone open.
Yōsen's next attempt went back to Murasakibara. The giant caught it under the rim and tried to muscle past Deng – but Deng's 7'7" wingspan flared like steel cables. One bump, one pivot – THUD!
Block.
Deng snatched his own rebound, swung it out to Ector, who was already gone again. Another fast break. Ector soared, twisted midair – and lobbed it back to Deng trailing behind him.
SLAM!
13–19.
The crowd roared. The arena was shaking.
A frustrated Murasakibara turned to Himuro. "They're annoying," he muttered. "That small one keeps running."
Himuro wiped sweat from his forehead, eyes narrowing. "We need to slow them down."
But slowing Onitsuka now was like trying to stop a storm with bare hands.
Ector's next drive pulled three defenders – kick to Jesus, swing to Tyrone – swish.
13–22.
Timeout, Yōsen.
The first quarter still had a couple of minutes left.
…