Court 7-B was another outdoor court, nestled between two tall residential towers, bleachers built into the slope of a grassy hill. The atmosphere was just as intense as the main hub.
The Teikō starters were already there. They weren't just warming up; they were performing a silent, chilling drill. Pass, cut, shoot, rebound. Every movement was synchronized, efficient, and perfect. There was no laughter, no chatter. Only the soft, rhythmic swish of the net.
Their point guard, a boy with sharp, red hair and calm, mismatched eyes, stood at half-court, observing them. His gaze was analytical, like a programmer scanning code.
The buzzer screamed from a speaker on a light pole.
Teo and the purple-haired giant, Murasakibara, met at center court. The giant looked down at Teo with profound boredom. "This will be boring," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
The ball went up. Murasakibara didn't jump; he simply reached up and tapped it back with a lazy flick of his wrist, perfectly into the red-haired point guard's—Akashi's—waiting hands.
Akashi didn't dribble. He pointed. The play was already in motion. A player with dark blue skin, Aomine, exploded from the wing, a blur of motion. He caught the pass in stride and laid the ball off the glass before Bornok could even turn.
2-0.
Flowstate's first possession ended with a turnover as Akashi anticipated Riki's pass, his deflection leading to a swift fast break finished by a handsome blonde player, Kise.
4-0.
Then, the mint-green haired player, Midorima, received a pass just inside the half-court line. He elevated, his form a picture of perfection. The ball traveled in a maddening arc, hanging in the air for an eternity, before swishing through the net without a sound.
7-0.
The machine was perfect. Flowstate's rhythm, the core of their identity, was being systematically erased. They huddled, the scoreboard reading 15-2. They weren't just losing; they were being shown a different language of the game, one they didn't understand.
Riki looked at their faces—the shock in Renz's eyes, the frustration on Bornok's, the quiet concern in Teo's. "Forget the score," he said, his voice low and steady. "We just need to score once. Our way."