Beep…
The sharp whistle pierced the tense silence. Timeout ended. The game resumed.
Players from both teams returned to the court. But something had changed.
The Ryonan players, under Akashi's stern guidance, had shed the faint arrogance they once carried. Smiles vanished. Their composure became icy, precise, almost frightening.
Shohoku immediately noticed the shift.
This… this was no longer a team leading comfortably by 19 points. Takenori Akagi's gaze swept over the court, eyes narrowing. Something was off. The opposing team's faces no longer reflected confidence—they radiated caution, alertness, and deadly focus.
Kogure Kiminobu pushed up his glasses, furrowing his brows. His voice was barely audible. "Akagi… I have a bad feeling about this."
Takenori Akagi said nothing, only stared, a subtle unease creeping into his chest.
On Shohoku's bench, the others felt it too. Ayako tilted her head, eyes wide. "What… what's going on? Why are Ryonan suddenly so cautious?"
Satoru Kakuta's voice was tense, brows knitted. "They're ahead by almost twenty points, and yet… they aren't slacking. Is this the strength of a top-four team in the prefecture?"
Anzai Mitsuyoshi, who had been quietly observing with squinted eyes, finally opened them. His gaze was deep, unshakable, like an ancient well reflecting the fury and intent of the court.
"Ayako," he said slowly, "find an opportunity to study Ryonan's current captain."
"Ah?" Ayako blinked, startled. Then realization struck. "Coach… you mean the changes in Ryonan… all because of that captain?"
Anzai did not immediately answer. He only nodded slightly, eyes fixed on a quiet, red-haired first-year sitting on the opposing bench.
After a long pause, he spoke. "Their captain… is not simple."
He continued after a moment, voice low but clear: "I haven't seen his strength firsthand yet. But to serve as captain in your first year… it's not something achieved by talent alone."
Ayako's expression hardened as she absorbed his words. Talent alone wasn't enough. Leadership, authority, respect… that was required.
Then Anzai added quietly, "He reminds me of Maki from Kainan."
Ayako's eyes widened. Shinichi Maki…? The man who had led Kainan to rule Kanagawa for years, hailed as the "strongest point guard in Kanagawa." And now this first-year captain drew the same comparison?
Her mind raced. She nodded decisively. "Understood. I'll investigate."
On the court, Shohoku's players steeled themselves. Even the tiniest flicker of hope surged in their eyes—they had to score, even a single point, to break their zero.
But reality hit hard. Ryonan, now fully aware and disciplined under Akashi's watch, were no longer the slightly overconfident team they had been.
Kogure dribbled into the half-court, aiming for a quick pick-and-roll.
But Sendo moved silently, anticipating the play. Slap! The ball was ripped away.
Ryonan counterattacked instantly. Sendo pushed forward, eyes calm, footwork precise. Rukawa tried to intercept, but Uozumi blocked the breakthrough. A two-man trap left no escape. Slap! Another steal.
Fast break. Pass to Ikegami. Swish! 23–0.
Shohoku froze.
Third possession. Takenori Akagi tried to post up Uozumi. But Uozumi, solid as a tower, blocked every opening. Akagi hesitated for a millisecond—long enough for Koshino Hiroaki to pounce. Slap! Steal. Quick pass to Sendo, who raced to the basket. Rukawa pressed close, but a feint and reverse layup: Swish! 25–0.
Three consecutive possessions. Three lost balls. Shohoku's morale plummeted like a kite with a snapped string.
Sakuragi Hanamichi stomped impatiently, shouting at Anzai. "Old man! Let me on! This secret weapon can't just watch them hit 30 points!"
Anzai remained calm, observing, understanding the depth of the young captain's influence. Akashi's authority wasn't just talent—it was respect earned, fear instilled, and trust absolute.
Finally, Shohoku managed to score. Rukawa Kaede, charging alone into Ryonan's half, cold eyes fixed, finally forced a play. Akagi received a pass from him, muscles coiled, and slammed the ball into the hoop with a roar: Clang! 25–2.
Shohoku erupted. Even Anzai allowed a brief, approving smile. One point—enough to ignite the team's fighting spirit.
Akashi's eyes remained calm, calculating. Morale could spike, but he would crush it where it counted.
For him, victory was survival. There were no allies, no fate—only the path forward, and anyone in his way would be broken.
Ruthless. Extreme. Natural.
Victory was life itself.