The gymnasium fell into an eerie silence, as if Tetsuya Naito's thunderous dunk had sucked away all sound, leaving only the faint tremor of the backboard in the air.
Under Ryonan's basket, Naito landed, feet thudding heavily. He slowly turned, sweeping his gaze over every Ryonan player. Then, he jabbed a thick thumb at his chest, his voice low and arrogant, hammering into their ears:
"My name is Naito—Tetsuya Naito. Remember it."
"This guy…" Koshino Hiroaki clenched his fists, anger surging. "Too arrogant."
"Exactly," Ryoji Ikegami muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder, eyes sharp with fury.
Uozumi, silent and still, felt the weight of Naito's presence—a brute force capable of suppressing even him.
The game continued.
Naito's dunk had reignited Miuradai's morale. He surged forward again, shoulder low, charging like a freight train, sending Ikegami flying once more. The referee didn't blow the whistle—legal contact. Clean, powerful, unstoppable.
Uozumi braced himself, arms spread like a guardian under the hoop. Naito approached, then—flick!—he launched the basketball horizontally like a cannonball.
Swish. Akio Kawasaki caught it in stride and slammed it into the hoop.
Uozumi's pupils constricted. This wasn't mere brute strength—Naito could pass, and decisively.
Miuradai's offense surged. Naito bulldozed through defenses, dunked, and passed with precision, slowly closing the score gap.
Akashi, calm as ever, observed. No panic, no anger—just faint scrutiny.
"This guy's tough!" Ikegami panted.
"Even Uozumi can't stop him…" Koshino muttered.
Then, the moment arrived.
Akashi walked forward, steady and commanding. "Ikegami… switch with me."
Switch defense? Every Ryonan player froze, even Uozumi. But Akashi's order was law.
When Naito charged again, it wasn't Ikegami in front of him—it was Akashi. Small frame, red hair blazing. Naito sneered, imagining Akashi flying backward like a kite.
He charged like a bulldozer—but Akashi sidestepped with a tiny, precise movement. Lightning-fast.
Snap! Akashi's left hand snatched the ball.
Naito froze, heart racing. The ball dribbled under Akashi's control, thump… thump… thump…
He pursued, muscles screaming, explosive power blazing, yet Akashi never faltered. A flick of the wrist, the ball slipped through Naito's legs, bouncing behind him like a ghostly snake.
And then—disappeared.
"What?" Naito's heart skipped. The floor was empty.
"Kawasaki… behind you!" Kengo Murasame shouted hoarsely.
Before Naito could react, Sendoh appeared, lightning-fast, receiving Akashi's pass and slamming it into the hoop.
The Miuradai defense collapsed. Naito's shoulders heaved. He had been tricked, outmaneuvered, outclassed.
For the next few minutes, chaos reigned.
Akashi dribbled deliberately, eyes calm, orchestrating a symphony of passes: behind-the-back, cross-court, bounce, off-the-floor. Miuradai's players were puppets, their defense shredded.
Spectators held their breath. Fujima, Hanagata, the Shohoku team—all stunned by Akashi's artistry.
Even Tetsuya Naito, the burly powerhouse, stood paralyzed. He was taller, heavier, stronger—but utterly powerless. Akashi stole the ball from him repeatedly, effortless and serene. Sweat poured from Naito's bald head, chest heaving.
Thump… thump… thump… Akashi advanced calmly.
At the three-point line, he stopped. No feint. No flash. Just a gentle flick of the wrist. The ball drifted slowly to Koshino Hiroaki on the wing.
The Miuradai players froze, like cats watching a toy. Two defenders rushed, but Koshino leaped and shot. Swish.
Ryonan 119–44 Miuradai.
The crowd erupted. Fujima and Hanagata silently left their seats, heads bowed slightly, hearts heavy with awe.
Akashi, meanwhile, turned back onto defense, expression calm, face serene. No joy, no arrogance. Yet that very calm crushed Miuradai's morale more effectively than any dunk or block.
With five minutes left, Ryonan had completely dismantled Miuradai. The scoreboard glared: 145–44. A full 101-point difference.
Miuradai, a top-eight team from last year, was utterly helpless.
The name etched into everyone's mind was clear: Akashi Seijuro.
Every dribble, every pass, every movement—calm, precise, unshakable—had reduced a powerhouse to ruins. The young captain had not only controlled the game, he had dictated its entire rhythm, leaving nothing to chance.
The Ryonan VS Miuradai game concluded. Miuradai was crushed.