"Set the screen!"
At Akashi's command, Takeshi immediately stepped up to the high post, turning his body to block Kota.
It was that same tried-and-true "Takeshi-style pick-and-roll". Kota's eyes lowered, and his footwork suddenly shifted—he took several quick steps back.
This time, Takeshi couldn't keep him trapped. But the backward retreat delayed the defense just long enough for Akashi to create a decent shooting window. He lifted the ball, ready to fire — But Kise lunged in from the side, practically smothering his face with his contest.
Akashi frowned, shielding the ball and scanning for an escape. At that moment, Kota, who had slipped around the screen, arrived to trap him. The Kaijō stars boxed Akashi in from both sides, forming a perfect double-team.
Forced into a corner and not wanting to trigger a jump-ball disaster, Akashi had no choice but to pass from an awkward angle.
Luckily, his fundamentals were impeccable — even without perfect setup, the ball sailed safely into Mibuchi's hands.
Mibuchi caught the pass on the wing, lowering his stance as he sized up Yuki.
Yuki stood with his feet slightly wider than shoulder-width, knees bent in a half-horse stance. One hand hovered near Mibuchi's face, the other extended sideways, shrinking his driving lane to something microscopic.
This was the defense of someone who had been learning pro-level basketball techniques since childhood.
Mibuchi gave a slight pump fake — just a teasing raise of the ball — but Yuki didn't bite in the slightest. His center of gravity didn't budge. All he did was retract his arm a bit the moment Mibuchi leaned in, just to avoid getting baited into a foul.
"This kid… is insanely annoying!"
A metaphorical pop-vein mark appeared above Mibuchi's head. He gritted his teeth, wanting to force a drive, but logic kept pulling him back.
That was when Hayama noticed Mibuchi's situation worsening.
"Mibuchi! Over here!" he called, waving frantically.
Hearing his teammate, Mibuchi didn't hesitate — he fired the pass immediately. And the moment the ball left his hands, Yuki's suffocating attention finally eased.
Feeling that oppressive "being watched" sensation vanish, Mibuchi exhaled, wiping a cold sweat from his brow.
For someone who looked so harmless and obedient on the surface, Yuki's perfectly polished defensive fundamentals — honed for over a decade — put terrifying pressure on any attacker.
Possession shifted to Hayama. Sharing Hayakawa's single-cell enthusiasm, he licked his lips the moment he touched the ball, looking ready to cause chaos.
But as soon as he turned to attack, pressure hit him — overwhelming, instinct-triggering pressure.
In nature, whenever prey faces a natural enemy, fear rises instinctively. Their bodies warn them: This opponent cannot be defeated.
Right now, Hayama — whose style was built on animal instincts— felt that exact sensation.
Kise stood in front of him, arms hanging loosely, looking nothing like Yuki with textbook form. In fact, Kise looked like he wasn't even planning to defend.
But in his eyes… faint golden sparks flashed.
Hayama gripped the ball with both hands, disbelief washing over his face. His legs quivered, and he instinctively took a step back, trying to escape Kise's range.
But the moment he lifted his right foot, Hayama suddenly froze — and then, his expression hardened. He slammed that foot into the floor with a thud.
Single-track thinkers might lack complexity, but because of that, they possess a wild aggressiveness and a challenger's spirit no one else can match.
"If you're my natural enemy… then beating you means I become unstoppable, right?"
Instead of retreating, Hayama advanced, fully entering his "Animal Instinct", his eyes scanning up and down, hunting for any opening in Kise's defense.
Kise raised an eyebrow, impressed.
"Not bad. Nice eyes."
"But… basketball isn't about whose stare is stronger."
With a light chuckle, he maintained the same relaxed stance.
If Kota's defensive style was that of a bandit — relentless pressure and anticipatory steals — Then Yuki's was that of a thief — quietly shrinking your space until you suffocated.
But Kise's style resembled neither.
With his Perfect Copy, a downright broken skill, he didn't need to analyze the attack. He simply copied whatever defender was the ideal counter for the situation.
To Hayama, Kise looked full of openings — too many openings. And that was exactly what made him nervous.
Seconds ticked away. With Akashi and Mibuchi having burned earlier time, Rakuzan's shot clock was already low. Hayama glanced up — only six seconds left.
No more hesitation.
He released the ball from his right hand. Boosted by Akashi's Team Zone, a pink spark shot through Hayama's eyes.
"Lightning Dribble… Five Fingers!"
With a low growl, he launched into his signature technique. His five fingers darted across the ball, generating rapid vibrations—then, with a lightning-fast shift, both he and the ball blew past Kise.
"Did I get past him?!"
Seeing Kise didn't follow, joy spread across Hayama's face — Until a calm voice sounded behind him.
"Emperor Eye."
Buzz.
Hayama wasn't even halfway through his move when — somehow — the ball was already in Kise's hands.
Akashi, who had been watching closely, reacted first.
"Hayama! Get back on defense!"
Snapped out of his shock, Hayama spun and chased after Kise.
Because he couldn't accelerate instantly while dribbling and hadn't copied Aomine right away, Kise was caught.
He glanced at the breathless Hayama beside him — Said nothing — And answered with action:
Perfect Copy: Lightning Dribble.
It played out exactly like moments before — Except this time, Kise was the attacker.
Hayama stared blankly as Kise executed every detail of his own move flawlessly. He knew this technique inside and out… yet somehow, against Kise, he couldn't stop a single part of it.
A breeze brushed past him. Hayama's body buckled, and he crashed onto his backside.
Above the Rakuzan rim, a tall silhouette soared.
BAM!
A violent dunk shook the hoop.
Kise swung on the rim for a second before landing smoothly. He turned toward Rakuzan's players—golden lightning flickering in his eyes.
Not just Kota. Not just Yuki.
Now Kise, had also entered the Zone.
On the sidelines, Shirogane closed his eyes in despair.
As a coach, he knew calling a timeout right now was the correct move. But watching this unfold… even he felt a creeping urge to give up.
1 minute remained in the 3rd quarter.
76–56. Kise's steal-and-dunk had pushed Kaijō's lead to twenty.
Just as Shirogane finally forced himself to stand and call it—
Akashi raised both hands on the court, face calm.
"Rakuzan requests a timeout."
…
…
Rakuzan bench.
Akashi leaned back, eyes closed, silent.The other starters hung their heads like they had already accepted defeat.
Shirogane's face burned with shame. He opened his mouth several times but couldn't force out a word.
"What am I doing…? The game isn't even over. A timeout here was necessary."
He clenched his fist, hating himself for that moment of weakness.
A team being behind isn't the scary part. Players losing morale isn't the scary part.
The scariest thing is when the coach — the leader — loses the will to win first.
"Akashi… I—"
Before he could finish, Akashi cut him off with a wave.
"It's fine, Coach. I don't blame you."
Akashi slowly opened his eyes. For a privileged heir, his face looked unusually tired.
"To be honest… in that moment just now… even I thought Rakuzan had lost."
Silence deepened on the bench.
Hayama and Nebuya tightened their grips on their bottles. Mibuchi twirled a lock of hair between his fingers.Hirakawa sat silently, waiting.
Seeing their reactions, Akashi suddenly laughed softly. He touched his nose and said:
"Someone once told me that failure is also an important part of life experience."
"To be honest, before entering high school, I had never tasted defeat. And yet in these two years… I've experienced more losses than the rest of my life combined."
He paused, then rose to his feet. His gaze locked onto the Kaijō side — Where Kota was grinning and waving at him like an idiot trying to provoke him.
Tch…
Akashi clicked his tongue.
"They beat us fair and square. And we tasted this defeat fair and square. There's nothing shameful about that."
"There's one quarter left. And realistically—yes—we've already lost."
"But what we can do now is finish the last quarter with pride. And when the buzzer sounds, we applaud them…"
"Then—next year—we come back for revenge."