The fourth quarter began without spectacle.
No flashy entrance.
No explosive play.
Just a slow bounce of the ball.
Thump.
Ryu stood near the center circle, one hand resting on the ball, the other hanging loosely at his side. His red aura—once sharp and aggressive—had dulled into something heavier, denser. Not weaker.
Compressed.
The scoreboard read:
Hakuro — 57
Seiryō — 64
Seven points.
Close enough to taste.
Too close to ignore.
The crowd sensed it immediately.
The noise drained from the arena—not fading, but withdrawing, like the ocean pulling back before a wave. Even the commentators lowered their voices.
"This… feels different," one of them murmured.
Ryu took his first dribble.
Thump.
Yuuto dropped into his stance instantly, knees bent, spine straight, eyes fixed—not on the ball, not on Ryu's face—
His hips.
Daniel's voice echoed in his mind.
Hips don't lie. Everything else is bait.
Ryu dribbled again.
Thump.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Not a setup.
Not a probe.
