At this moment, the Shoyo team had completely shed their previous frustrations. It was as if people who had long endured darkness had finally glimpsed the light. Hope and fighting spirit shone in their eyes.
They hadn't lost yet. There was still time. As long as they persisted, who would win or lose was still uncertain.
"Destined defeat?" They dismissed it. That was just the arrogance of a first-year, a boy only capable of spouting empty words. Their captain, Fujima Kenji, knew better: passing impressive or not, they were not to be underestimated.
Akashi, for his part, remained unchanged, expressionless. Shoyo narrowing the score hadn't elicited the slightest reaction from him.
The Ryonan team felt a faint tension at Shoyo's renewed confidence. Shoyo truly lived up to their reputation as Kanagawa's perennial second-place team. They were not easy opponents.
Then Akashi's voice cut through the court:
"Pass."
Uozumi, about to pass, immediately obeyed, flicking the ball to Akashi. The moment it landed in his hands, he spoke calmly to his teammates:
"The plan remains unchanged. Continue to attack."
Ryonan spread across the court, resuming their offense. No difference, no adjustment—just relentless execution.
Fujima Kenji and his players, familiar with Ryonan's patterns, adopted their usual defensive formations. Yet something in Fujima's chest tightened.
Akashi hadn't changed his strategy at all. Even though Shoyo had found a way to close the gap, he continued with the same plan. That calm, indifferent expression, that unwavering pattern—it was abnormal.
Even Ryonan's own players, and Coach Taoka Moichi on the sidelines, were momentarily puzzled.
Fujima tried to shake Akashi with a sarcastic remark as he blocked his path. "This doesn't seem right! The score's already narrowed!"
Akashi's calm eyes met his, tone flat, controlled:
"You seem to have misunderstood something."
Fujima's brow furrowed. He expected denial, anger—but Akashi continued, almost teaching him:
"A narrowed score does not mean Shoyo has a chance to win. From the moment the score was pulled open, Shoyo had no chance—not merely in points, but in what could be done with the time that difference afforded."
The words struck Fujima like a thunderbolt. His momentary hope collapsed under the weight of understanding. He, as captain and de facto strategist, immediately grasped the depth of Akashi's plan.
Coach Taoka slapped his thigh, voice sharp with excitement:
"So that's it! That's his goal!"
Aida Hikoichi blinked, confused. "Coach, I don't understand—what do you mean?"
Taoka nodded. "Look at Shoyo. They've been pushed to expend maximum stamina chasing our lead. High-intensity offense and defense has exhausted them. They will not last to the second half if this continues. Akashi set this trap from the beginning."
Aida's eyes widened. "Incredible… Captain Akashi actually planned the game from the start! He knew Shoyo would burn themselves out chasing the score!"
The Ryonan substitutes were equally awed. On the court, Akashi seemed almost ethereal, encircled in a halo of inevitability.
Fujima Kenji, however, felt only despair. Looking at his exhausted teammates, feeling his own legs heavy and his breath ragged, he realized: they had been lured into a trap of physical exhaustion.
The basketball bounced in Akashi's hand like a countdown.
"You, who have already exhausted your stamina, cannot defeat us," Akashi stated flatly.
Then, in an instant, he moved.
He pushed off the ground like a sharpened blade, slicing past Fujima Kenji with a speed that shattered perception. His movement stirred the air, leaving only a blurred afterimage.
Fujima reached instinctively, but his vision could only follow a streak. The ball had already landed a step behind him.
Akashi had put two body lengths between them, charging toward Shoyo's basket with terrifying velocity. Even the audience gasped. Shinichi Maki, seated among spectators, felt the pressure of Akashi's speed. Players from other schools rubbed their eyes in disbelief.
Hanagata Toru rushed to defend, arms spread, gaze locked. Yet, as Akashi entered the paint, the ball didn't follow him.
Hanagata's eyes caught an orange-yellow shadow flashing past—a familiar arc.
Koshino Hiroaki, still holding his shooting posture, had released the ball. Akashi had faked his breakthrough, then retreated. The ball soared perfectly toward Shoyo's hoop.
Swish…
Ryonan 33 – Shoyo 20.
Akashi returned to his half, scanning the court, voice precise and cold:
"Your stamina can no longer keep up with our offensive rhythm. We are not without a way to counter your offense. This is the truth."
Fujima Kenji's heart thudded violently. He stared at the red figure across the court, voice roaring in his mind: "This guy… he can actually plan a game to this extent… or is this the final step of his plan?"
From the very start, Ryonan had maintained a pace designed to exhaust them. And now, every ounce of energy Shoyo had fought for, every tactical adjustment, was being methodically undone.
Akashi Seijuro was more than a player—he was a force, a strategist, and a predator all at once.
Fujima's hands trembled slightly. He realized the truth: this was no ordinary opponent.
Akashi Seijuro. Indeed, a formidable opponent.