A thick silence hung in the air like a fog that refused to lift.
Then, a sharp electronic buzz pierced through the quiet, signaling the end of the third quarter.
All movement seemed to pause for a moment. Takahashi and Sotomura turned their heads in sync, their gazes locking onto Kouhei. Neither of them said a word, but their expressions said it all—they hadn't expected that. Not from him.
From the beginning, Takahashi had no faith in Kouhei's ability to do anything meaningful on the court. The only reason he'd even passed the ball to him was pure desperation, a final, reckless gamble when there was nothing else left. Hope hadn't factored into the equation. And Sotomura? He didn't even consider Kouhei as someone worth defending seriously. He had brushed him off entirely—until that shot.
Perfect form. Smooth execution. Clean release.
They made their way toward the bench to rest before the final quarter. Everyone else looked half-dead, drenched in sweat and gasping for air like fish out of water. But Kouhei? He was the picture of calm. Not a drop of sweat on him. Not a single breath out of rhythm. His uniform barely clung to his skin, and his eyes remained steady—almost distant, like he hadn't even played.
Takahashi glanced sideways at him, his jaw tightening. It felt surreal—watching someone he'd always considered inferior suddenly move with such sharp precision. That shot wasn't just a lucky toss. It was fluid, clean, and disciplined. A real shot.
But more than the shot itself, what left Takahashi truly rattled… was the fact he had passed the ball to him.
It was a flinch of instinct, a flash of impulse he hadn't even registered until after the ball had left his fingertips. And now, here he was, stunned by the result.
Minutes passed in silence before the fourth and final quarter began. The whistle blew.
Sotomura was already clinging to Takahashi again, shadowing his every movement like a specter.
'What that guy did earlier… it was probably just a fluke,' Sotomura thought, his eyes narrowing into thin slits as he tailed Takahashi. 'There's no way he can repeat it. Not again. The only real pain in the ass here is Takahashi. But even then—what does it matter? The point gap is too damn wide. There's no recovering from this. It's already over.'
Takahashi held the ball as the timer started ticking. Without wasting a second, he launched a sharp pass to the nearest teammate.
That teammate bolted toward the opposing basket with all the urgency of a man trying to outrun a losing battle. He was just about to shoot when—
Out of nowhere, Sotomura was there, towering behind him, arm slicing through the air like a guillotine as he swatted the ball away before it could leave the player's hands.
Too fast. Way too fast.
The player's eyes widened in disbelief.
How the hell did he close the distance like that? We were feet apart. No one's that fast…
Before the player could even recover, Sotomura had already turned on his heel and was sprinting full speed toward the other end of the court. Takahashi dashed to intercept him, his feet pounding against the hardwood floor, but Sotomura wasn't just about speed.
Without breaking his rhythm, Sotomura leapt forward, body curling into a textbook shooting posture. His arms extended gracefully, and the ball flew from his fingertips like a bullet fired from a precision rifle. No hesitation. No pause.
The three-pointer sunk clean through the net.
Sotomura didn't even bother to look back.
He turned around the moment the ball left his hand, already jogging back to his side of the court, his lips pulling into a smug grin as he passed Takahashi.
The scoreboard ticked upward.
The point difference just kept growing.
Takahashi stood frozen, rooted to the court like dead weight. His head hung low, shoulders sagging under the crushing weight of reality. His fists trembled at his sides, clenched tight—not with rage, but with hopelessness.
At this point… what was the point?
Every breath felt wasted. Every drop of energy burned felt meaningless. It was like trying to climb a crumbling wall with bare hands.
Kouhei's voice cut through the haze.
He didn't wait for a response. He shoved the ball toward him without hesitation.
Takahashi's hands moved on their own, catching it instinctively.
"The game's not over yet," Kouhei said, his voice calm but firm—like he was stating a fact rather than giving encouragement.
Takahashi's eyes flicked up toward the scoreboard. 8 minutes and 30 seconds left. The gap between them? 30 points. The math was brutal.
If they were to win… they'd have to score consistently while completely shutting down the other team. Every second would have to be milked, every move executed with ruthless precision.
The odds? Maybe ten percent.
A flicker of determination sparked in his chest.
Takahashi gritted his teeth, dropped his stance low, and began to dribble. With each bounce of the ball, his focus narrowed. And when he saw an opening, he pushed forward, breaking past one defender before flicking a sharp pass to Kouhei.
Kouhei caught it smoothly and began to dribble.
It felt strange—alien, almost.
He had never dribbled the ball in a real game before, and it showed. His hands were stiff, his form awkward. The ball bounced back and forth in simple, mechanical motions. There was no flair. No rhythm. Just the bare minimum to keep it moving.
However, if he could just apply what he had learned from Aria about swordsmanship—just a fraction of it—then maybe, just maybe, he could actually pull something off here.
Footwork was everything in swordsmanship. One misstep, and you'd find a blade lodged in your throat. Your legs were your life. A single stumble meant death. But this wasn't war—it was basketball. He didn't need to cut anyone down. All he had to do was move, evade, and outmaneuver.
Two defenders charged at him like hounds off a leash, their eyes locked on him like predators spotting prey. But Kouhei's eyes remained sharp, focused, and calculated. He read the patterns in their movements, the shifts in weight, the telltale signs of where they were going. In a flash, he slipped right past them with a smooth sidestep, as if gliding across the court. Their arms swung through empty air.
Without hesitation, he planted his feet, raised his arms in a perfectly practiced motion, and released the ball into the air.
The ball spun gracefully, twirling in a near-perfect spiral as it cut through the air. It rose high, kissed the peak of its arc, and descended with unwavering purpose—straight through the net.
Another clean three-pointer.
Takahashi and Sotomura stared in disbelief, their faces frozen, their mouths slightly agape. They hadn't seen that coming. Not from him.
The ball went back to Sotomura. He barely had time to think—he instantly tried to pass it to a teammate. But before the ball could even cross halfway, Kouhei shot forward like a bullet, intercepting it mid-flight with the grace of a panther.
Shock burst from Sotomura's lips. How? How the hell did he get there so fast? He was supposed to be guarded—boxed in just seconds ago—and now he was right in front of them, gripping the ball like it belonged to him.
"Get it!" Sotomura roared, breaking into a sprint alongside one of his teammates, their sneakers screeching against the court as they rushed after him.
But it was already too late.
Kouhei was already there.
With perfect posture and unwavering calm, he released the ball once more. It soared like a missile launched from a catapult, arching high above the court.
Straight into the hoop again.
The net snapped against the force, and for a second, the sound echoed louder than anything else in the gym.
That was when it happened.
The crowd—who had watched in silence for most of the game, bored from how one-sided it had been—suddenly erupted into cheers.
The roar was so loud, it felt like the entire gym was shaking.
Sotomura's jaw clenched as he grabbed the ball in frustration and threw it back to his teammate, barking out commands. He got the ball back with a quick return pass, trying to reset the play.
But Takahashi was on him.
He blocked the path forward.
Sotomura veered left and passed the ball again—but the moment it left his fingers, Kouhei was already there like a ghost appearing out of nowhere.
"Not this time!" Sotomura shouted, his voice sharp, filled with irritation and disbelief, as he lunged forward and cut off Kouhei's path.
Kouhei came to a halt, bouncing the ball in rhythm, his body shifting ever so slightly as he guarded it from Sotomura's grasp.
"Hey, Otaku," Sotomura sneered, a twisted grin stretching across his face. "You've been getting a little lucky lately, huh? But too bad for you—those lucky shots won't matter. With me here, and the huge gap in points? You've already lost. So quit playing hero and just accept it already!!!"
Sotomura saw an opening. He lunged forward, his hand swiping in fast from the side—he knew Kouhei's dribbling was weak, just the basics. He was sure of it. This was the moment to take it back.
But all he caught was air.
His hand sliced through nothingness, and the force of his own momentum sent him stumbling forward, nearly toppling over.
Kouhei had already slid the ball behind his back, switching hands with a clean, fluid motion that sent a jolt of awe through the crowd.
And then—once again—he stepped back.
Another shot, another flawless arc.
Another three-pointer.