The air in the arena was different for Sannoh. It was respectful, almost reverent. This wasn't a crowd expecting a fight; it was a crowd expecting a demonstration. The Sannoh players took the court with a calm, business-like demeanor. They were here to execute, not to entertain.
From the opening tip, their superiority was evident. It wasn't flashy. It was precise. Kenji Fujima ran their offense with a surgeon's calm, dissecting Flowstate's defense with pinpoint passes. The ball moved faster than the players, swinging from side to side until a sliver of an opening appeared.
On defense, they were a wall. Kawata's presence in the paint was a physical law; driving was an exercise in futility. Hanagata's length and timing disrupted passing lanes Flowstate didn't even know were visible.
The first quarter was a masterclass in team basketball. Sannoh didn't force anything. They took what the defense gave them, and they never missed. Open mid-range jumpers, simple cuts, textbook post-ups. It was basketball in its purest, most efficient form.
Sannoh 24, Flowstate 10.
They walked to the bench under the weight of Sannoh's quiet dominance. It wasn't a blitz of talent like Teikō or chaotic energy like Shohoku. This was a slow, methodical, and utterly demoralizing execution. The champions were showing them the gap between a good team and a great one. The rhythm of Flowstate had been met with a silence more deafening than any noise.