On the court, Shinichi Maki stood frozen, his gaze fixed on Sendo not far away.
His usual composure had vanished, replaced by a seriousness he had never shown.
He had always acknowledged Sendo's talent—but never as a threat. Until now.
This guy… he's grown beyond what I expected, Maki thought, a rare inward sigh escaping him.
This was no temporary burst of power. No luck. Sendo had the strength to truly challenge him.
Instinctively, Maki's eyes flicked across the court—to Akashi.
Calm. Collected. Unshakable.
Akashi had not made flashy steals or explosive drives like Sendo, but at every crucial moment, he had appeared.
A subtle fake to bypass the defense. A quiet interception. Or a perfectly timed counterattack. His positioning anticipated every move Kainan made.
"Sendo… and Akashi…" Maki's brows tightened.
Sendo's threat was obvious. Akashi's was invisible, suffocating—an all-encompassing net quietly locking down the court.
From the very start, the constant palpitation he felt from Akashi made Maki wary. He could never neglect him for a moment.
The game resumed.
Kainan's offense advanced, led by Maki. Well-coordinated passes broke Ryonan's perimeter, inching closer to the basket.
Maki held the ball near the free-throw line, scanning for an opening.
Then his pupils contracted.
Blocking him now was not Sendo, but Akashi, back in front of him.
A substitution?
Maki's heart skipped. He instinctively took half a step back, widening the distance.
Compared to Sendo's overt threat, the invisible pressure from Akashi was far more troublesome.
He drew a deep breath, suppressing the nervous energy, and prepared to forcefully break through Akashi's defense—just like before.
But then…
Akashi's gaze sharpened, a faint glint flashing in his heterochromatic eyes.
Emperor Eye activated.
Boom.
A bone-deep dread surged through Maki. Every hair on his body stood on end. His breathing stuttered. His movements froze.
What… is this?
It was as if every thought, every motion, every subtle muscle shift was laid bare before Akashi. No secrets. No surprises.
And then, lightning-fast…
Akashi's right hand shot out.
Slap.
The ball was gone.
Maki stood paralyzed, hands still raised. He didn't see it happen—only felt the weight vanish.
For the first time in a game, his possession had been stolen from the front, with ease.
Thump… thump… thump…
Akashi didn't pause. His body shot forward like a released arrow, crossing midcourt in a blink.
Kainan's players were still frozen, disbelief etched on every face.
They had never imagined the Emperor of Kanagawa losing the ball so decisively—and from the front, no less.
The sudden shift threw their rhythm into chaos.
Akashi drove into the paint with two long strides, slightly airborne, holding the ball above his head.
The paint was empty. Retreating defenders were far behind. No one could stop him.
Swish.
The net sang.
Everything had happened so fast, the audience barely caught a glimpse.
"What… happened?" Kiyota Nobunaga muttered, bewildered, still focused on Sendo moments ago.
When he turned, he saw Akashi crossing midcourt, Maki frozen in place.
He didn't understand.
Jin Soichiro's gaze fell on Maki's empty hands. "Shinichi Maki…"
Muto Tadashi and Takasago Kazuma mirrored his shock.
Even reporters struggled to keep up.
One widened her eyes, voice trembling:
"Unbelievable… He stole Shinichi Maki's ball in an instant! Did he predict it?"
Kamishiro Ruri shook her head calmly. "No. Akashi-kun doesn't predict. He sees."
"Sees it?" Aida Yayoi's eyes widened in disbelief.
Ruri smiled knowingly. "Yes. I only understand part of it, but I am certain—Akashi-kun can see all of an opponent's future movements."
Aida's brain seemed to short-circuit. "See… future… movements?"
Nakamura leaned closer. "This… isn't possible…"
If Ruri spoke the truth, Akashi's ability was a glitch in reality itself. To see all movements, all intentions, meant absolute initiative. No wonder even Shinichi Maki could be caught off-guard.
How could such a person exist in reality?
Nakamura, standing beside her, was equally stunned.
He had spent decades in basketball, witnessed countless prodigies, seen players with incredible prediction and lightning-fast reactions—but never anyone who could truly see the future.
It was incomprehensible.
He leaned closer, whispering, "Kamishiro-san… what do you mean by that? Seeing the future… you're not talking about superpowers, are you?"
Kamishiro Ruri remained calm, her gaze fixed on Akashi. "Simply put, Akashi-kun can see through all of an opponent's movements. Every change in direction, every pass, every defensive positioning—once he activates this ability, he can see all subsequent trajectories clearly."
She paused, adding, "Just like the steal just now—Shinichi Maki thought his breakthrough was sudden, but in Akashi-kun's eyes, every footstep, every wrist flick, every shift of his body's center of gravity had been mapped out long before he made the move."
Aida Yayoi and Nakamura Taizo froze, blinking as if trying to process the impossible. Then their eyes widened, disbelief overtaking them.
If Ruri spoke the truth, Akashi's ability was a glitch in basketball itself. Seeing every movement meant he could take absolute control—on offense and defense. No wonder even Shinichi Maki could be caught off guard.
"This… how is this possible?" Aida whispered. "This ability… it's insane…"
On the court, Kainan's players regrouped, advancing slowly into Ryonan's half.
The recent steal had rattled them. Their passes became cautious, their movements measured. Akashi's clean, decisive interception was like a thorn embedded in their hearts.
Maki held the ball, protecting it with both hands, moving deliberately. His gaze never left Akashi.
No rash moves. No unnecessary fakes. He maintained a distance of two meters—close enough to react, far enough to protect the ball.
Akashi mirrored him, steady, calm, slightly crouched, hands spread. He didn't advance or feint—he simply was an invisible wall, perfectly blocking Maki's path.
Yet the passive stance was suffocating. The pressure was unprecedented, almost tangible.
Maki scanned the court, recalling the stolen ball. The cold calculation in Akashi's eyes, the sudden swipe, the impossibly fast reflex—it all replayed in his mind, leaving a lingering fear he had never felt before.
He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus. Every second of inattention could be catastrophic. Any rash move would be anticipated, countered, nullified.
Time seemed to freeze as they faced each other. The crowd, the players, the referees—all became peripheral. Only the two of them existed.
The shot clock ticked down.
Maki finally acted.
A sharp flick of the wrist, the basketball arcing cleanly toward Muto Tadashi on the wing. Every movement precise, every intention clear—a textbook pass.
Kainan's players moved in perfect sync. Muto opened his hands. Jin Soichiro and Kiyota Nobunaga drew defenders to create space.
From the outside, it seemed flawless. A planned, decisive offensive play.
But Akashi didn't flinch. He didn't move to intercept.
Every detail of Maki's wrist, fingers, and subtle body shifts deconstructed and analyzed in his Emperor Eye.
Then the fragments of the future appeared.
Maki's "pass" was a feint. His real intention: pull back the ball and break through Akashi's right side.
Just as predicted.
As the ball left his fingertips—or rather, as he attempted to pull it back—Akashi's palm shot out.
Thwack.
The ball broke free, landing perfectly in Akashi's hands.
Maki froze, eyes wide, heart pounding. He had no time to react—only to witness Akashi controlling the court with eerie calm.
How… how could he anticipate that exact moment?
His feint, the retrieval, the intended breakthrough—every nuance read and countered.
Now Akashi dribbled past half-court, every bounce rhythmic, every step precise.
"You won't get past me." Kiyota sprinted, arms spread, determination burning.
Akashi didn't slow. "Get past? There's no need."
The dribble shifted, quickened between his legs, tracing a low arc.
Kiyota bent instinctively, attempting to block.
Then… his legs betrayed him.
The center of gravity vanished. An invisible force seemed to upend him. He flailed, falling backward.
Thump. The floor met him harshly. Hands bracing him, eyes wide, confusion and shock written across his face.
He didn't understand what had happened. Akashi hadn't touched him. Yet his body had betrayed him.
Akashi stood tall, holding the ball like a king surveying his domain. A shadow cast over Kiyota.
"No matter who it is… anyone who defies me, I will not allow them to look down on me." Calm. Assertive. Unquestionable.
His gaze locked on Kiyota, silent, composed. No mockery. No arrogance—just absolute control.
Swish. A gentle, precise shot.
Akashi didn't even look at the hoop. The ball obeyed him.
"You're holding your head too high," he added, eyes cold.
The arena fell silent. Cameras stilled. Spectators froze.
Kiyota sat on the floor, staring at Akashi's retreating back. His mind blank. His strength seemed drained.
For the first time, he felt utterly insignificant.
Ryonan's lead grew. Ten points. Thirteen to twenty-three.
Back in Maki's hands, the ball felt heavier than ever. Akashi's all-seeing eyes forced him to advance cautiously, step by step.
Takasago moved behind Akashi, preparing a screen—the only strategy they had left.
Maki seized it, pushing off to break left. Determination etched into every muscle. A crucial opportunity.
But… as he moved, an unexpected change occurred.