Kanagawa Prefectural Gymnasium.
The pungent sting of pain spray, the chemical scent of polished floors, and the musky tang of hormone-driven sweat combined into a unique aura known simply as "the decisive battle."
Today was the first day of finals week. The original script had Shohoku facing the reigning champions, Kainan.
But due to some unavoidable circumstances, the tournament committee had altered the match order at the last minute.
The new schedule read:
Kainan High vs. Takezono High.
Shohoku High vs. Ryonan High.
On the scoreboard, the remnants of the previous match still glared at everyone like a nightmare:
98–51.
The vivid red numbers were shocking.
The Takezono players looked like frostbitten eggplants, hollow-eyed, as if they had just survived a level-ten tsunami.
"That middle-aged guy is brutal," Makino Juro muttered, perched lazily on the stands' railing.
He chewed on an energy bar, eyes following the retreating back of the Kainan team.
Makino Shinichi walked off in his coat, expression calm as a supervising headteacher on inspection, giving no hint of the massacre he had just orchestrated.
"But that's a good thing," Makino Juro yawned and stretched, joints cracking audibly as his gaze drifted toward the deep blue ocean at the other end of the court.
"The sooner we finish with Ryonan, the sooner I can punch out and take a nap.
Refuse burnout—starting with me."
As both teams entered the court, the gym erupted instantly.
"Shohoku! Shohoku! Shohoku!"
"Ryonan! Ryonan! Ryonan!"
Both cheering squads had clearly come prepared.
On the left side of the stands, a massive banner waved in the wind, three golden letters blazing across it—"Man of Fire"—practically blinding.
Hotta Norio waved it furiously, a headband reading "Mitsui Victory" tied around his forehead.
He and a group of once-ruthless delinquents now acted like the most devout idol fans, screaming themselves hoarse.
"Mitsui! You're the best! You're electricity, you're light!"
"Uh…Big Brother Norio, isn't your voice a little too loud?" one of the underlings whispered, embarrassed, covering his face.
"Idiot! This is youth!" Norio shouted back.
"Look! Mitsui is looking at us!"
"He's nodding to us!" Norio's nose ran, tears streaming as he cheered.
On the court, Mitsui Hisashi twitched violently at the corner of his mouth, his toes digging into his shoes as if constructing an entire three-bedroom apartment.
He stiffly averted his gaze, pretending to inspect a loose thread on his knee pad with utmost seriousness.
On the other side, Rukawa Kaede's personal fan squad could only be described as a human sonic weapon.
"Rukawa Kaede! I love you!"
"L–O–V–E! Rukawa Kaede!"
The screams nearly tore the roof off.
A few girls passed out mid-cheer, rolling their eyes, only to be revived by friends pinching their philtrums and immediately resume screaming.
They epitomized the "determined underdog" spirit.
The most chaotic, however, was Sandwiched in the middle—the Sakuragi army.
Mito Yohei brandished a megaphone, Takamiya Nozomi clutched a family-sized popcorn, and Ohkusu Yuji and Noma dragged a crooked banner across the stands, roughly reading:
"Genius Sakuragi, King of Exit (crossed out), King of the Court!"
"Hanamichi!"
"If you foul out today with five, dinner's on you! Beef bowl, with egg!"
Takamiya stuffed popcorn into his mouth while shouting, scattering crumbs everywhere.
"Shut up! You bunch of idiots!"
"I'm the secret weapon today!"
"SECRET WEAPON, understand?!"
Sakuragi Hanamichi stomped and waved his fists at the crowd, veins bulging on his forehead.
Above them, the recently finished Kainan players claimed the VIP seats.
Makino Shinichi stood with arms crossed, radiating an aura over two meters strong.
Kiyota Nobunaga leaned over the railing, scowling at Rukawa and Makino Juro below like a startled monkey.
"Maki, who do you think has the edge?" Soichiro Jin opened his water bottle, voice calm.
Maki's gaze swept over Sendoh Akira and Makino Juro.
"Ryonan has likely evolved."
"Uozumi's expression… he's reborn."
"But Shohoku's… that Makino Juro…"
"That guy's bottomless." Makino's voice was grave.
Nearby, the Shoyo players also watched intently in casual clothes.
Fujima Kenji in the front row stared at Makino Juro like a predator, his cheering stick twisted in his hand.
"Makino Juro…"
"Don't lose." Fujima whispered, his fighting spirit surging.
One minute remained until the match began.
"Assemble!!!"
Akagi Takenori and Uozumi Jun roared simultaneously, the soundwaves colliding like crashing bombs.
Both teams gathered at center court, the air thick, charged with the scent of impending battle.
Akagi's bronze bell-like eyes locked onto Uozumi.
"Uozumi, this time… I'll win."
Uozumi Jun appeared even larger than during practice matches, a walking mountain.
He met Akagi's gaze, flaring his nostrils:
"Akagi, the title of #1 center in the prefecture? Today, I take it."
Their eyes collided midair; it almost crackled like electricity.
Beside them, Sendoh Akira still wore that trademark indifferent smile, waving at Rukawa:
"Yo, Rukawa, long time no see. You've grown taller?"
Rukawa's expression remained blank. He spat coldly four words:
"Today, I'll beat you."
"Heh, scary, these young people nowadays," Sendoh muttered, adjusting his signature broom-like hair before turning toward Makino Juro at the back, yawning.
"Makino Juro, show some mercy today."
Makino Juro rubbed his sleepy eyes and handed the headphones around his neck to Ayako, his tone as casual as dealing with a persistent salesman:
"Ah… sure, sure.
As long as you don't force me to work overtime, we're still friends."
"Teams, line up!" the referee blew the whistle.
"Let's do this!!!"
The roar shook the gym.
Back at the bench, Coach Anzai sat poised on his elevated seat, tea cup in hand, glasses reflecting his sharp, calm intelligence.
The players formed a tight circle, chests heaving—the unmistakable sign of adrenaline.
"Listen carefully," Anzai spoke slowly, his voice quiet yet like an anchor in a storm.
"Tactics are the same as in practice—no need for major changes."
He extended a chubby finger.
"Man-to-man.
Akagi, you take Uozumi. The paint is your battlefield—yield no ground."
Akagi nodded heavily, radiating murderous intent:
"Yes!"
"Miyagi, you're on Uekusa. Use your speed to cut off their passing lanes."
Miyagi grinned, flashing a small fang:
"Leave it to me, Dad. That steady guy? He fears someone who doesn't follow the script."
"Mitsui," Anzai turned to him.
"Koshino may seem unremarkable, but he's sticky as chewing gum. Don't underestimate him."
Mitsui adjusted his wristband confidently, eyes sharp:
"Don't worry, Coach. This level of opponent isn't even my warm-up."
"Rukawa…"
Anzai's gaze hardened.
"Sendoh, it's in your hands."