On the bench.
Makino Juro looked at Sakuragi's utterly innocent expression.
He buried his head into his arms, shoulders shaking violently, almost laughing himself into internal injury.
"This kid…"
"Accelerated passing isn't about launching air cannons with a Buddha Palm!"
"…Forget it. As long as no one got hurt, let him mess around."
…
The game resumed.
Sakuragi's "human cannon" had caused a brief uproar, and possession was awarded to Ryonan.
On the sidelines, Coach Taoka Moichi stood with arms crossed, his face dark enough to drip water.
That scene had been ridiculous—but the explosive power and sheer force Sakuragi displayed made the unease in his chest grow heavier.
This wasn't basketball.
It was demolition work.
"We can't let that redhead run wild anymore."
Taoka's gaze swept across the court before locking onto Fukuda Kicchou.
His eyes sharpened.
A subtle hand signal.
Ryonan's code—
Isolation.
On the court.
Sendoh Akira caught the signal immediately, a knowing smile curling at his lips.
As he dribbled, he casually gestured.
Ryonan's formation shifted instantly.
Uozumi Jun, who had been stationed in the paint, suddenly pulled out toward the right baseline.
Koshino Hiroaki and Uekusa Tomoyuki slid toward the right wing, dragging Mitsui Hisashi and Miyagi Ryota with them.
In the blink of an eye.
The entire left half of the court became eerily empty.
Like a deliberately cleared island.
And on that island.
Only two remained.
On offense: Fukuda Kicchou, eyes dark and sunken, yet burning with hunger.
On defense: Sakuragi Hanamichi, still muttering to himself about that failed pass.
"Hm?"
In the stands.
Maki Shinichi paused mid-sip, sports drink suspended in the air.
A sharp glint flashed in his deep eyes.
"An isolation play…"
He lowered the bottle, leaning forward slightly, tone tinged with interest.
"Coach Taoka is going after the weakest link."
Beside him, Jin Soichiro blinked, puzzled.
"The weakest link? Sakuragi? But that block just now—"
"Physical ability is one thing. Defensive experience is another."
Maki shook his head, cutting straight to the point.
"Clear everyone out. Create a pure one-on-one."
"No help defense. No rotations."
"This is a public execution—putting Sakuragi Hanamichi on display."
On the opposite side.
Fujima Kenji's refined face turned serious.
"The best way to deal with a rookie… is to expose him to the gap in experience."
Watching the lone red-haired figure, Fujima frowned slightly.
"But Ryonan is really that confident in Fukuda?"
"Sakuragi's athleticism is off the charts."
"If Fukuda fails to score, Ryonan will completely lose control of the boards."
This—
Was a gamble.
A bet that Fukuda's spear could pierce Sakuragi's still-unpolished shield.
…
On the court.
The atmosphere grew heavy.
The air seemed to solidify within the left three-point arc.
Fukuda held the ball with both hands, back slightly hunched.
His narrow eyes locked onto Sakuragi.
His breathing was steady, powerful—each breath storing explosive force.
The killing intent forged from countless days off the court… honed in streetball battles.
"Hey, A-Fuku."
Sakuragi seemed to notice the emptiness around him.
He glanced left and right—no one in sight.
Then his gaze snapped back to Fukuda.
A wide grin split his face.
"What's this?"
"Clearing everyone out… you want a private lesson from this genius?"
"Even though I'm busy, since you're so sincere—"
"Shut up."
Fukuda cut him off coldly.
Before the words even finished—
He moved.
No flashy jab steps.
No unnecessary feints.
Just—
A pure, explosive first step.
BOOM!
His sneakers screeched against the floor.
Fukuda shot forward like a bullet, low and fast, bursting along the baseline.
Fast.
Too fast.
That acceleration rivaled elite guards.
Sakuragi's eyelids twitched.
In his vision, Fukuda blurred for a split second.
"Trying to get past me? No way!"
Sakuragi's reaction speed was monstrous.
The instant Fukuda moved, his body responded instinctively—sliding laterally to cut off the path.
But...
That was exactly what Fukuda was waiting for.
The moment Sakuragi shifted his center of gravity—
Fukuda slammed on the brakes.
Inertia dragged Sakuragi half a step backward, his footing almost tangling.
Then..
Fukuda exploded again!
Stop. Go.
A rhythm shift like a phantom.
In an instant, it tore through Sakuragi's already flawed defensive stance.
WHOOSH!
A gust of wind.
Sakuragi's vision flickered—
And Fukuda was already past him.
"Nani?!"
Sakuragi's eyes widened in shock.
He tried to turn and chase.
But his feet felt nailed to the floor.
He couldn't keep up.
"He's past him!"
Ryonan's bench erupted.
"Nice one, Fuku!"
"That's it! Teach that amateur a lesson!"
Taoka clenched his fist, a triumphant smirk forming.
"See that?"
"That's the gap in experience."
"All that athleticism, but no defensive footwork—against a true scorer, he's just a standing dummy."
Fukuda Kicchou now saw nothing but the orange-red rim.
After blowing past Sakuragi, the lane was wide open.
That long-lost feeling...
Of controlling the game—
Sent his blood boiling.
"Score…"
"I have to score…"
"I'll show everyone what I'm capable of…"
"I'll make even Sendoh acknowledge me!"
Fukuda leapt high, cradling the ball in one hand, his body fully extended in midair.
A guaranteed layup.
He could already hear the roar of the crowd in his mind.
But...
Just as the ball was about to leave his hand—
A shadow fell over his vision.
Not Sakuragi chasing from behind.
But..
A figure that appeared from the side like a ghost.
"What?!"
Fukuda's pupils shook violently.
His composure cracked.
Right in front of him—
Standing at the edge of the paint.
Was Shohoku's No. 14.
Mitsui Hisashi.
The man who should have been pulled away to the right—
Had somehow slid back into position like a phantom.
He stood there.
Feet planted.
Hands guarding his chest.
His gaze calm—
Like a bottomless lake.
No jump.
No steal attempt.
Just...
A predator lying in wait.
Coldly waiting for the prey to run straight into him.
"How is there someone here?!"
END OF CHAPTER
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