Nine minutes remained in the second half.
44:46. Shohoku trailed by two.
It didn't make sense.
As Shoyo's captain—and coach.
Fujima Kenji prided himself on a vision that overlooked the court like a hawk.
His mind should have functioned like a precision radar, constantly tracking Rukawa Kaede's cuts, Akagi Takenori's positioning, and Mitsui Hisashi's off-ball movement.
Logic told him to control the whole court.
But now...
His instincts had betrayed him.
Each time the basketball struck the floor in Makino Juro's hands,
it felt as if an invisible thread was tugging at Fujima's eyes, forcing his gaze back.
"…Damn it. Why can't I look away?"
A bead of cold sweat slid down his temple.
He tried to force himself to glance toward the weak side—
but the moment his peripheral vision drifted, a sharp sense of danger stabbed through his nerves,
forcing him to lock back onto that first-year in front of him.
Like the only flame in a pitch-black night—
drawing moths to their death.
"Hey."
Makino Juro suddenly spoke.
Tilting his head, damp strands of hair clung to his forehead. Beneath them, his eyes carried an infuriating hint of mockery.
"How long are you planning to stare at me?"
"At this rate, you might fall in love."
Fujima's pupils shrank.
"…What did you say?!"
"Watch closely."
Makino Juro's voice turned cold.
In that instant, his previously lazy body exploded with tension.
Without warning—
he stepped forward.
"Boom!"
That single step felt like it shook the entire court.
A crushing presence surged outward like a tangible shockwave, engulfing Shoyo's half.
"He's driving!!"
Fujima's brain hadn't even issued a command yet—
his body had already reacted, stepping back to cut him off.
And not just him.
Hanagata Toru, who had been battling Akagi in the paint, suddenly felt his peripheral vision flooded with a blazing red flare.
Instinctively, he abandoned his position and shifted toward the lane's edge.
Hasegawa Kazushi, guarding Rukawa.
even Nagano Mitsuru along the baseline.
in that single second, everyone's attention tilted fatally.
Like iron filings drawn to a massive magnet.
Shoyo's tight defensive formation collapsed.
Makino Juro watched the three defenders rushing him as if possessed.
A wicked smile curled at his lips.
As expected… this Reverse Misdirection is absurdly effective.
Not slowing down—
he leapt straight toward Hanagata's towering arms.
"Don't get cocky, you first-year brat!!"
Hanagata roared, his eyes bloodshot behind his glasses.
This block—
he had to get it.
All the spotlight converged on that moment.
But just as Hanagata's fingers were about to touch the ball—
Makino Juro, midair, performed a motion that defied physics.
His arms, raised for a dunk—
suddenly pulled the ball back into his chest like a magic trick.
His gaze slipped under Hanagata's arm—
toward the empty corner.
Was it really empty?
No.
When all attention had been devoured by Makino Juro—
there was one man who existed outside that world.
White jersey. Number 14.
Mitsui Hisashi stood in the corner like a wandering ghost.
No pressure. No defense. Not even a whisper of presence.
It felt… surreal.
Mitsui looked at the ball in his hands...
a surgical, pinpoint pass threaded through defenders by Makino Juro.
He even had time to adjust his grip, to feel the grooves of the leather.
That guy… he pulled the entire world toward himself.
Then I won't hold back.
Mitsui jumped.
The brace on his knee reflected a dull sheen under the lights
a mark of his lost years, and the badge of his unyielding spirit.
Amid the roaring arena...
he alone was calm.
A soft flick of the wrist.
The ball arced high—
sailing over the head of a panicked, turning Hasegawa.
"Swish!"
The most beautiful sound in basketball.
Clean net. No rim.
47:46.
Shohoku—takes the lead!
"YESSS!!!"
The Shohoku bench exploded.
Yasuda and Kakuta rushed to the sidelines, waving towels wildly.
Even the ever-composed Kogure Kiminobu clenched his fists in excitement.
On the court.
Mitsui held his shooting form.
Watching Makino Juro jog back casually, a confident, arrogant smile curved his lips.
"Nice pass, freshman."
Makino Juro shrugged, muttering under his breath as he ran.
"This skill burns way too much stamina…"
He complained—
but his eyes remained sharp.
This is like opening the Eight Gates…
Feels amazing… but it'll kill you.
In the stands, the Ryonan side.
Coach Taoka stood with his mouth slightly open—
as if he'd just witnessed something otherworldly.
"That last play… it wasn't just a defensive lapse."
"It was that number 16."
His voice was dry.
Behind him, Sendoh Akira suddenly spoke.
His usually relaxed eyes narrowed into something dangerous.
"It's like… he devoured everyone's attention."
"Not just visually—but psychologically."
"In that moment, the only command in Shoyo's players' minds was 'stop him.'"
"Which caused tunnel vision."
He tapped his temple.
"Tunnel vision?" Koshino looked confused.
"Like looking through a pipe," Sendoh explained.
"Anything outside of it… disappears."
He exhaled slowly, a faint, wry smile appearing.
"That guy… is a monster."
"If he keeps growing—who's going to stop Shohoku?"
On the other side, Kainan.
Jin Soichiro spoke gravely, "Maki-senpai… Fujima looks shaken."
Maki Shinichi crossed his arms, his mature face unusually serious.
As Fujima's longtime rival—
he understood him better than anyone.
"He's not shaken."
"He's afraid."
"Fujima's greatest pride has always been his calm mind and wide court vision."
"He's a man who controls everything."
Maki's gaze locked onto the lazy figure wearing number 16.
A deep wariness flashed in his eyes.
"But now…"
"Makino Juro is stripping both of those away."
"That number 16 is telling him—"
"As long as I'm on the court, you can only look at me."
"You can't think."
"You can't command."
"And for a player-coach like Fujima…"
"That's a devastating blow."
END OF CHAPTER
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