On the court, the game pressed on.
But the scent of the battle had already changed.
Shoyo offense.
Fujima Kenji dribbled past half court, his breathing growing heavier with each step.
Sweat slid down his cheeks, splashing onto the hardwood in scattered droplets.
"Calm down…"
"I'm Fujima Kenji… I'm Shoyo's coach…"
He repeated the words over and over in his mind, trying to rebuild the psychological defenses that had just collapsed.
But the moment his gaze lifted toward the frontcourt—
That damn #16 once again occupied the center of his vision.
Juro didn't press up close.
Instead, he stood a step inside the three-point line, arms lazily spread, his posture dripping with provocation.
"Come on, senpai."
His voice wasn't loud, yet it slipped into Fujima's ears like a curse.
"I'm right here."
"Can you still see your teammates?"
"Or is it just me in your eyes now?"
"Shut up!!"
Fujima roared, forcibly tearing his gaze away through sheer willpower.
He saw it!
Inside, Hanagata Toru had already sealed position with his height advantage!
A perfect opportunity!
Logic screamed at him—pass the ball.
His brain issued the command. His wrist followed through.
But at the exact moment the ball left his hand—
The corner of his eye caught that faint, mocking curve on Makino Juro's lips again.
What was he smiling about?
Was he about to steal it?
That one-thousandth of a second of hesitation—
That microscopic lapse...
Was enough to throw off the pass ever so slightly.
For an ordinary player, it would have been imperceptible.
But for another "hunter" on the court.
It was more than enough.
A streak of white lightning burst in from the side!
"Smack!"
The crisp sound of a steal rang out like a death sentence.
The ball was gone!
"What?!"
Fujima's pupils shook violently.
The one who stole it… wasn't Makino Juro.
It was Rukawa Kaede.
"Thanks."
Rukawa's face remained as cold as ever.
Like a leopard that had been waiting in silence, he bared his fangs the moment Fujima faltered.
Before this, Fujima had been so focused on Makino Juro.
He had completely ignored him.
"Damn it!!"
Fujima roared and tried to give chase—
But Rukawa gave him no chance.
After the steal, he charged straight downcourt.
Then....
A white figure soared like a great eagle spreading its wings.
Facing an open basket, no fancy moves—
Just a brutally powerful one-handed slam!
"BOOM!!!"
The rim shrieked, as if protesting the sheer violence of Shohoku's offense.
49:46.
The lead stretched to three points.
…
The air inside the gym thickened, as if it had solidified into something heavy.
Every breath felt labored.
Yet the roar of the crowd surged like tidal waves, shaking even the floor beneath them.
Fujima Kenji stood beyond the three-point line, chest heaving violently.
Sweat traced the sharp line of his jaw before falling and shattering on the court.
His gaze....
Once again—
Was dragged uncontrollably toward that figure in the #16 jersey.
It was as if a command had been forcibly engraved into his brain:
Look at him. Watch him. Don't let him move.
It felt awful.
Like being tangled in invisible webs.
The harder he struggled, the tighter they bound him.
As Shoyo's ace—and its on-court coach—
Fujima had never felt so passive.
So… powerless.
That first-year named Makino Juro was just standing there lazily.
Not even in a proper offensive stance—
Yet he couldn't look away.
"…Damn it…"
Fujima suddenly shut his eyes tight, his brows twisting into a deep knot.
The next second—
"Nggh!"
A sharp, grating crack echoed inside his mouth.
Pain.
A metallic tang exploded across his tongue, sharp and raw, jolting his already numbed nerves.
The taste of blood—
Awakened the beast.
Fujima's eyes snapped open.
Those brown pupils, once clouded by confusion and fear.
Now churned like a stirred icy spring, regaining a chilling clarity.
That strange "visual pull" was still there, buzzing like an annoying fly—
But now, through sheer willpower, he could forcibly peel himself away from it.
He saw it.
Stripped of that unnatural filter—
He finally saw the faint pallor on Makino Juro's face.
Saw the deeply hidden fatigue beneath those dead-fish eyes.
Saw the cold sweat at his temples—no less than his own.
"I see now."
Fujima ran his tongue over his blood-stained lips.
His gaze sharpened into something terrifying—like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Listen up!!"
His roar cut through the roaring arena, filled with unquestionable authority and fury.
Every Shoyo player stiffened, instinctively turning toward their leader.
"Don't fall for his tricks!"
Fujima pointed straight at Makino Juro, who was bringing the ball up, his tone icy:
"He's just bait!"
"Collapse the defense! Forget man-to-man—switch to a 2-3 zone!"
"Don't stare at the ball! Don't look into his eyes!"
"Use your peripheral vision! Feel your position with your body!"
"The moment he holds the ball—double him immediately! Cut off every connection he has with his teammates!"
His commands were sharp, precise, and deadly.
If their eyes could be deceived—then rely on discipline ingrained into the team.
If one man couldn't handle that strange presence—
Then a zone defense would cover the blind spots.
In the stands.
Kainan's section.
"As expected of Fujima."
"He figured it out this fast?"
Maki Shinichi's tightly furrowed brows eased slightly, a hint of approval appearing on his bronze-toned face.
"What do you mean?"
"Senpai, what exactly is that #16 doing?" Jin Soichiro asked, confused.
"That #16… is deliberately amplifying his 'presence.'"
Maki's sharp gaze locked onto Makino Juro, whose movements were beginning to look heavier.
"He's turned himself into a black hole on the court—forcefully absorbing the defenders' attention."
"It's an extremely advanced form of psychological manipulation."
"But it has a fatal weakness."
"Stamina."
"Maintaining that level of mental pressure and constant movement… for a first-year, the drain is enormous."
"Watch his footwork—it's already starting to drag."
Maki paused, eyes narrowing.
"Fujima's gambling too."
"He's betting Makino Juro won't last."
On the court.
Makino Juro clearly felt the shift.
Those defenders who had been like headless flies, completely led by him—
Suddenly became organized.
Like a precise machine restarting.
Hanagata Toru no longer rushed blindly to the perimeter, instead locking down Akagi Takenori inside.
Hasegawa and Nagano still looked at him—
But their centers of gravity stayed anchored within their defensive zones, ready to help at any moment.
"Tch… so they figured it out, huh…"
(END OF CHAPTER)
This story is just getting started—the real game hasn't even hit halftime yet. If you're watching from the sidelines, now's your chance to step onto the court. Join my Patreon and be part of the action, get ahead of the chapters, and don't miss the plays that change everything.