No adjustment.
His body leaned sharply backward—so far that he was nearly parallel to the floor, as if gravity had simply let go of him.
With the ball in his right hand, he flicked it out from an impossibly tricky angle—
Formless Shot!
It was a move that tore the textbook to shreds and stomped on it.
And yet, it radiated a suffocating kind of violent elegance.
Sendoh leapt with everything he had to contest it. His fingertips came within less than a centimeter of the ball.
But that single centimeter…
…might as well have been an unbridgeable abyss.
"Swish!"
A clean net. A perfect splash.
63:53.
Still a 10-point gap—like a chasm no one could cross.
"Ha… ha…"
Makino Juro landed, chest heaving.
Looking at Sendoh, who was also gasping for air, he almost felt like applauding him.
As expected of Sendoh Akira.
As expected of that character who left countless readers with lingering regret.
That terrifying, sponge-like ability to absorb and learn—
He was practically a walking bug.
That last defensive sequence alone…
Sendoh's footwork and center-of-gravity shifts had already begun to carry traces of that "formless" style.
Still rough. Still unpolished—like a child just learning to walk.
But he was evolving.
Through every collision, every exchange, he was frantically dissecting Juro's "code"—
Then copying and pasting it into his own system.
If Makino Juro was max-level through a system cheat—
Then Sendoh was grinding levels on the spot with sheer talent.
"Again!"
Sendoh wiped the sweat from his face, picked up the ball, and his fighting spirit only burned hotter.
Like a kid who had just discovered a brand-new toy.
Ryonan offense.
This time, Sendoh completely abandoned his orthodox, textbook style.
His dribbling rhythm changed.
Fast, slow, unpredictable.
Like a slick eel—impossible to read.
"Th-this…"
"This is Makino Juro's rhythm just now?!"
Coach Taoka's mouth dropped open wide enough to fit a lightbulb.
That's right.
Sendoh was imitating Juro.
But not blindly.
Makino Juro's "Aomine-style" was pure individualism.
A lone wolf—the only one beneath heaven.
Once the ball was in his hands, it became a solo performance.
Passing?
What was that?
Unless he felt like conserving energy or toying with opponents, Juro's eyes saw only the rim.
But Sendoh was different.
He drove into the paint.
Faced with Akagi Takenori and Rukawa Kaede collapsing on him, he executed the exact same double-clutch move Makino Juro had just used.
Just as everyone thought he would force the finish—
"Whoosh!"
The ball flew out from behind his head, as if it had eyes on the back.
A perfect laser pass to Koshino at the corner.
Catch.
Jump.
Release.
Three points—good!
63:56.
"Beautiful play, Sendoh!!"
The Ryonan bench exploded.
Sendoh landed, blinked at Juro, and flashed a bright smile.
"Well?"
"I've learned this one too—'Formless Pass.'"
"As for the tuition… I'll waive it."
Makino Juro clicked his tongue, cursing inwardly.
What a freak.
This was the biggest difference between Sendoh and Aomine.
Aomine was an assassin who pushed individual ability to the absolute limit.
But Sendoh…
He was a commander who could convert personal brilliance into team victory.
Even in a one-on-one dominated game, he still kept a full-court vision.
The moment a teammate had an opening, the pass came faster than anyone could react.
That was why—even under Makino Juro's overwhelming scoring pressure—
Ryonan still clung stubbornly to the score.
"Damn, what a troublesome guy."
Makino Juro took the inbound, his gaze sharpening.
The game entered a strange rhythm.
On Shohoku's side, it had become a one-man show.
Catch. Break. Score.
Simple.
Brutal.
Unreasonable.
The other four players might as well have been there just to inbound the ball and set the atmosphere.
Meanwhile, Ryonan operated like a precise machine centered on Sendoh.
He created openings, fed teammates, and occasionally struck himself.
Two monsters rampaging across the court.
Everyone else—
Even Akagi, the top center in Kanagawa, or Uozumi, the giant beast—
Now seemed dim, reduced to mere background figures.
When there's one ace, the whole team serves him.
But when there are two monsters…
Ordinary players can only look up.
Except for one.
Rukawa Kaede.
Something about the fox had been off for a while.
During the past few exchanges between Juro and Sendoh—
He hadn't cut.
Hadn't called for the ball.
Hadn't tried to force his way in.
He simply stood near midcourt.
Arms hanging loosely at his sides.
Expressionless.
Eyes fixed on the two blurs darting across the court.
Motionless.
Like a statue that had disconnected.
"Hey! You damn fox!"
From the bench, Sakuragi Hanamichi finally couldn't hold it in anymore and roared at him.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"Did you fall asleep?! Move already!"
"Stop playing dead! If you can't do it, let me in!!"
Miyagi Ryōta frowned as he dribbled, glancing over.
"What's up with Rukawa? Out of gas?"
"He's observing."
From the sidelines, Coach Anzai's glasses flashed white.
"Observing?"
"Observing what?" Ayako asked, confused.
"He's analyzing."
Coach Anzai's voice was calm, but firm.
"He's analyzing those two… analyzing the domain of 'monsters.'"
In Rukawa's world, the noise faded away.
The cheers.
Sakuragi's yelling.
All gone.
In his vision, only two figures remained—highlighted, magnified.
Juro.
Sendoh.
Every twitch of muscle.
Every shift in balance.
Every rhythm of breathing.
All of it—
Broken down.
Reconstructed.
Played back at half speed in his mind.
Makino Juro's movements were fast—unreasonably so.
Pure talent crushing everything.
Sendoh's movements were fluid—full of variables.
A top-tier basketball IQ overwhelming everything.
"…Too slow."
Rukawa's lips moved, barely audible.
Not them.
Himself.
Too slow.
Too rigid.
Too many unnecessary movements.
Why was Makino Juro's spin so fast?
Because just before turning, there was a subtle preload in his ankle—using reactive force to explode instantly.
Why were Sendoh's passes so concealed?
Because of wrist flexibility—he didn't need large motions; just finger force to redirect the ball.
So that's it.
So this…
…is the world of monsters.
A dark flame ignited deep within Rukawa's pupils.
His brain ran simulations nonstop.
If it were me… how would I handle Makino Juro's crossover?
If it were me… how would I shoot against Sendoh's contest?
Simulate.
Reject.
Restart.
Again and again.
A flood of data slammed into his mind, making him dizzy.
But along with it came an unprecedented clarity.
Like a fog that had long covered his vision—
Finally torn open.
"Hey! Rukawa!!"
Miyagi was trapped in a double team.
With no choice, he hurled the ball toward midcourt.
The pass was rushed—bad position.
A typical "hot potato."
And Koshino had already read it, sprinting in for the steal.
"This one's mine!"
His eyes gleamed with excitement.
As if he'd already seen victory within reach.
Cut this pass—
And the gap drops to five.
And Rukawa?
Still spacing out.
Just as Koshino's fingertips were about to touch the ball—
The "offline" Rukawa Kaede…
Moved.
END OF CHAPTER
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