The first quarter was still ongoing. Thanks to Haizaki Shogo's outstanding scoring ability, Fukuda Sogo led Seiho High 28–20.
Shogo glanced at the determined eyes of Tsugawa Tomonori and allowed a hint of admiration to appear.
No wonder this "Bald Ace" could lock down Kise Ryouta back in the day and, even after entering high school, fully contain Taiga Kagami—forcing him into four fouls.
But today… you're facing me, Haizaki Shogo. You won't be able to stop me!
Shogo received the ball, faked left, shook off Tsugawa, and sped forward with a lightning-fast dribble.
Tsugawa trailed behind, undeterred, determined to block him.
Both leapt high. Shogo's lips curved into a sly smile. He hovered in the air just a fraction longer than usual—and in that brief moment, Tsugawa's hand grazed Shogo's.
The whistle blew—foul on #10, Tsugawa Tomonori.
"Boom!"
The technical free throw shot.
At the line, Shogo spun the ball in his hands before sending it smoothly through the net—one point.
And just as that happened, the first-quarter buzzer sounded.
This little move wasn't random. Shogo wanted to shake the confidence of the overly confident Tsugawa.
To defeat someone, strike in their strongest domain—shatter their confidence.
Shogo aimed to pressure Tsugawa, to wear him down mentally and physically.
This was Shogo's ultimate strategy: scoring effortlessly while conserving energy.
By the end of the first quarter, two Fukuda Sogo players were already gasping for breath—barely able to last another quarter.
In other words, the remainder of the game would be an endurance battle, cycling through substitutes.
This is the downside of the "bizarre tactic." Guarding one-on-one across the whole court drains stamina far too quickly.
Most players couldn't last a full game—this was the greatest weakness, and the greatest sorrow.
Shogo refocused, taking a bottle of water from Shimizu Rena and drinking deeply. The heat within him dissipated instantly.
For Shogo, the first-quarter workload was barely a warm-up.
For everyone else… it was pure exhaustion.
The second quarter began quickly after just three minutes of rest.
Shogo caught the ball, facing Tsugawa still closely guarding him.
"You still haven't told me… what it feels like to fail at looking cool?"
"I… I… didn't… pretend…"
Before the last word left his mouth, Tsugawa realized Shogo had vanished.
Tsugawa froze for two seconds, then turned to chase. But it was too late—the ball had already flown from Shogo's hands and swish—through the net.
Shogo moved swiftly under the basket, snatched the rebound, and returned beside Tsugawa.
"Are you really not going to tell me what failing at looking cool feels like?"
With that, Shogo streaked away, leaving an angry Tsugawa behind.
Tsugawa quickly gave chase. Just then, Shogo stopped abruptly, ready for a jump shot.
Tsugawa couldn't halt in time and collided into Shogo—while the ball floated gracefully into the net.
The whistle blew: two points confirmed. #10 Tsugawa committed a foul—free throw awarded.
"Whoosh!"
Another perfect shot. Shogo smiled, returning to defense, while Tsugawa was substituted out.
The reason for Shogo's smile was clear:
The scoring opportunities had opened up.
On the court, cheers, shouts, and chants filled the air, but nothing could stop the crimson-clad #6 player from moving forward.
With Tsugawa off the court, no one could hinder Shogo's offensive flow.
Meanwhile, apart from Shogo's occasional steals, Fukuda teammates struggled to stop Seiho's normal scoring.
This was actually part of Seiho's coach's plan: no player could guard Shogo, so they focused on maximizing their own scoring instead—keeping the gap close and waiting for the right chance to turn the game around.
The best scenario? Exhaust Fukuda's players early. That would be Seiho's moment to claim victory.
Not only Seiho's coach, but Fukuda's coach Ichiro Kudo and even Shogo himself understood this.
Knowing this, Shogo began scoring relentlessly.
Sweat poured continuously, soaking his normally dry hair, which clung limp to his forehead.
Fukuda Sogo's players gripped their knees, gasping for air.
Through sheer exhaustion, the final whistle blew.
The ball fell through the net—final score: Fukuda Sogo 86, Seiho High 72. Victory for Fukuda.
Players in the Fukuda bench erupted with cheers, while the rest of the court's participants collapsed in exhaustion.
Shogo slowly walked to the bench, taking the water and towel Rena handed him.
He drank deeply, poured water over his head, covered his face with a towel, and collapsed into his chair.
His heavy breathing felt like hammers pounding on the other players.
Even the teammates who had been cheering silently paused, seeing their fellow players in equally exhausted states.
The bizarre tactic had cost them dearly—but it had worked.
Fukuda's new recruits had already all played. Many could barely last a quarter or two.
And the core scorer, #6 Haizaki Shogo, had played the entire game.
Imagine how exhausting that was.
"All right, players who just came off, rest. Others, pack up. We're heading back."
Coach Ichiro Kudo called out excitedly, as everyone busied themselves.
This game had been grueling. Tsugawa Tomonori had been a real obstacle; breaking past him required extreme speed and reaction.
Shogo had intentionally worn down Tsugawa before focusing on scoring freely.
Even for someone with his stamina, it had been taxing—far from as easy as imagined.
Against Teiko next? This level of energy would barely suffice.
Exhausted, Shogo fell asleep as soon as he sat on the bus.
While sleeping, he leaned his head on the shoulder of the stunning Shimizu Rena beside him.
Whether this was intentional, only the sleeping Shogo knew.
Rena quietly tilted her head to look at him, eyes narrowed, a soft smile gracing her face.
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