The instant Takahashi rose for the layup, Kogure launched himself upward.
Maxed reaction meant perfect timing—their bodies elevated in near-perfect sync.
Takahashi caught Kogure in his peripheral vision.
Panic spiked.
He rushed his release, trying to get the ball up before the contest arrived.
Not fast enough.
Kogure’s fingertips grazed the basketball mid-flight, just enough contact to alter its trajectory.
Clang.
The ball caromed off the rim.
Kogure landed, immediately sealed Takahashi behind him with his body, and snatched the rebound.
Takahashi tried to reach around for the strip.
Kogure pivoted away, protecting the ball.
The senior gave up, backpedaling on defense.
Kogure hit Okamoto with the outlet pass.
This time, Okamoto was cautious.
He crossed halfcourt deliberately, then waved Akagi up for the screen.
Akagi planted himself like a wall—193cm tall, shoulders wide enough to block a hallway.
Premium pick-and-roll quality.
Okamoto used the screen to shake Ito, driving left.
Sato had to step up and switch, but Okamoto was stockier, stronger.
He muscled through the contact, drew the defense, then fired a bounce pass to Akagi cutting to the rim.
Akagi caught it at the basket, ball tucked tight against his chest.
Textbook protection—impossible to strip.
Ito tried to recover, bodying up despite giving away twenty-five pounds.
Didn’t matter.
The size differential was insurmountable.
Akagi powered through the contact, rose up, and threw it down with both hands.
BANG!
The rim shook violently.
The entire backboard rattled.
Akagi landed and pounded his chest with both fists, roaring.
Pure gorilla energy.
Nervousness?
What nervousness?
The freshman bench erupted.
Even the senior players had to acknowledge the brutality of that dunk.
Across the court, Coach Anzai sat motionless in his oversized chair, expression unchanged.
He’d seen it all before.
The dunk ignited something primal in Akagi.
His eyes blazed with competitive fire, reflecting off his teammates.
The freshman squad locked in defensively, pressuring their matchups full-court.
At 185cm and 100kg, Suzuki was built like a wrecking ball.
Yamamoto tried to hold position but got bulldozed backward.
Suzuki spun for the layup—slow, telegraphed.
His weight prevented any real vertical leap.
Points came exclusively from grinding post-ups and point-blank shots.
Rumor was he’d joined the team purely for weight loss.
Last year as a freshman, he’d weighed 120kg—same as Coach Anzai despite being the same height.
Basketball as fitness program.
The slow spin gave Akagi time to rotate over.
As Suzuki went up, Akagi came from the weak side and swatted the attempt off the backboard.
Smack!
The ball ricocheted high.
Suzuki immediately boxed Akagi out, hunting the offensive board.
Pure mass advantage—even Akagi couldn’t budge him straight up.
But Akagi didn’t go through him.
He slipped around the side, using length and athleticism to snatch the rebound over Suzuki’s head, then rifled an outlet to Okamoto.
Next possession, same play.
Pick-and-roll, Okamoto drives, feeds Akagi cutting, Akagi finishes with authority.
Another dunk.
The freshman lead grew.
Akagi dominated both ends.
Three consecutive blocks sent a message—don’t challenge him at the rim.
The seniors started avoiding his area entirely, settling for contested jumpers.
Five minutes in, the freshman team had built a double-digit lead.
Captain Ikeda called timeout.
He surveyed his dejected teammates.
“I don’t think any of you want to lose this game.”
“Captain, we’re not losing to freshmen!” Multiple voices responded, pride stung.
“Then we need to stop Akagi.
Immediately.” Ikeda’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“Defense—hard double-teams every time he touches it.
Offense—Sato, you pull Akagi away from the basket.
Stretch him out, create driving lanes for the rest of us.
Got it?”
Unified response: “Got it!”
Morale restored, the seniors jogged back onto the court with renewed purpose.
The adjustment worked.
Sato dragged Akagi to the perimeter, and Ikeda slashed into the vacated paint for an easy layup.
Offense-defense transition.
Okamoto fed Akagi in the post—immediately, Takahashi crashed down for the double-team.
Following Kogure’s instructions, Akagi raised the ball overhead, using his height to keep it out of reach while scanning for the outlet.
“Akagi! This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Here!”
Kogure’s voice cut through the chaos.
He’d relocated to his sweet spot—right corner, three-point line.
Akagi fired a cross-court pass, all vision and arm strength.
Takahashi recognized the danger and sprinted at Kogure, but the ball was already in flight.
Kogure caught it clean, took a breath to set his feet—no need to rush—and rose into his shooting motion.
Swish.
Net snapped beautifully.
Three points.
“Akagi, good pass!”
They met at halfcourt, slapped hands.
The seniors pushed back.
Ikeda got open off a screen, but Ito’s pass came late.
By the time the ball arrived, Tanaka had recovered.
Ikeda forced a contested jumper.
Thunk.
Backboard, no good.
Akagi secured the board, started the break.
Four-out offense again.
Akagi drew the defense, kicked out to Tanaka in the corner.
Swish.
Lead extended.
The seniors tried to mount a comeback, but urgency made them sloppy.
Rushed shots, forced passes, turnovers.
Meanwhile, the freshman team found their rhythm.
Each possession felt smoother, more instinctive.
The lead ballooned.
Fifteen points.
Eighteen.
Twenty.
Senior morale cratered.
Another timeout.
Ikeda gathered his shell-shocked teammates.
“This freshman class is really strong,” someone muttered.
“Captain, what do we do now?” Desperation creeping into their voices.
Ikeda understood.
He felt it too—the sting of losing to first-years.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think strategically instead of emotionally.
“Wait.” Something clicked.
“Have you noticed a pattern?”