“Captain, what problem?”
Ikeda’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“Akagi’s points—all of them came within five feet of the basket.”
“Meaning…?”
“His post game isn’t refined.
He’s using pure body.
Which means his scoring range is probably limited to point-blank.” Ikeda turned to Suzuki.
“You take Akagi.
No matter what he does, you don’t leave the paint.
Everyone else, stay one-on-one.”
Timeout over.
Senior ball.
Ikeda finally got a clean look off a screen.
This time, he didn’t miss.
Swish.
Beautiful arc, perfect rotation.
Ikeda pumped his fist skyward.
Freshman possession.
Akagi crossed halfcourt and noticed his new defender.
Suzuki—the 100kg beach ball.
Akagi almost smiled.
Suzuki’s body type meant obvious defects.
Those legs couldn’t move laterally to save his life.
Pick-and-roll with Okamoto, same as before.
Akagi rolled to the rim—
Suzuki didn’t move.
Just camped in the paint, planted like a tree.
Under FIBA rules, that was legal.
No defensive three-second violation, only offensive players faced the count.
The NBA added defensive three-seconds later to increase offensive flow, but here?
Perfectly legal to anchor in the lane.
Okamoto shook Ito off the screen and drove.
Ito fought over the top, chasing.
Akagi cut toward the basket.
Okamoto hit him with the pass right as he entered the paint.
Akagi caught it, took one dribble, backed Suzuki down for position.
Might as well have backed down a boulder.
Suzuki gave up twenty centimeters in height but had fifteen kilograms of mass advantage.
His base was immovable—squat, wide, rooted to the floor.
Akagi pushed.
Suzuki didn’t budge.
Akagi tried again, leaning harder.
Nothing.
The fat center’s lower body was concrete.
Strategy shift.
Akagi backed out of the paint, trying to draw Suzuki away from the basket.
Get him moving, use footwork to blow past him.
Suzuki stayed put.
Didn’t follow.
Just waited.
Offensive three-second count was ticking.
Akagi had to re-enter the restricted area, tried to spin around Suzuki’s mass— New chapters come out on g.com first.
No space.
The paint was too small, Suzuki too wide.
Every angle was blocked.
Two seconds left.
Akagi had no choice—he went up for a hook shot over the contest.
Suzuki raised his right hand, leaned into Akagi’s body.
The contact threw Akagi off-balance, his shooting motion awkward and stiff.
The ball floated toward the rim, trajectory uncertain.
Suzuki tracked it nervously—
Bang-swish.
Backboard, then basket.
Lucky bounce.
But Suzuki already had position for the rebound.
His enormous body sealed Akagi out completely.
If it had missed cleanly, Akagi wouldn’t have had a chance.
Akagi’s strength was still developing—the main reason neither Kainan nor Shoyo had recruited him.
There was that scene from the nationals where Akagi recalled his sophomore year, overhearing teammate Nishikawa mock his basketball dreams in the next classroom.
Akagi had thrown him against the wall.
Nishikawa had hit back verbally: “If you really want to beat Sannoh, why not just go to Kainan?
Oh wait—you’re not good enough.
Huge body, but Kainan and Shoyo didn’t want you!
You’ll never reach Kainan’s level, let alone Sannoh.
Dominating the nation?
Dream on!”
That was the truth.
At this stage, Akagi wasn’t good enough yet.
Suzuki outlet-passed to Ito sprinting downcourt.
The freshman defense scrambled back but had already lost position.
Ito finished the easy layup.
“Nice shot!”
The successful defensive stand energized the seniors.
Morale surging back.
Next possession, Akagi demanded the ball from Okamoto.
He wanted to prove himself against Suzuki.
Okamoto fed him without hesitation.
Same result.
Suzuki stayed anchored in the paint, immovable.
Akagi forced another awkward attempt.
Clang.
Miss.
Again.
And again.
Over the next few minutes, Akagi stubbornly challenged Suzuki repeatedly.
One-for-five shooting.
Abysmal efficiency.
Brute force post-ups.
Terrible footwork.
Poor ball handling in tight spaces.
Stiff, mechanical hook shots.
From the perimeter, Kogure watched without intervening.
He understood now.
Kainan and Shoyo hadn’t passed on Akagi purely due to skill gaps.
They’d recognized his playing style and mentality.
Forced shots when doubled.
Couldn’t adjust when Plan A failed.
Growing pains.
While Akagi struggled, the seniors capitalized.
The lead evaporated—fifteen points, twelve, ten, eight…
Finally, Kogure stepped up.
“Okamoto.
Give me the ball.”
Okamoto understood immediately.
The outlet pass came crisp and clean.
Top of the key, Kogure faced Takahashi.
Triple-threat stance, eyes locked.
Takahashi crouched into defensive position, focused, not blinking.
Kogure took a jab step.
Takahashi’s weight shifted reflexively.
Crossover—left pivot, explosive right drive.
Takahashi was already beaten.
Before Sato could rotate over, Kogure planted hard.
The pull-up jumper felt automatic.
Form perfect, release smooth.
Swish.
Pure.
The net snapped beautifully.
Relief washed over the freshman bench.
Finally.
Ikeda’s eyes widened.
Kogure’s offensive arsenal looked significantly sharper than five days ago.
“Did he hold back during our one-on-one?”
The thought bothered him.
Courtside, Coach Anzai’s expression shifted—surprise creasing his round face.
“I didn’t expect Kogure to have this kind of talent.”
But the surprise faded quickly, replaced by something else.
Pity, maybe.
Kogure’s physical attributes were mediocre at best—worse than Ikeda, nowhere near Mitsui or Akagi’s level.
And if Anzai didn’t value even Mitsui and Akagi enough to coach them seriously, then Kogure?
Not worth the effort.
Talent-only philosophy.
If you weren’t elite genetic material, you weren’t worth his time.
Next possession, Kogure got the ball again.
Same move—crossover into pull-up jumper, this time from the wing.
Swish.
Takahashi looked lost.
“Takahashi, switch off.
I’ll take Kogure.”
Ikeda’s voice was firm.
If Kogure kept scoring freely, this game was over.
As captain, he had to take responsibility.
Takahashi nodded, relieved to pass the assignment.
The matchup was set.
Ikeda versus Kogure.