Fujima's gaze swept across each of his teammates.
His tone was calm—so calm it was as if he were merely discussing the weather.
"It's just one possession. What are you panicking for?"
"That No. 7 is fast. We acknowledge that."
"But basketball isn't a 100-meter sprint."
He extended a finger and drew a circle on the tactics board.
"Don't get dragged into their rhythm."
"Itou."
"Yes!" Itou Taku snapped his head up.
Fujima looked at him, encouragement in his eyes.
"You're a third-year. He's only a second-year."
"In experience, in height—you have the absolute advantage."
"Don't try to steal the ball. Don't try to match his speed."
"Just spread your arms, use your height to contain him, force him into a dead corner… and the rest—"
Fujima pointed at Hanagata Toru beside him.
"—leave it to Hanagata and the others."
Itou froze for a moment, then nodded firmly.
"Yes! I understand!"
Fujima turned to Takano and Nagano.
"And you two."
"Shohoku's No. 10 and No. 11 may be rookies, but their jumping ability is exceptional."
"Especially that red-haired Sakuragi Hanamichi—don't underestimate him just because he's a beginner."
"Box out! Lock down your position!"
"Don't give them any space to jump!"
"Yes!!" Takano and Nagano responded in unison.
Finally, Fujima's gaze settled on Hanagata Toru.
The two exchanged a look—no extra words needed.
"Hanagata, I'm counting on you."
"Don't worry."
"As long as I'm standing, Shoyo's paint is a no-fly zone."
Hanagata adjusted his glasses, a sharp glint flashing behind the lenses.
"Good."
Fujima nodded in satisfaction and clapped his hands.
"Get back out there."
"Show them what Shoyo really is!"
"OOOHHH!!!"
The roar from Shoyo's players shook the air, their earlier slump completely gone.
In the stands.
Coach Taoka Moichi of Ryonan couldn't help but sigh in admiration.
"Incredible…"
"Just one timeout, a few words—and Shoyo has already calmed down."
"That's what makes Fujima Kenji so terrifying."
With his arms crossed, Taoka's gaze turned complicated.
"As long as he's sitting there, Shoyo has an absolute anchor."
"Right now, he's a calm and intelligent coach."
"But…"
His tone shifted, eyes sharpening.
"If things get worse and he's forced to take off that jacket and step onto the court…"
"Then Shoyo will become a completely different, bloodthirsty beast."
Beside him, Aida Hikoichi listened in a daze, scribbling furiously:
"Fujima… dual identity… terrifying!"
"Tweet!"
The game resumed.
Shohoku ball.
Miyagi Ryota brought the ball up, that same cocky grin still on his face.
"Yo, got scolded just now, huh?"
He looked at Itou Taku, trying to get under his skin.
"Want me to blow past you again so you remember the lesson?"
But this time, Itou wasn't flustered.
His face was steady, feet spread wide, center of gravity low, arms extended to the limit—
Like a massive web.
He didn't attack, but he sealed off every passing lane.
"Tch… learned your lesson, huh?"
Miyagi clicked his tongue.
Suddenly, he accelerated, attempting another drive from the right.
Itou didn't bite.
Instead, he slid laterally, staying squarely in front of Miyagi.
"What a pain…"
Miyagi frowned.
If he couldn't drive, then pass!
With a flick of his wrist, he tried to send the ball inside to Akagi.
But at that very moment—
The Shoyo players, who had been spread out, suddenly moved as one.
Whoosh!
All five players collapsed inside the three-point line!
A zone defense—
And an extremely compact one at that!
The paint was instantly flooded with green jerseys, like a dense, impenetrable forest.
Akagi Takenori had barely received the ball before he could even turn—
Hanagata Toru and Takano Shoichi closed in from both sides.
Four long arms rose high, forming a cage that trapped him in place.
"Damn it!!"
Akagi roared, trying to force his way up.
But there were bodies everywhere—no room to turn, no angle to pass, let alone shoot.
"Pass it to me, Gorilla!!"
Sakuragi Hanamichi shouted anxiously nearby—but he was tightly marked by Hasegawa and Nagano.
Shoyo was determined to completely shut down Shohoku's interior.
"So this is Fujima's strategy…"
On the sidelines, Coach Anzai's glasses flashed, his expression unreadable.
"Using their height advantage to seal the paint entirely… betting that Shohoku lacks outside shooting…"
Akagi was being suffocated.
Sweat ran down his face, into his eyes, blurring his vision.
The shot clock was ticking down rapidly.
"Kick it out, Akagi!!"
A voice suddenly pierced through the noise and reached his ears.
Akagi's heart jolted.
He twisted his head through the narrow gaps between defenders—
And caught sight of a figure in white.
At the 45-degree angle beyond the three-point line—
That man stood there quietly.
Arms open, ready.
No one was guarding him.
Because every Shoyo player had collapsed into the paint, leaving the perimeter completely exposed.
That was—
Mitsui Hisashi.
In Akagi's mind, memories flashed from their middle school days—
That spirited MVP.
That supremely confident sharpshooter.
"Mitsui!!"
Gritting his teeth, Akagi used all his strength to sling the ball out from under their arms.
"Whoosh!"
The ball shot out of the crowded paint like a cannon, flying toward that solitary figure.
Mitsui Hisashi caught it.
No hesitation.
No extra movement.
Knees bent.
Jump.
Arm raised.
Fingers released.
The sequence flowed as naturally as breathing.
His gaze was focused and clear—as if the world had narrowed to just the ball in his hands and the rim ahead.
Only then did Hasegawa Kazushi react, desperately rushing out to contest.
"Too late."
Mitsui glanced at him, a confident smile curling at his lips.
The ball had already left his fingertips.
It traced a perfect arc through the air—
High.
Spinning.
Thousands of eyes followed its path.
Time seemed to freeze.
"Swish!"
A crisp, spine-tingling sound of the net.
Nothing but net.
The white net flipped upward like a splash.
Three points!
Good!
The scoreboard changed—
11:13.
Shohoku takes the lead!
Mitsui slowly lowered his arm.
His gaze passed over the stunned Hasegawa—
And locked onto Fujima Kenji on the sidelines.
A blazing fire burned in his eyes.
"Hey, Fujima."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chilling arrogance.
"Did you forget?"
"I'm the MVP."