The week leading up to the Teiko North game was a study in geological patience. While Teru ran himself into the ground and Hyuga stayed late to perfect his jump shot, Akami Kazu remained a fixed point of low-energy defiance.
He didn't "train." He "simulated."
During defensive drills, Akami didn't slide his feet. He simply occupied the space where the ball wanted to be. It was like trying to dribble around a massive, silk-wrapped boulder. Every time Teru tried to blow past him, he'd find Akami's massive chest already there, a solid wall of oak that didn't budge.
"How?!" Teru yelled, throwing the ball against the padded wall in a fit of pique. "You didn't even move! I saw your feet! They didn't move! You're cheating! You're using some kind of... of gravity magic! Tell me where you learned this!"
Akami, leaning against the stanchion with a juice box in his hand, didn't even look up. He just squeezed the cardboard container, his straw making a loud, hollow slurp sound as he hit the bottom.
"Teru-kun," Akami rumbled, his voice thick with boredom. "You're vibrating. It's a waste of kinetic potential. If you just stood still, you'd realize the floor is doing half the work for you. Also, you're blocking my view of the clock. There are only four minutes until the cafeteria starts serving the spicy tuna rolls."
Teru looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. "The clock?! We're talking about the regional qualifiers and you're worried about tuna?!"
Game Day: The Arrival of the Skyscraper
The Teiko North bus pulled into the Kaminari High parking lot with the roar of an invading army. Their players stepped off, all of them wearing sleek, professional-looking warm-up gear.
And then, Murai stepped out.
He was 6'9", a literal skyscraper of a teenager with limbs like telephone poles and a sneer that suggested he owned the air above the rim. He walked into the Kaminari gym and looked around with a look of pure disdain.
"This is it?" Murai laughed, his voice booming. "This is the 'Giant' I heard about? The one who breaks hoops and sleeps in class?"
He walked straight over to the Kaminari bench, where Akami was currently sitting with a towel over his head, his eyes closed. Murai loomed over him, casting a shadow that covered half the bench.
"Hey. Freshman," Murai barked, kicking Akami's sneaker. "Get up. I want to see if you're actually 6'4" or if you're just wearing thick socks."
Akami didn't move. He didn't even pull the towel off his face.
"The light in here is too bright," Akami's muffled voice came from under the terrycloth. "And your shoes are squeaking. It's a sensory nightmare. Please go away. I'm trying to visualize a bowl of udon."
Murai's face darkened. He reached down and snatched the towel off Akami's head. "Look at me when I'm—"
Murai stopped mid-sentence.
Akami looked up. His amber eyes weren't sleepy anymore. They were sharp, cold, and intensely focused, looking like two pieces of polished stone. He didn't stand up, but the air around him seemed to thicken, a heavy, oppressive weight that made Murai take a half-step back without realizing it.
"You're loud," Akami said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "And you're standing between me and my pre-game snack. That's a technical foul on my stomach."
He stood up then, his 6'4" frame unfolding like a predatory cat. He wasn't as tall as Murai, but he was wider. His shoulders seemed to span the width of the hallway, and his black silk durag was tied so tightly it looked like a crown of shadow.
"Mio-san," Akami called out, his gaze never leaving Murai's eyes.
"Yes, Akami-kun?" Mio asked, her heart racing.
"Make sure the Yakiniku reservation is for 7:00 PM," Akami rumbled, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "I don't plan on spending more than forty minutes on this 'skyscraper.' He's mostly hollow. Easy to demolish."
Murai's jaw dropped. "You... you little—!"
"Save it for the jump ball," Akami interrupted, turning his back on the 6'9" giant as if he were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "I need to go find a Snickers bar. My blood sugar is dipping into the 'mercy' zone."
Teru, standing nearby, was vibrating with a mix of terror and glee. "He did it. He actually just called a 6'9" All-Star a 'snack.' Cap, I think I actually love this guy."
Hyuga just nodded, his eyes on the court. "The mountain isn't just standing there anymore, Teru. It's starting to slide. And God help anyone at the bottom of the hill."
The gym lights hummed, reflecting off the polished hardwood. The crowd was a muffled roar, but to Akami, it was just background noise—like the sizzle of a deep fryer he was waiting on.
He stood at center court for the tip-off, his black silk durag tied with lethal precision. Opposite him, Murai loomed like a redwood tree, his 6'9" frame tensed and twitching with athletic nervous energy. Murai was leaning forward, chest out, trying to psychologically crowd Akami's space.
Akami didn't lean. He didn't even bend his knees yet. He just stood there, his amber eyes half-closed, looking like he was waiting for a bus that was three minutes late.
"I'm going to eat you alive, freshman," Murai hissed, his long arms reaching toward the rafters. "I've seen your tape. You're slow. You're lazy. You're just a big body in a silk hat."
Akami's gaze drifted to Murai's sneakers. "Those laces are neon green," Akami rumbled, his voice a low, sleepy vibration. "High-visibility. High-effort. It's a sensory overload. You're trying too hard to be seen, Skyscraper. It's a waste of wattage."
The referee stepped between them, the ball held high.
The whistle shrieked. The ball left the ref's hand, spinning toward the ceiling.
Murai exploded. He was a pogo stick of muscle, his feet leaving the floor with a violent chirp. He reached the apex of the jump before the ball even started its
descent, his fingers inches from the leather.
Akami didn't jump. Not at first.
He waited until the ball hit its peak and hovered for a micro-second. Then, with a suddenness that made the front row gasp, he didn't leap upward—he launched forward.
He used his massive shoulders to "seal" Murai mid-air. It wasn't a foul; it was just a 240-pound block of oak occupying the space Murai needed to land.
Murai's balance vanished. As the giant wobbled in the air, Akami finally left the floor. It wasn't a high jump, but it was a heavy one.
He plucked the ball out of the air with one hand, his fingers sinking into the leather with a soft crush sound.
He landed with a dull THUD that seemed to vibrate through the entire gym.
"Possession secured," Akami muttered, casually tossing the ball to Hyuga without looking. "That's ten calories. I'm already in the red."
The First Possession
Teiko North scrambled into their defensive sets. Murai was sprinting back, his face a mask of fury. "GET IN THE PAINT! DON'T LET HIM BREATHE!"
Hyuga brought the ball up, and Teru was darting around the perimeter like a mosquito.
But the eyes of the entire crowd were on the "Monster of Kaminari." Akami wasn't sprinting; he was trudging toward the low post, his hands resting on his knees as if he were contemplating a nap.
Murai slammed his chest into Akami's back. "YOU'RE NOT GETTING A SINGLE INCH!"
Akami didn't push back. He just... went limp. He leaned his entire weight backward, using Murai as a human kickstand.
"You're very sturdy," Akami rumbled, his voice muffled by the back of Murai's jersey.
"Like a high-quality barstool. Thank you for the support."
"GET OFF ME!" Murai roared, trying to shove Akami away. But the moment Murai pushed, Akami used that momentum to spin.
It was a "Heavy Pivot." A move that looked slow but carried the force of a wrecking ball. Akami's hip caught Murai's center of gravity, and the 6'9" All-Star felt like he'd been hit by a slow-moving freight train. He stumbled back three feet, his long limbs flailing.
Hyuga saw the opening and zipped the ball inside.
Akami caught it at the elbow. He didn't dribble. He didn't fake. He just looked at the rim, then at the scoreboard, then back at the rim.
"The rim is slightly crooked," Akami whispered to himself. "I should probably fix that."
He took one step—a massive, ground-shaking stride that cleared half the lane. Murai recovered and went up for the block, his shadow covering Akami completely. "NOT ON ME!"
Akami didn't go for a flashy layup. He didn't even use his right hand. He just rose straight up, his left hand gripping the ball like a grapefruit. He met Murai at the top, and for a second, time seemed to stop. The skyscraper versus the mountain.
CRACK-BOOM.
Akami didn't just dunk; he erased the space where Murai's hands were. The force of the impact sent Murai flying backward, his 6'9" frame hitting the padded stanchion with a sickening crunch. The rim didn't just bend—it let out a metallic scream as Akami hung on it for a second, his crimson hair flared out from under his durag.
The gym went graveyard silent.
Akami let go and landed silently on his toes.
He didn't look at Murai, who was currently sitting on the floor looking up in pure, unadulterated terror. He didn't flex. He just adjusted his durag, pulling the silk back over his forehead.
"Mio-san," Akami called out, his voice cutting through the silence like a dull blade. "I just realized. If we finish this game early, we can get to the Yakiniku place before the dinner rush. Can we run the 'Efficiency' play?"
Mio, her hands shaking as she tried to write on her clipboard, gave a weak nod. "The... the Efficiency play?"
"Yeah," Akami rumbled, turning to look at his teammates. "The one where you guys do all the running, and I just stand under the basket and wait for the food."
Teru started laughing—a high-pitched, hysterical sound. "He did it. He actually broke the All-Star's spirit in ninety seconds. I'm not even annoyed anymore! I'm just terrified!"
Akami started walking back to the defensive end, his eyes already drifting back into their sleepy, half-lidded state.
"Don't worry, Skyscraper," Akami muttered as he passed a trembling Murai. "I'll leave a few scraps for you. But the premium tongue is mine."
The scoreboard flickered: Kaminari 2, Teiko North 0.
It felt like the gap was much wider. Murai scrambled to his feet, his face flushed a deep, humiliated purple. He looked at his hands, which were still stinging from the vibration of Akami's dunk.
"That was luck!" Murai bellowed, though his voice cracked slightly. "He's just a heavy lug! Run the floor! Make him move! He'll gape like a fish by the five-minute mark!"
Teiko North pushed the pace. Their point guard, a jittery kid with lightning-fast crossovers, surged down the court. He saw Akami lingering in the paint, looking like he was contemplating the nutritional value of the gym floor. The guard smirked. Too slow, he thought, and drove hard toward the rim.
He went for a flashy double-clutch layup, twisting his body in mid-air to avoid the block.
Akami didn't jump. He didn't even raise both hands.
He just leaned.
It was a "Zero-G Wall." Akami timed the guard's ascent and simply stepped into the landing zone, his massive chest becoming an immovable object. The guard hit Akami and bounced off like a tennis ball hitting a brick wall. The ball popped loose, floating aimlessly in the air.
Akami reached up, snatched it with two fingers, and looked at it with a sigh.
"Too much air pressure," Akami rumbled. "It's practically vibrating. It's upsetting my equilibrium."
Without taking a single step, he launched another one-handed "laser" pass. It whistled past Teru's ear—so fast the wind ruffled the smaller player's hair—and landed perfectly in Hyuga's hands at the opposite three-point line.
SWISH.
Kaminari 5, Teiko North 0.
The "Efficiency" Play
For the next six minutes, the game turned into a psychological horror film for Teiko North.
Every time Murai tried to post up, Akami would just "anchor." He'd drop his center of gravity, wedge his hip into Murai's thigh, and become a part of the Earth's crust. Murai would push, shove, and grunt, but Akami would just stand there, his amber eyes tracking a fly buzzing near the rafters.
"MOVE!" Murai screamed, his forehead slick with sweat.
"No," Akami whispered. "It's humid over there. I prefer the micro-climate in this specific spot. It has a nice draft."
On the other end, Akami didn't even bother running back. He just stood under the Teiko basket. When Kaminari missed a shot, he'd just reach up—not even jumping, just extending one massive, oak-like arm—and tip the ball back in.
TIP.
TIP.
TIP.
He looked like a man casually reaching for a high shelf in a grocery store.
By the end of the first quarter, Murai was bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. His "high-energy" style had met the "Wall of Inertia," and the wall had won without breaking a sweat.
Akami, meanwhile, was bone-dry. He walked over to the bench, where Mio was waiting with a cold towel and a bottle of electrolyte water.
"Status report," Akami rumbled, letting her drape the towel over his neck.
"You've scored 14 points, grabbed 9 rebounds, and blocked 3 shots," Mio said, her eyes shining. "And you've only run a total of... forty-two feet."
"Forty-two feet," Akami repeated, his voice full of genuine regret. "That's a half-mile in 'Akami-units.' I'm going to need an extra side of kimchi to recover from this level of cardio."
The Breaking Point
Teru sat down next to him, looking at Akami with a mix of terror and begrudging respect.
"You're doing it. You're actually doing it. You're breaking the #1 ranked Center in the district by... standing still."
"Moving is an admission of weakness," Akami muttered, closing his eyes. "If you're in the right place, the world comes to you. Now, stop talking. I need to enter 'Low-Power Mode' for the next two minutes."
Across the gym, Murai was staring at the Kaminari bench. He looked at Akami—the black durag, the slumped shoulders, the absolute lack of "hustle."
"He's not even trying," Murai whispered, his voice trembling. "He's... he's treating me like a side dish."
The whistle blew for the second quarter. Akami didn't stand up immediately. He waited for the last possible second, then slowly unfolded his frame, his amber eyes locking onto Murai with a predatory, silent promise.
"Hey, Skyscraper," Akami called out, his voice echoing in the suddenly quiet gym.
Murai flinched. "What?!"
"The Yakiniku place closes at 10:00," Akami said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "If you keep fouling me and stopping the clock, I'm going to get mad."
Murai turned pale. He looked at the coach, then back at the 6'4" monster who had just threatened him with a dinner reservation.
The "Monster of Kaminari" wasn't even playing basketball anymore. He was just clearing the table.
...
To Be Continued.