"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
A series of heavy collisions echoed through the gym, each impact resembling the clash of two unstoppable forces. This was a pure battle of strength.
The crowd held their breath, eyes locked on the fierce showdown.
Nijimura was fully locked in now, using every ounce of his strength to hold his ground against Okamura, refusing to back down.
It was like watching two freight trains collide, every hit sending shockwaves through the court.
But Okamura had the edge. With one final, brutal shove, he sent Nijimura stumbling backward.
Seizing the opening, Okamura spun around and exploded toward the rim like a beast unleashed. His only target—the basket.
He leaped high, ready to throw down a powerful finish.
And then, for the first time, Ren finally stepped into the spotlight.
Appearing out of nowhere, Ren slid into position, cutting off Okamura's path.
"I might not be able to stop Murasakibara, but I can sure as hell stop you!" His eyes burned with determination, his voice filled with confidence.
After all, he had once been a starting center in middle school.
But Okamura wasn't fazed. His strength erupted at full force.
He collided mid-air with Fukui's center, twisting his body at an impossible angle—and slammed it home.
"BANG!"
The rim rattled violently, groaning under the sheer force of the dunk.
Ren crashed to the floor, while Okamura landed firmly and immediately sprinted back on defense.
Nijimura stepped up and helped his fallen teammate to his feet.
But Ren only let out a frustrated sigh, his voice tinged with helplessness, "Damn it... I really can't stop anyone, can I?!"
The scoreboard coldly displayed 8–5. Fukui remained in the lead.
Akashi wasn't surprised by Ren getting overpowered. Okamura was one of the strongest power forwards in Akita.
Still, seeing the gap in their opponent's interior defense, a smirk played on Akashi's lips. "This could be a weak spot."
He had already formulated a plan. If they kept exposing Fukui's center, their own center would have no trouble breaking down their defense.
Meanwhile, Kawamura pushed the ball up the court, scanning the floor for an opening.
But Kensuke Fukui's defense was airtight—everyone was locked down, no passing lanes available.
"Alright then, I'll take it myself."
He fixed his gaze on Kensuke Fukui. Some spectators might wonder—why not just pass to Shiro?
Come on, if they passed to Shiro every time, what was the point of everyone else being here? He wasn't Fukui's center, after all.
Kensuke Fukui kept his eyes sharp, completely focused on Kawamura. He had studied this matchup countless times through film.
Kawamura was a two-way monster—a point guard who could pass, score, and defend at an elite level. He was easily one of the best in the nation.
The gym was dead silent, tension thick in the air.
Fukui's eyes locked onto Kawamura's, an invisible battle of wills unfolding between them.
"Come on, show me what you've got" Fukui widened his stance, arms out, shifting lightly on his feet, ready to react.
Kawamura took a deep breath, lowered his center of gravity, and began dribbling.
Then—suddenly, he attacked.
His eyes sharpened, body leaning left as he exploded in that direction, sending the ball racing to his left hand.
Fukui reacted instantly, moving to cut him off—but it was a feint.
Kawamura spun sharply back to the right, his dribble curving around Fukui's outstretched hand.
That one deadly crossover sent Fukui stumbling, his balance breaking.
Kawamura wasted no time—he shot forward like a blur, blowing past him.
Strangely, no one stepped up to contest. Kawamura hesitated for a split second but didn't overthink it. He rose for the open shot.
But just as he was about to jump, a wave of pressure crashed over him—a suffocating presence.
A giant shadow loomed over him like a dark storm cloud.
Murasakibara.
The towering center stood in his path, a wall of muscle and wingspan.
A chill ran down Kawamura's spine. This is bad.
"Shit!" he cursed under his breath.
That massive frame was terrifying. For a split second, he actually froze.
And in that instant, Murasakibara's huge hand was already swatting down at the ball.
At the last possible second, Kawamura twisted mid-air and whipped a pass toward Shiro.
Murasakibara blinked in surprise. His eyes locked onto Kawamura.
"Wait a second... this guy...
Oh… it's that guy from the nationals three years ago"
Murasakibara shook his head. No wonder Kawamura had reacted so fast. If that had been Fukui, his shot would've been blocked ages ago.
"Not bad" Akashi's voice murmured in his ear, carrying a hint of nostalgia.
For a moment, Akashi's gaze seemed to drift back in time—to a summer of sweat, fire, and competition.
Back then, he had still been a rising star, and Kawamura's relentless drives had given him hell in the championship game.
Akashi had been left helpless, picked apart by Kawamura's speed and precision.
But now—things were different.
Akashi had grown. His game had reached an entirely new level.
Defeating Kawamura now?
It wouldn't even be a challenge.
"Yeah, our seniors have all gotten stronger."
Mibuchi's voice pulled Akashi back to the present. He turned, seeing Mibuchi observing the court with quiet focus.
There was respect in his words—but also ambition.
An ambition to keep growing. To catch up. To surpass.
Akashi's gaze returned to Kawamura.
It was obvious—his shooting, his drives—everything had become sharper, more refined.
But this wasn't just skill.
It was something deeper.
A transformation forged through relentless training, endless games, and the pure drive to improve.
And it wasn't just Kawamura.
Even overseas, players like Hachimura and Watanabe were growing stronger by the day.
The game never stops.
And neither do those who seek to rise above.