The jump ball reset things.

But it didn't reset the tension.

Marcus wiped his palms against his shorts, chest rising and falling harder than he wanted to admit. Hiroto stood across from him, posture unchanged, expression unreadable—but Marcus could feel it now.

This wasn't a duel anymore.

It was an evaluation.

Hakuro inbounded. The ball rotated through hands once, twice—safe passes, deliberate movement. Ryu stayed high, almost passive, watching instead of commanding.

That alone felt wrong.

Yuuto noticed it too.

Why isn't he taking over?

The answer came quietly.

Hiroto didn't call for the ball.

He simply stepped forward.

The gold around him didn't flare—it tightened, drawing closer to his body, sharper, denser. Like a blade being slid from its sheath just an inch at a time.

Marcus swallowed.

Something shifted.

Hiroto caught the ball at the wing and didn't move immediately. He stood there, dribbling once… twice… eyes half-lidded.

Waiting.

Marcus stayed low, arms wide, heart hammering.

Say it, then.

Hiroto exhaled through his nose.

"…Alright," he said softly. "Enough warm-up."

Marcus's spine stiffened.

Hiroto's gaze lifted—not just to Marcus, but to the court itself. Spacing. Angles. Defenders. Outcomes.

"To be fair," Hiroto continued, voice calm, almost polite, "I'll keep it light."

The gold aura compressed further.

"One percent."

Ryu stepped aside without a word.

That was when Yuuto understood.

This wasn't a takeover.

It was permission.

Hiroto dribbled.

Marcus reacted instantly—perfect stance, perfect slide—

And still felt behind.

Not beaten.

Outpaced by intent.

Hiroto stopped on a dime.

Marcus adjusted—

Too late.

The crossover was tight, cruelly efficient, never rising above knee height. Marcus reached instinctively and found nothing but space where Hiroto had already passed.

Help came.

Daniel stepped in, body squared, teeth clenched.

Hiroto didn't slow.

Didn't lower his shoulder.

He flowed through contact like water around stone, Daniel's balance breaking before his feet did.

No foul.

No whistle.

Just inevitability.

The layup kissed glass.

Two points.

The crowd erupted—but Hiroto didn't react.

He was already jogging back.

Marcus turned slowly, shock crawling up his spine.

That wasn't effort.

That was permission withdrawn.

The next possession came faster.

Hiroto took the rebound himself.

Pushed.

Marcus chased, lungs burning, vision narrowing.

Hiroto let him get close.

Then took one step Marcus couldn't match.

Split the lane.

Daniel stepped in again—

Mistake.

Hiroto spun, rose, and ended it with a one-handed slam that shook the rim and stole the air from the arena.

Five minutes left.

Second quarter.

Hakuro wasn't pulling away yet.

But something had been revealed.

Hiroto landed lightly, turned, and looked at Marcus—not with contempt, not with pride.

With clarity.

"This," he said evenly, "is me getting serious."

And for the first time since the game began—

Marcus understood.

They hadn't been fighting Hakuro Academy.

They had been fighting restraint.

And restraint was gone.

The words echoed longer than the dunk itself.

This is me getting serious.

Marcus forced his legs to move as Seiryō inbounded, but his body felt heavier now, like gravity had subtly increased. His chest burned—not from exhaustion alone, but from the weight of understanding.

So that's the gap.

Not talent.

Not strength.

Control.

Hiroto jogged backward, gold aura settling around him like a mantle rather than a flame. It didn't roar. It didn't flicker wildly.

It simply existed.

Hakuro set their defense instantly.

No confusion. No talking.

They didn't need it.

Yuuto brought the ball up, jaw tight, eyes darting. He felt the pressure too—every lane narrower, every option pre-read. Ryu stayed near half court, hands resting at his sides, watching like a conductor allowing a soloist to take the stage.

Marcus cut hard to the corner, then snapped back toward the wing.

Hiroto followed.

Effortlessly.

Marcus changed speed—fast to slow, slow to sudden burst—

Hiroto adjusted without delay.

No wasted step.

No reach.

Just position.

Yuuto tried to force the angle anyway, threading the pass low and sharp.

Marcus caught.

Turned.

Rose—

Gold filled his vision.

Hiroto didn't block the shot.

He didn't even touch it.

He was simply there—vertical, balanced, eyes level with Marcus's release point.

Marcus rushed the follow-through.

Clang.

The miss felt louder than it should've.

Ryu claimed the rebound with one hand and flicked the outlet forward.

Hiroto was already sprinting.

Marcus chased, legs screaming, refusing to give ground.

Don't let him get momentum.

Too late.

Hiroto slowed at the top of the arc, forcing Marcus to decelerate—then exploded past him again. This time, Daniel rotated early, sliding into the lane, arms raised, bracing for impact.

Hiroto read it before it happened.

He changed the angle mid-step.

A eurostep so tight it barely registered.

Daniel's feet crossed.

Balance gone.

Hiroto rose off one foot, body tilted, wrist soft—

The floater dropped clean.

Hakuro Academy +2.

The scoreboard ticked upward, but what unsettled Seiryō wasn't the score.

It was the ease.

Marcus bent forward, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the hardwood.

"…He's not speeding up," he muttered under his breath.

Yuuto heard it.

And understood.

Hiroto wasn't playing faster.

He was playing earlier.

Every decision made a beat before the defense could react.

Every move finished before resistance could form.

That was what one percent looked like.

Coach Takeda stood at the sideline, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

"Don't break," he called out, voice firm. "You're still in this."

Coach Hikari nodded beside him. "Make him work. Every possession."

Easier said than done.

The whistle shrilled again.

Play resumed.

Yuuto wiped his palms on his jersey before taking the inbound, eyes sharp now—not frantic. The first shock had passed. What remained was resolve.

"Set it," he called.

Daichi moved first, planting himself high. Shunjin slid to the weak side. Marcus stayed near the wing, shoulders loose but coiled.

Hiroto watched it all.

Not bored.

Not dismissive.

Curious.

Yuuto used the screen, hard dribble left before snapping back right. Ryu stepped up instinctively, cutting the lane—but Yuuto didn't force it this time. He pulled the ball back out, resetting.

Patience.

That alone drew a reaction.

Hakuro's defense shifted half a step tighter.

Hiroto glanced at Marcus.

Marcus met his eyes—and didn't look away.

Yuuto attacked again, this time downhill. Ryu hedged late. Yuuto slipped the pass behind his hip—

Marcus caught on the move.

No pause.

No second thought.

He rose immediately from midrange.

Hiroto closed.

Late.

Just late.

The shot arced high.

Swish.

The crowd surged back to life.

Marcus backpedaled, chest heaving, jaw clenched.

Again.

Hiroto nodded once.

Barely noticeable.

But real.

Hakuro inbounded quickly.

Ryu crossed half court and slowed, eyes flicking to Hiroto.

"Still one percent?" Ryu asked quietly.

Hiroto didn't answer right away.

He surveyed the floor. The spacing. The way Seiryō had tightened, sharpened, stopped scrambling.

"…For now," he said.

Then he moved.

The possession unfolded differently this time. Hiroto didn't force the drive. He drifted off-ball, cutting through traffic, dragging Marcus with him.

That was the mistake.

Ryu accelerated, attacking the gap Hiroto created. Yuuto stepped in, chest squared, feet planted—

Contact.

A whistle.

Charge.

The arena erupted.

Yuuto slapped the floor as he popped up, fire in his eyes.

"Let's go!"

Hiroto exhaled slowly.

Interesting.

Seiryō pushed off the call. Yuuto advanced the ball fast, refusing to let Hakuro reset. Marcus sprinted the lane, Daniel trailing.

Yuuto drove, jumped, and kicked out—

Marcus caught in rhythm.

Hiroto lunged.

Too far.

The three went up.

The ball hit rim.

Bounced once.

Twice—

Out.

Daniel crashed hard, muscles straining, fingertips grazing leather—

Tip-in.

Good.

The deficit shrank again.

Hakuro's bench stirred.

Coach Kuroda stood, arms folding slowly.

"Focus," he called.

Hiroto retrieved the ball himself on the next possession.

He dribbled deliberately, eyes locked on Marcus.

Marcus lowered his stance, legs burning, refusing to yield space.

They moved together now.

Not hunter and prey.

Opponents.

Hiroto tested him—shoulder feints, tempo shifts, hesitation dribbles. Marcus stayed disciplined, biting on none of it.

Good.

Too good.

Hiroto leaned in closer, voice low enough only Marcus could hear.

"You're adjusting," he said.

Marcus didn't respond.

Hiroto smiled faintly.

Then he went.

Not with speed.

With precision.

Two dribbles right. Hard plant. Sudden stop.

Marcus slid—

Hiroto stepped back.

High release.

Marcus leaped, fingertips brushing fabric—

Nothing else.

The shot dropped clean.

Silence rippled before the noise returned.

Hiroto jogged back, gold aura tightening again—but this time, not out of ease.

Out of intent.

Seiryō inbounded.

The clock ticked under three minutes.

Yuuto glanced at Marcus, then nodded.

Different play.

Marcus initiated this time, handling at the top. Hiroto guarded him straight up, no help called.

A test.

Marcus dribbled once.

Twice.

Changed rhythm.

Hiroto stayed.

Marcus drove left, shoulder brushing Hiroto's chest.

Contact.

Hard.

Marcus rose—

Hiroto rose with him.

Bodies collided midair.

The ball rolled off Marcus's fingers—

And dropped through.

The whistle blew again.

And-one.

Marcus landed awkwardly but stayed upright, breath coming in sharp bursts.

He turned.

Hiroto stood a step away, eyes locked on him.

Gold pulsed.

Once.

Stronger than before.

"…So you can push back," Hiroto said.

Marcus wiped sweat from his brow.

"Still one percent?" he shot back.

For the first time—

Hiroto laughed.

Soft.

Genuine.

The free throw tied momentum, if not the score.

The second quarter wound down with both teams trading blows—no longer domination, no longer survival.

Combat.

When the buzzer finally sounded, players bent over, gasping, sweat-soaked.

The scoreboard told one story.

But everyone in the arena felt the truth.

Seiryō hadn't closed the gap.

But they had forced it open.

Hiroto walked past Marcus toward the bench, then stopped.

"Next half," he said without turning, "I won't keep it light."

Marcus straightened.

Good.

Because neither would he.

The real game hadn't just begun.

It had recognized both sides.

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