The gap wasn't gone.

But now it was visible.

And that meant—

The climb had truly begun.

Yuuto Kai didn't realize how dangerous that thought was until the ball was back in his hands.

Because for the first time since the game started, he wasn't just reacting to Hakuro Academy.

He was trying to answer them.

The second quarter bled on without mercy. The noise never dipped, the pressure never eased. Hakuro reset with the same calm precision, their movements sharp, synchronized—unrushed.

Yuuto wiped his palms on his shorts and inhaled.

I can keep up.

That belief—small, fragile—pushed him forward.

He attacked earlier than before. His dribble tightened. Shoulders squared. He tried to impose himself on the rhythm instead of reading it.

That was the mistake.

Ryu Kazen didn't rush him.

Didn't speed up.

Didn't change expression.

He simply waited.

And the moment Yuuto committed—just a fraction too much—

The ball vanished.

A clean strip.

No contact.

No sound.

Just absence.

Yuuto stumbled forward, shock rippling through his body as Hakuro surged past him in transition. The crowd reacted late, confused by how effortless it looked.

Reset.

Next possession.

Yuuto told himself he'd slow down.

Told himself he'd read first.

But the pressure was already inside his chest now, squeezing tighter. He drove again—trying to correct, trying to prove—

Ryu's hand snapped in.

Again.

Second steal.

This time, the murmur wasn't confusion.

It was realization.

Yuuto jogged back on defense, breath uneven, heart pounding—not from fatigue.

From the weight of it.

So this is the gap.

That was when something inside him flickered.

Not strength.

Not confidence.

But adaptation.

The stumble wasn't the end.

It was the trigger.

And as Hakuro set up once more, Yuuto's vision sharpened—not on the ball, not on the man—

But on the space between decisions.

That was when the system stirred.

Yuuto stumbled.

Not physically—but internally.

The ball was gone before his mind caught up.

Again.

Ryu's hand snapped in, precise and cruel, stripping the dribble clean. The crowd gasped as the ball bounced free and Hakuro surged forward like a tide that never receded.

Yuuto froze for half a step.

Too careless.

The thought barely finished forming before it happened again.

Next possession.

Yuuto tried to reset—lower dribble, tighter angle—but Ryu didn't even look at the ball this time. His eyes flicked once, reading the rhythm, the timing, the hesitation Yuuto didn't know he'd shown.

Swipe.

Gone.

Second steal.

The arena buzzed louder now, murmurs layering over one another. Pressure crawled up Yuuto's spine, cold and heavy.

On the sideline, Coach Takeda's jaw tightened.

Yuuto jogged back on defense, chest tight, breath shallow.

I'm falling behind.

That was when—

Something flickered.

Not on the court.

Inside him.

A faint sensation brushed his mind.

Unstable. Incomplete. Awakening.

Yuuto blinked hard.

What—?

The system didn't fully manifest. No clean interface. No announcement.

Just a pulse.

His body moved before his thoughts could catch up.

Hakuro swung the ball to the wing.

Yuuto shifted—not chasing the ball, not guarding the man—

But drifting.

Sideways.

Into a space that felt… right.

The pass came.

And Yuuto lunged.

His fingers brushed leather.

Not a steal.

Not yet.

But enough to disrupt the angle.

The ball sailed just wide, forcing Hiroto to adjust his catch.

The crowd reacted—sharp, confused.

On Hakuro's side, Ryu slowed.

His eyes narrowed.

Yuuto didn't notice.

He was breathing hard now, legs burning, but his mind felt strangely calm. His stance had changed—lower, wider. Less aggressive. More… patient.

Like he was waiting.

Like he knew where the next move would be.

Hakuro reset.

Ryu dribbled at the top.

Yuuto guarded him.

This time, Yuuto didn't press.

Didn't reach.

Didn't mirror Ryu's hips.

He drifted half a step back—into Ryu's blind angle.

A thought surfaced unbidden.

If he passes now…

Ryu shifted his shoulders.

Yuuto moved.

The pass snapped out—

Yuuto exploded sideways, speed flaring, arm cutting through space—

For a heartbeat—

He was there.

Right there.

Between Ryu and the lane.

Between intention and execution.

Gasps rang out.

Yuuto's fingertips sliced inches from the ball.

Missed.

Ryu rose immediately.

Smooth.

Effortless.

Unbothered.

As the ball left his hand, he leaned in just enough for Yuuto to hear him.

"Too slow."

Swish.

The net snapped.

Hakuro Academy's lead stretched again.

Yuuto landed, chest heaving, eyes wide—not from fear.

From shock.

I almost—

On the bench, Shunjin leaned forward sharply.

"…Did you see that?"

Marcus frowned, eyes locked on the court. "Yeah."

Coach Takeda didn't speak.

Beside him, Coach Hikari adjusted his glasses, gaze sharp.

"That movement," one of the assistants murmured. "That wasn't random."

On the far end of the bench, Itsuki—the Watch Tower—had gone still.

His eyes narrowed.

"…Is it just me," Marcus said quietly, "or did Yuuto almost pull off something you do?"

Itsuki didn't answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was low.

"He didn't copy it."

A pause.

"He tried to become it."

On the court, Ryu dribbled again, eyes briefly flicking toward Yuuto.

Not impressed.

Interested.

Yuuto clenched his fists.

Whatever that was—

It wasn't enough.

Not yet.

But the stumble had become something else.

A crack.

And through it—

The ball dropped through the net, the sound crisp and final.

Swish.

Hakuro jogged back like it was routine.

Yuuto stayed still for half a second longer than he should have, staring at the rim. His fingers flexed again—once, twice—like they were trying to remember something they'd almost grasped.

Almost.

Too slow.

The words echoed louder than the crowd.

"Shake it off!" Coach Takeda barked from the sideline. "Next possession!"

Yuuto nodded automatically and turned, but his eyes weren't fully present. Something inside him felt… misaligned. Not wrong—unfinished.

Hakuro pressed higher this time.

Not aggressively.

Deliberately.

They were testing him.

The inbound came. Yuuto drifted toward the corner, then stopped short—not because he was told to, but because the space felt wrong. The passing lane narrowed before the ball even moved.

Why would they—?

The pass came anyway.

Yuuto reacted instantly, sliding into the gap, body angling to seal the lane. The ball skimmed past his fingertips again—close enough to feel the wind off it.

Too slow.

But closer.

Ryu caught the swing pass near the top of the key, eyes already up. Yuuto squared to him, knees bent, weight balanced—not tense, not reactive.

Waiting.

Ryu tilted his head slightly.

Interesting.

He jab-stepped left.

Yuuto didn't bite.

Another jab.

Nothing.

Ryu drove—hard, sudden—shoulder dipping, foot exploding off the floor.

Yuuto slid.

Not fast enough to cut him off.

But fast enough to stay connected.

Ryu felt it immediately.

The resistance.

Not physical.

Spatial.

He crossed over, tight and sharp. Yuuto mirrored—not perfectly, but with an instinct that hadn't been there a minute ago. The crowd rose as Ryu spun into a pull-up.

Yuuto jumped late.

The shot hit rim.

Miss.

For the first time all quarter, Hakuro didn't score.

The rebound bounced long. Marcus snatched it and fired the outlet.

"Go!" Coach Hikari shouted.

Yuuto ran.

Not sprinting.

Gliding.

He filled the lane without thinking, spacing himself exactly where Marcus needed him—not calling for the ball, not demanding it.

The defense collapsed.

Marcus kicked it out.

Yuuto caught, feet set—

Then hesitated.

A flicker of doubt.

The window closed.

A defender recovered.

Yuuto swung the ball instead.

Safe.

Smart.

But his chest tightened anyway.

Why didn't I—

Hakuro reset again.

Ryu brought it up slowly now, eyes scanning—not the defense, but Yuuto.

So that's it.

He's changing.

Ryu raised a hand. The formation shifted. A play designed not to score—but to isolate.

Yuuto felt it before he saw it.

The spacing thinned. Help defenders stayed home. The floor tilted.

Ryu waved everyone off.

One-on-one.

The noise swelled.

Yuuto swallowed.

His legs sank lower. His breathing slowed—not consciously, but naturally. The court sharpened again, invisible lines forming between possibilities.

Ryu attacked.

Fast.

Yuuto slid.

Cross.

Spin.

Euro.

Yuuto's body reacted on instinct alone, cutting the angle late but precisely, forcing Ryu wider than he wanted.

Ryu adjusted midair and released a high-arcing floater.

Yuuto jumped—not to block—

But to disrupt.

His hand brushed the ball.

Barely.

The shot bounced off the back iron.

The crowd exploded.

On Hakuro's bench, a player stood up.

"Did he—?"

"No," another muttered. "That was Ryu's miss."

But Ryu didn't look at the rim.

He looked at Yuuto.

Yuuto landed awkwardly, stumbled once, then regained balance. His heart hammered now—not from fear.

From alignment.

Something was clicking.

He didn't know what to call it.

He didn't even know it was happening.

But every movement felt like an answer forming half a second before the question.

On the sideline, Itsuki leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes narrowed.

"…He's not copying," he murmured.

A teammate glanced at him. "What?"

Itsuki didn't respond.

Because what he was seeing wasn't imitation.

It was reconstruction.

Hakuro inbounded quickly, trying to catch them before they reset. Yuuto turned, sprinted, and slid directly into the passing lane—reading not the passer, but the intention behind the pass.

The ball hit his forearm and deflected out of bounds.

The buzzer didn't sound.

Still five minutes left.

Yuuto bent forward, hands on knees, breathing hard now. Sweat dripped off his chin, splashing onto the hardwood.

This feeling—

It's exhausting.

Ryu stepped closer as the referee handed the ball back.

"You're adapting," Ryu said quietly.

Yuuto looked up, startled.

Ryu's expression was calm. Curious.

"But you don't know how to use it yet."

The whistle blew.

Play resumed.

Ryu cut hard off-ball. Yuuto chased, a half-step behind—but when the pass came, Yuuto jumped the lane early, forcing a scramble.

The possession broke down.

Hakuro reset again, slower this time.

More cautious.

Coach Hikari exhaled sharply from the sideline.

"Good," he said. "That's good. Keep that pressure."

Coach Takeda nodded, eyes sharp.

"But remember," he called out, "defense creates chances. It doesn't win alone. When you see it—attack."

Yuuto straightened.

Attack…

The word settled into him—not as a command, but as a future option.

The gap still existed.

Ryu was still ahead.

But for the first time since stepping onto this court—

Yuuto Kai wasn't falling behind.

He was learning in real time.

And somewhere deep inside, the flickering skill stabilized just enough to whisper—

Not yet.

But soon.

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