The fourth quarter began without spectacle.

No flashy entrance.

No explosive play.

Just a slow bounce of the ball.

Thump.

Ryu stood near the center circle, one hand resting on the ball, the other hanging loosely at his side. His red aura—once sharp and aggressive—had dulled into something heavier, denser. Not weaker.

Compressed.

The scoreboard read:

Hakuro — 57

Seiryō — 64

Seven points.

Close enough to taste.

Too close to ignore.

The crowd sensed it immediately.

The noise drained from the arena—not fading, but withdrawing, like the ocean pulling back before a wave. Even the commentators lowered their voices.

"This… feels different," one of them murmured.

Ryu took his first dribble.

Thump.

Yuuto dropped into his stance instantly, knees bent, spine straight, eyes fixed—not on the ball, not on Ryu's face—

His hips.

Daniel's voice echoed in his mind.

Hips don't lie. Everything else is bait.

Ryu dribbled again.

Thump.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not a setup.

Not a probe.

A statement.

Yuuto mirrored him step for step, heart pounding. His Self-Actualization hummed beneath his skin, fully awake now—no longer flickering, no longer unstable.

But something felt… off.

The rhythm didn't make sense.

Ryu wasn't accelerating.

Wasn't decelerating.

He was doing something worse.

He was deciding.

"Don't rush him," Daniel barked from behind. "Stay square!"

Yuuto nodded, though his throat felt dry.

Ryu shifted his weight.

Yuuto shifted too.

Nothing happened.

Three seconds passed.

Four.

Five.

The shot clock ticked down, and still—Ryu didn't move.

The crowd began to murmur, uneasy.

"What's he doing?"

"Why isn't he attacking?"

"Is he stalling?"

Hiroto floated along the wing, gold aura steady, eyes half-lidded. Ren and Minato rotated behind the arc, silent, precise. Kanda planted himself in the paint like a pillar.

Hakuro wasn't frozen.

They were waiting.

Then—without warning—

Ryu stepped forward.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Perfect.

Yuuto reacted instantly—

And still felt himself fall behind.

Just a fraction.

Just enough.

Ryu's shoulder brushed past Yuuto's chest, not with force, but with inevitability. Yuuto turned, legs burning, trying to recover—but Ryu hadn't sped up.

He'd changed tempo.

The lane opened.

Daniel rotated.

Daichi stepped up.

Ryu didn't look at either of them.

He flicked the ball behind his back.

Hiroto caught it mid-stride and laid it in effortlessly.

Hakuro — 59

Seiryō — 64

The arena remained silent.

Not because it wasn't impressive.

Because it was terrifying.

On Seiryō's bench, Marcus swallowed hard.

"That wasn't speed," he muttered. "That was control."

Shunjin slammed his hands on his knees. "He didn't force anything. He just… walked through us."

Haruto, seated at the end of the bench, leaned forward, eyes wide.

"That's why he's King," he whispered.

Yuuto jogged back on defense, chest tight.

I saw it, he thought.

I reacted correctly.

So why did it still feel like I was chasing a shadow?

Seiryō's possession.

Shinji brought the ball up, slower now, cautious. Hakuro didn't press aggressively. They didn't need to.

Ryu hovered near the arc, eyes calm, presence suffocating.

Yuuto cut off-ball, trying to create separation.

Ryu tracked him effortlessly—no sudden movements, no wasted steps.

He's reading me, Yuuto realized.

Not my moves.

My intentions.

Shinji drove and kicked to Marcus.

Marcus rose for three—

Ryu closed the distance without sprinting.

The shot rimmed out.

Kanda secured the rebound.

And just like that—

Hakuro flowed.

Ryu took the outlet pass and slowed the game again.

The shot clock ticked.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

The crowd shifted uneasily.

Yuuto stayed in front, sweat dripping down his temple.

Watch the hips. Don't bite. Don't rush.

Ryu leaned left.

Yuuto leaned with him.

Ryu stopped.

Yuuto stopped.

For a split second—nothing happened.

Then Ryu walked past him.

No crossover.

No burst.

Just a step taken at the exact moment Yuuto's weight was wrong.

Yuuto turned, desperate now.

Too late.

Ryu pulled up at the elbow.

Shot.

Swish.

Hakuro — 61

Seiryō — 64

Ryu backpedaled, eyes gleaming—not with arrogance, but delight.

"This," he said quietly as he passed Yuuto, "is pacing."

Yuuto clenched his fists.

I can see it.

So why can't I stop it?

Coach Takeda called out from the sideline. "Yuuto! Don't match his speed—match his timing!"

Easier said than done.

The next possession was worse.

Ryu didn't attack at all.

He passed.

Then passed again.

Each touch reset the tempo.

Each movement drained Seiryō's energy.

They weren't losing points yet—

They were losing control.

Daniel rotated late.

Marcus overcommitted.

Shunjin hesitated.

And Ryu capitalized on every fraction.

A pull-up.

A kick-out.

A backdoor cut.

Hakuro tied the game.

64 — 64

The crowd finally exhaled.

Then erupted.

Yuuto stood at midcourt, hands on his knees, lungs burning.

The Self-Actualization was still active—stronger than ever—but now it felt like trying to read a book written one page ahead of him.

Ryu wasn't faster.

He wasn't stronger.

He was ahead.

Haruto whispered again, barely audible over the noise.

"He's not playing the game," he said. "He's playing time."

Hiroto glanced toward Yuuto, gold aura flickering.

"He's close," Hiroto said calmly. "Closer than anyone else."

Ryu smiled.

"Then let's see," he said, bouncing the ball once more. "If he can keep up."

Yuuto straightened.

Sweat dripped.

Muscles screamed.

But his eyes sharpened.

Then I'll stop chasing the move, he thought.

And start chasing the moment.

The Pace of Kings wasn't about speed.

It was about when you chose to act.

And Yuuto Kai was finally beginning to understand—

To challenge a King, you didn't need to outrun him.

You needed to survive his rhythm long enough to rewrite it.

The fourth quarter wasn't decided yet.

But the crown had entered the court.

And everyone could feel its weight.

Here's a ~700-word continuation, flowing directly from the end of "The Pace of Kings", keeping the tension high and deepening Yuuto's internal shift as Ryu's rhythm tightens around the court.

The ball came back into Ryu's hands, and the court seemed to shrink.

Not physically—no, it was subtler than that. The space between players felt thinner, tighter, as if every inch had been measured, claimed, and cataloged by the man at the top of the arc.

Ryu bounced the ball once.

Thump.

Yuuto stayed low, legs trembling, breath controlled through sheer will. His vision sharpened—not tunneling, not panicked. He didn't look at the ball. He didn't look at Ryu's eyes.

He watched the hips.

The shoulders.

The way Ryu's heel barely lifted off the floor before settling again.

He's not choosing a move yet, Yuuto realized.

He's choosing the future.

Ryu shifted—half a step forward.

Yuuto slid with him.

Another pause.

The shot clock ticked down.

Ten.

Nine.

The crowd was silent again, hundreds—no, thousands—of people leaning forward at once, sensing that something invisible was being decided.

Then Ryu did something unexpected.

He stopped.

Completely.

Yuuto almost stumbled forward.

That was the mistake.

Ryu accelerated—not explosively, not violently—but with perfect efficiency. One step. Two. Yuuto turned, Self-Actualization screaming warnings into his nerves, but his body was already half a beat behind.

Daniel rotated.

Daichi stepped up.

Ryu didn't challenge them.

He slowed again.

The lane collapsed.

Then—flick.

A pass slipped between Daniel's arm and Daichi's hip, threading a window that shouldn't have existed.

Minato caught it under the rim.

Easy two.

Hakuro took the lead.

66 — 64

Coach Takeda swore under his breath.

"That's it," Marcus muttered. "That's his game. He's not attacking us—he's exhausting us."

Yuuto jogged back, jaw clenched, heart pounding harder than it had all night.

No, he thought.

He's inviting me in.

The next possession, Seiryō pushed the pace.

Shinji brought the ball up fast, refusing to let Hakuro reset. Marcus cut hard to the corner. Shunjin flashed to the free-throw line.

Yuuto stayed wide, eyes flicking between Ryu and the passing lanes.

The ball swung.

Marcus faked.

Shot clock low.

Yuuto darted in.

The pass came.

For a moment—just one—everything aligned.

Yuuto caught, gathered, and drove.

Ryu slid in front of him.

Not blocking.

Not reaching.

Just… there.

Yuuto felt it again—that suffocating presence, the sense that the future had already been decided.

But this time—

He didn't fight it.

He leaned into it.

Yuuto slowed.

The gym seemed to gasp.

Ryu's eyebrow lifted.

Yuuto matched the pace.

Not Ryu's speed.

His timing.

One dribble.

Pause.

Ryu adjusted.

That was enough.

Yuuto slipped past him—barely—shoulder brushing red aura, breath caught in his throat.

The crowd erupted.

Yuuto kicked the ball out at the last second.

Shinji caught it clean.

Three.

Swish.

66 — 67

The silence shattered.

The arena exploded into sound, disbelief, excitement, shock crashing together in one deafening wave.

On Hakuro's bench, heads turned.

Hiroto's gold aura flared sharply.

Ryu stopped at midcourt, eyes wide—not angry.

Thrilled.

"…You felt it too," Ryu said as Yuuto passed him, voice low, electric. "That moment. That hesitation."

Yuuto didn't answer, chest heaving.

I didn't beat him, he realized.

I shared his rhythm.

Coach Takeda shouted from the sideline, "That's it! Don't chase him—breathe with him!"

Haruto stared at the court, hands clenched.

"He didn't copy it," he whispered. "He adapted it."

The next possession was brutal.

Ryu took control again, slowing the game, tightening the screws. Yuuto stayed glued to him, muscles burning, mind screaming to keep up.

Every step felt like walking a tightrope.

One misread—

One rushed move—

And it would be over.

Ryu drove.

Stopped.

Pulled up.

Yuuto contested perfectly.

The shot bounced off the rim.

Daichi grabbed the rebound.

The crowd roared louder than before.

Ryu laughed softly as he jogged back.

"That's it," he said, genuinely smiling now. "That's what I wanted."

Yuuto met his gaze, eyes sharp, unyielding.

"I'm not there yet," Yuuto said. "But I'm not backing down."

Ryu nodded.

"Good."

The Pace of Kings wasn't broken.

Not yet.

But for the first time all game—

It was being challenged.

And as the fourth quarter bled on, one truth became impossible to ignore:

Yuuto Kai wasn't just surviving a King's rhythm anymore.

He was learning how to rewrite it—one heartbeat at a time.

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