Masaki dropped the towel.
His eyes pierced through the noise.
His voice was calm. Cold. Sharp.
"No," he said. "We’re not here to shut him down.
I’m going to destroy him."
"He’s good—fine. He’s in the zone? I don’t care.
He’s still human. And humans have limits.
If he breaks them—I’ll break mine harder."
He stood up, slow, like a titan dragging himself from the earth.
"I didn’t come back from the States just to play.
If I can’t beat him here—
I don’t belong in the NBA.
I promised I’d take us to Nationals. I’m not breaking that promise now."
His gaze didn’t land on Reina.
It locked on the one player standing alone near the baseline, never looking away from their bench.
"There’s just one Dirga.
But there’s five of us.
If we all go beyond... he’ll fall."
Shunpei leaned in, fists tight.
Daichi slammed both palms into his chest.
Haruto cracked his knuckles with a growl.
"Let’s break our limits."
Masaki’s voice, iron in the storm.
"Nine points? One minute?
We turn this around."
The final push began.
Just like in the Regional Final.
Except this time—they were the ones behind.
The ball kissed Masaki’s hands.
The roar of the crowd?
Just a low hum behind his heartbeat.
Like an overhead map etched into his brain.
It wasn’t just a circle anymore.
"Twelve meters. Slight angle. Defender trailing. Fade window open."
Like a wall made of instinct.
Every twitch of muscle, Dirga read.
He mirrored every step—every feint—like a reflection in a perfect mirror.
Masaki was no longer thinking.
He wasn’t playing basketball.
He was expressing it.
One sharp snap to the left—
Dirga bit. Just a breath. Just a blink.
Masaki vanished like smoke.
Taiga rotated—fast, aggressive.
A drifting, one-legged fadeaway jumper—
Body bent against gravity.
Eyes never leaving the rim.
Wrist snapping in perfect angle.
He landed, staggered once—
The silence in his ears lifted for a second, just long enough to hear one voice:
He just turned, eyes forward, and whispered—
And if Masaki was the blade...
Then Yuto had to be the shield.
"I’ll be the wall Dirga can’t break."
Dirga brought the ball up—calm, focused, flowing.
Yuto met him just past the line.
Chest low. Arms wide. Fingers twitching.
He didn’t blink—didn’t lose eye contact.
A twitch in his shoulder—
Yuto’s instincts flared.
The ball ricocheted into open space—
But there was no time to hear.
Horizon scrambled back.
But Masaki... slowed.
"You’re pulling up from there?"
The kind of shot that makes the whole gym inhale.
Time didn’t just tick.
Each second a heartbeat slamming against ribcages.
Dirga clenched his jaw.
His heart beat like a war drum.
He’d already used Flow.
Masaki was something else now.
A storm wrapped in skin.
"A generational talent..."
[Active Skill – Godframe: Initiated 00:45 second]
Like his soul detached from his body.
Teammates bathed in blue.
The court—like a chessboard.
Every passing lane. Every mistake. Every breath—visible.
He grabbed the inbound.
That was all Yuto and Daichi needed.
Breath on his neck. Arms jabbing like blades.
Dirga dipped—dribbled low—trying to shake free—
But Masaki was already there.
Right place. Right time.
Looming. Breathing hard. Ready for war.
Masaki hit the paint.
Slowed—then dropped into a low post stance.
Chest tight. Hands wide.
Rikuya stayed with him.
A blur that twisted space.
Masaki slammed into him.
One arm. One motion. One breath.
This game would be etched in history—
Decided by a single possession.
Dirga grabbed the inbound.
But Yuto came charging—
The ref’s whistle echoed like a pistol shot.
From the stands, a war:
"MISS! MISS! MISS!" – Toyonaka’s roar
"DIRGA! DIRGA! DIRGA!" – Horizon’s answer
The court vibrated. The rim seemed smaller.
One breath. One bounce. Look. Fire.
He tossed a glance at his teammates—
Second shot. One bounce. Two. Release.
Rei stuck to him like glue.
A high pass over half court.
Masaki spotted Shunpei cutting free.
Bounce pass—through the legs.
Shunpei caught it—set his feet.
He pivoted—pass to Haruto.
Fingertips grazed it.
The ball popped loose—chaos.
Dirga and Taiga crashed toward him.
Masaki slipped a screen—freed himself.
Masaki caught. Stepped back.
The ball cut the air—
It kissed the front rim—