Inside the gymnasium, the final whistle cut through the air, sharp with a hint of desolation.
The numbers on the scoreboard clearly froze at 102:89 — Ryokufu High School defeated Shoyo.
Sparse applause erupted from the sidelines, but it was far less enthusiastic than in previous games.
The Ryokufu players stood on the court, their jerseys soaked with sweat, yet there was little joy of victory on their faces, only the exhaustion that followed intense exertion.
The murmurs from the stands drifted over like leaves rustling in the wind.
“Ryokufu is truly formidable. Their offensive firepower is top-notch even in Kanagawa,” someone exclaimed, their gaze sweeping over the still-erect figures of the Ryokufu players.
“Exactly!” someone nearby immediately chimed in, their tone filled with indignation, “Last time against Hainan, if Hainan hadn’t resorted to some underhanded tricks, how could Ryokufu have lost?”
No sooner had this been said than it was interrupted by another voice: “What’s the use of being so formidable? I think they’re in trouble this time; they probably won’t get a ticket to the National Tournament.”
“Why are they in trouble?”
“Are you stupid? They’ve already lost one game to Hainan.” That person lowered their voice, “They’re going to face Ryonan next! With Ryonan in that state, and Gu Jin playing like he’s got a cheat code, what can Ryokufu use to compete?”
“That’s not necessarily true!” a Ryokufu supporter immediately retorted, “Ryokufu’s overall strength is there; they might not be without a chance!”
“Ryonan is the strongest!”
“Ryokufu is stronger!”
“Ryonan is invincible!”
The arguments gradually escalated, like two waves about to collide, surging through the stands.
Meanwhile, the Shoyo players in the center of the court had long lost the inclination to listen to the clamor.
Two defeats, like two heavy hammers, had completely shattered their dream of the National Tournament.
Fujima Kenji stood rooted to the spot, his hands hanging at his sides, his fingertips trembling slightly.
His face, usually graced with a calm smile, was now only pale.
A tear, without warning, slipped from the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his cheek and splattering onto his jersey, creating a small, dark stain.
He tried to wipe it away but found his arm too heavy to lift.
Toru Hanagata took off his glasses and haphazardly wiped his eyes with the hem of his jersey, but the tears flowed like a broken string of pearls, the more he wiped, the more they came.
His eyes were bloodshot, his usually gentle gaze drowned in profound disappointment, even his voice was choked beyond recognition: “I’m sorry… I didn’t defend well…”
Kazushi Hasegawa stood with his back to the audience, his shoulders heaving violently, suppressed sobs squeezed from his throat, carrying the purest resentment of a young man.
Tomoaki Yomono squatted on the ground, his hands buried in his hair, his cries urgent and loud, as if he wanted to pour out all the grievances in his heart.
The other players stood or sat, no one spoke, only the continuous sound of sobbing echoed on the court.
Those training hours once soaked in sweat, those pre-game vows of encouragement, those aspirations for the National Tournament, all now became thorns in their hearts.
As the Ryokufu players walked past Shoyo, their steps instinctively softened.
They had won the game, yet no one dared to show any contempt; this was a team worthy of respect!
Everyone could see the heartbreak this once-strong team was now experiencing.
The debate in the stands continued, some saying Ryokufu still had a chance, others certain Ryonan would crush them.
But only the Ryokufu players themselves knew that the road ahead was already fraught with thorns.
Regardless of whether they could ultimately overcome the Ryonan hurdle, they had to grit their teeth and push forward — for nothing else, but to be worthy of the jersey they wore and the voices that cheered for them… June 27th, 9:00 AM.
As soon as the gymnasium’s metal doors cracked open, a wave of heat, mixed with human voices, surged in.
Today’s audience was even larger than usual, a dense crowd of heads, with people even standing in the aisles — everyone wanted to see how Shoyo, already eliminated after two consecutive losses, would face Hainan, who had one loss.
If Hainan won this game, they would qualify for the National Tournament!
“Shoyo’s game today is meaningless,” someone in the back row said, cracking melon seeds, their voice not loud but clearly audible.
“Exactly, Shoyo’s fourth place is secured this year!”
The person next to them nodded, their gaze sweeping over the Shoyo players warming up on the sidelines.
The discussions were like fine needles, pricking the air.
But the Shoyo players on the court seemed oblivious.
Fujima stood under the basket, his fingertips gripping the basketball, repeatedly performing simple underhand layups.
Sweat trickled down his jawline, hitting the polished floor and leaving small wet marks.
His eyes were bright, as if forged in fire; the redness from a few days ago was now replaced by a calm sharpness — a calmness born of desperation.
Toru Hanagata pushed up his re-adjusted glasses, his gaze behind the lenses focused intently on the hoop, every block and turn carrying three times its usual force.
Hasegawa and Yomono no longer looked distraught; they bumped shoulders, and their high-five produced a crisp “smack,” carrying a fierce determination to go all out.
No one knew how these young men had swallowed their tears in the Shoyo gymnasium a few evenings ago.
Fujima had only said one sentence: “Playing Hainan isn’t for advancement; it’s for ourselves.”
Yes, for themselves.
On Shoyo’s tactical board these past few years, the most frequently drawn diagrams were always Hainan’s positions;
In practice games, there were always players imitating Maki Shinichi’s drives and Hainan’s fast breaks.
They had been suppressed by Ryonan, overwhelmed by Ryokufu; hidden within those defeats were the flexibility deliberately sacrificed to counter Hainan, and the overly cumbersome zone defense practiced to contend with Hainan — yet these “flaws” today had become the sharpest blades.
When the referee blew the whistle, Fujima bent down to tie his shoelaces tightly, his knuckles white from the effort.
As he stood up, he looked at his teammates, saying nothing, just raising his hand to make a fist gesture.
Five fists collided in the air, making a dull thud.
“Beep —”
The game began.
At the moment of the jump ball, Toru Hanagata’s fingertips were half an inch higher than Takasago Kazuma’s, and the basketball was tipped in Fujima’s direction.
The instant Fujima caught the ball, he didn’t rush to advance it as usual, but rather leaned sideways against Kiyota, who came to defend, protected the ball with a back turn, and with a light flick of his wrist, passed the ball to Hasegawa at the baseline.
Hasegawa caught the ball and immediately shot; the basketball spun in an arc and swished through the net.
2:0.
The audience was momentarily stunned, then erupted in applause.
During Hainan’s offensive possession, Maki Shinichi bulldozed into the paint like a tank, only to be firmly blocked by the sudden double-team of Fujima and Yomono.
This block was fiercely unyielding, causing Maki Shinichi’s layup to miss the hoop; Takano grabbed the rebound and passed it to the fast-breaking Fujima.
Fujima sprinted with the ball, Kiyota Nobunaga pursued from his diagonal rear, reaching out to steal the ball.
But Fujima suddenly stopped short, his feet rooted to the ground, pulling the ball behind him with his right hand to evade the steal, then smoothly receiving it with his left hand and flicking his wrist — another nimble layup.
4:0.
Coach Takato on the sidelines frowned, tapping his clipboard against his palm.
The next three minutes became an unexpected struggle.
Shoyo’s zone defense was like a suddenly welded iron net, every gap filled.
Maki Shinichi’s drives were difficult for the first time, Kiyota’s fast breaks were fiercely tangled by Hasegawa, and Muto Tadashi’s open shot was even blocked by Toru Hanagata from his diagonal rear.
On Shoyo’s offensive end, Fujima’s passes seemed to have eyes, always finding the most difficult angles, Hanagata’s low-post singles were incredibly stable, and even Yomono, usually inaccurate, sank two three-pointers.
When the timer reached 3:00, the scoreboard numbers prominently displayed —
25:15.
The gymnasium was silent for two seconds, then erupted in a deafening roar.
Coach Takato suddenly stood up, his brows furrowed into a knot.
Fujima stood on the court, slightly out of breath, raising a hand to wipe away sweat.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows onto his face; in his eyes, there was no surprise, only a burning intensity of “finally, this day has come.”
He looked towards Hainan’s bench, a faint curve on his lips.
The real show had just begun.