Tip-off. Rikuya rises like a mountain—and wins.
The ball flies into the hands of Kaito, who wastes no time signaling with his fingers.
"One!" he shouts.
That's our go-to strategy. Number 1: Get the ball to Rikuya and let him go to work. No tricks, no gimmicks. Just raw domination.
Aizawa receives the pass first, dribbling smoothly across the perimeter before swinging it into the post.
There, like a titan stationed at the gates of war, Rikuya Asano plants himself in front of Osaka Meisei's center—Shohei. The moment Shohei tries to brace, it's already too late.
Boom. Rikuya lowers his shoulder, muscles rippling beneath his jersey, and backs Shohei into the paint like a bulldozer.
Shohei strains. Grunts. But he might as well be a traffic cone.
Rikuya pivots, rises, and launches a silky hook shot over Shohei's outstretched arms.
Swish.
2–0.
"YEAHHHH!" Rikuya roars, his voice echoing off the gym walls like thunder.
The Osaka Meisei crowd falls into stunned silence. Their star center just got humiliated. Aizawa runs over and gives Rikuya a high-five.
"Nice, Buddha-senpai!"
Taiga chimes in too, grinning. "Nice, Titan-senpai!"
It was clear—we were playing in the paint tonight, and Rikuya was putting on a clinic.
Next possession, same play.
Aizawa feeds the ball. Rikuya bodies Shohei once again, spinning this time, and banks it off the glass.
4–0.
We pressed hard on defense. Taiga and Aizawa hounded their wings. Kaito cut off passing lanes. And every time Osaka Meisei tried to enter the paint, they ran into Rikuya.
6–0.
8–0.
10–0.
12–0.
It was like watching a fortress fall.
The crowd murmured in disbelief. Osaka Meisei—the proud, disciplined team with a solid reputation—was getting blown out by a bunch of "nobodies."
"TIMEOUT!" a furious voice rang from the Meisei bench.
Their coach, an older man with gray hair and sharp eyes, stomped onto the court. His voice carried even across to our bench.
"What are you doing?! How are you losing to that guy?!"
He pointed straight at Rikuya. His face was red with frustration.
"If it's too hard, double him! And if that doesn't work—FOUL HIM!"
Even Coach Tsugawa winced from the shouting.
He turned to Kaito. "You okay out there?"
Kaito nodded, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. "Yeah. They're not pressing too hard. I can finish the quarter."
"Good. After that, Dirga's going in."
The game resumed, but by then, we had already broken their rhythm. Every time they tried to build momentum, our defense swarmed. Every time they hesitated, we capitalized.
By the end of the first quarter:
20–8.
When the second quarter began, I checked in—Dirgantara Renji, ready to pour more fire into the offense.
Osaka Meisei looked rattled. We were faster, more aggressive, more chaotic.
Rikuya kept eating Shohei alive in the post.
I pushed the tempo, catching them off balance in transition.
Rei knocked down a three from the corner.
Aizawa got a steal and turned it into an easy layup.
36–12.
Osaka Meisei was in shambles.
But then… something changed.
Late in the second quarter, Shohei's eyes sharpened. I noticed it just before halftime. He wasn't just taking the punishment anymore—he was learning.
During the break, I saw him huddle with his teammates. They weren't panicking. They were adapting.
The third quarter began—and Osaka Meisei looked like a different team.
They came out swinging.
Shohei stopped trying to overpower Rikuya and started using angles—fronting him in the post, forcing tougher entries. When Rikuya did get the ball, help came fast, hands up, clean pressure.
Meanwhile, their offense finally started to flow. Their point guard, number 4, pushed the pace, weaving through our defense and finding open shooters on the wing.
36–17.
36–20.
They were closing in.
"Don't get sloppy!" I shouted, clapping my hands. "Stay sharp!"
But Meisei wasn't just clawing back—they were growing confident. Their bench was fired up now. The crowd came alive with every bucket.
Shohei finally got a hook shot to fall over Rikuya. He pumped his fist and shouted, "Let's go!"
38–24.
We needed to respond.
I called for a screen, took a switch, and buried a mid-range jumper.
40–24.
But Osaka Meisei wasn't backing down.
Their shooting guard nailed a contested three from the wing.
40–27.
Rikuya slammed down a dunk on a fastbreak.
42–27.
But again, Meisei answered.
It became a battle of wills.
We ended the third quarter ahead, but their momentum was real.
48–34.
Coach Tsugawa clapped his hands. "Don't let up now. They're still behind, but they've found their rhythm. Close this game strong."
We nodded.
The fourth quarter was a war. Every possession mattered.
Meisei kept coming, refusing to fold.
But we matched them bucket for bucket.
Taiga hit a crucial mid-range jumper from the baseline.
Aizawa forced a turnover with his quick hands.
And when Shohei tried one more desperate post-up, Rikuya stood tall, arms raised, denying him like a stone wall.
The final minutes ticked down.
We stayed composed.
Meisei had found their confidence.
But it wasn't enough.
Final Score: Horizon 64 – Osaka Meisei 54.
They won the second half.
We won the game.
Rikuya wiped the sweat from his brow, smiling as Shohei approached for a handshake.
"You're strong," Shohei muttered. "I'll get you next time."
Rikuya nodded. "I'll be waiting."