The scoreboard read Easton 102 – Seiryō 98.

Three minutes left.

The gym was thunder. Every cheer, every stomp of a foot, every squeal of sneakers on polished wood reverberated through the rafters. Flags waved frantically. Students yelled themselves hoarse. The tension was a living, breathing thing—curling into lungs, sinking into muscles, threading into every heartbeat.

Kana and Ayaka clutched the railing in the stands, faces pale but eyes wide. "Come on… come on, Seiryō!" Kana screamed, voice cracking. Beside her, Ayaka's hands were clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. Other students from the MC team leaned forward, breath shallow, frozen in a collective anticipation, each pulse synced with the rhythm of the game.

Marcus wiped sweat from his brow. The team was exhausted, bodies screaming in protest, lungs burning—but they were alive. He could feel it: the Pulse, that invisible heartbeat, threading through every teammate, every pass, every step.

Sho Amakusa, Easton's captain, held the ball. His calm was unshakable, an iceberg cutting through chaos. Beside him, Orson Kuga, Easton's ace, crouched, eyes sharp, muscles coiled. And from above, Itsuki floated like a golden sentinel, scanning, predicting, anticipating.

Marcus took a deep breath, glancing at Yuuto.

Yuuto's gaze was steady, unwavering. He wiped sweat from his temple. "Don't worry about Itsuki," he said quietly, voice firm but low. "I've got him. You just lead us. Stop following Sho."

Marcus nodded, letting out a shaky exhale. "Right."

Sho's eyes flicked toward Seiryō, unbothered. He raised a single finger, signaling, and the Easton formation shifted like a living organism. Orson moved toward the baseline, low to the ground, his eyes never leaving Yuuto. Despite being shorter than most players, his presence was magnetic—fear and respect woven into every inch of him.

Yuuto gritted his teeth. He had faced taller opponents before, but Orson's timing was impeccable, his grit legendary. He recalled his own struggles: always the "short kid," overlooked, underestimated. And yet, here he was, about to go toe-to-toe with someone who had mastered the art of turning a small frame into a lethal weapon.

The gym held its breath.

Yuuto dribbled once, twice. Orson mirrored him, stance low, muscles tense. Sho smirked faintly behind them, a silent observer, letting the duel begin.

Yuuto feinted left. Orson didn't flinch. He read the fake, anticipating the move. Yuuto spun right. Orson cut inside, bumping him slightly, eyes narrowing. The crowd gasped.

Marcus darted toward the three-point line, bringing Daichi with him. "Pass here!" he yelled, voice carrying over the roar.

Yuuto saw the opening, but Orson anticipated again. Their movements were a blur—each step, pivot, and dribble was a conversation without words, a duel of instinct, heart, and timing.

Yuuto's mind raced, recalling every lesson, every battle, every moment he had been underestimated because of his height. This was more than a game—it was proof. Proof that heart could outweigh size. Proof that skill and rhythm could bend expectations.

He pivoted sharply, dribbled behind his back, and flicked the ball to Marcus at the arc. Marcus caught it mid-air, pivoted, scanning, then passed back to Daichi who had broken free for a mid-range shot.

Orson lunged. His timing, perfect. The shot was blocked—barely—but Daichi passed it out immediately. The ball spun, bouncing off the rim, and landed into Yuuto's hands again.

Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds.

The scoreboard blinked: 104–102. Easton still ahead.

Kana's voice was nearly hoarse. "Go, Yuuto! You can do this!"

Ayaka's hands flew to her mouth. "Don't let him stop you!"

Yuuto ignored the noise. Every sound blurred, every heartbeat focused. He could feel Orson's pulse, the tight coil of muscles, the tiny shifts in weight, the micro-second delay in reaction. He adjusted, countering instinct with instinct, letting muscle memory take over.

Marcus whispered from the three-point line, "I've got your back. Focus. Lead us."

Yuuto nodded. He didn't hesitate. He dribbled forward, Orson mirroring him, their eyes locked. They moved almost as one, two storms colliding. Sweat stung Yuuto's eyes. His lungs burned. Every fiber of his being screamed for release.

Orson made a sudden cut, trying to bait Yuuto into a misstep. Yuuto spun, slipped past him, and kicked the ball to Marcus. Marcus caught it, planted, and launched a three-pointer from the corner. The ball arced high—time seemed to slow.

The entire gym was suspended in a heartbeat.

Sho's eyes widened slightly. Itsuki's hands tensed, aura flickering gold. Even Orson's mouth opened in surprise.

The shot hit the rim… bounced… and finally swished through.

Seiryō fans erupted. Kana and Ayaka leaped to their feet, screaming until their throats burned. Marcus pumped his fist. Yuuto's eyes shone with the fire of triumph—but the battle wasn't over.

Easton's bench erupted. Sho gestured, reorganizing, eyes now sharper, calculating. Orson's stance reset. Itsuki's golden gaze intensified.

Thirty seconds on the clock. All or nothing.

Marcus, breathing ragged, glanced at Yuuto. "This is it," he muttered. "Everything we've worked for… it comes down to now."

Yuuto nodded. "Let's finish this."

Orson smirked faintly. "Short kid… let's see if heart can outpace skill."

Yuuto's jaw tightened. "Watch me."

The whistle blew.

Every player froze for a fraction of a second. Then the final surge began. Dribbles, screens, pivots, cuts, passes—all a blur of motion. Every move was deliberate, calculated, instinctive. Each heartbeat could decide victory or defeat.

The gym roared louder than ever. The crowd was a living entity, carrying Seiryō and Easton alike, as Marcus and Yuuto orchestrated the flow.

Orson lunged forward, eyes burning, timing every step, every dribble. Yuuto countered instinctively, shifting his weight, using speed and angle to exploit micro-openings. They collided mid-lane—shoulders brushing, eyes locked. Sweat flew. The crowd gasped.

Marcus spun past the defense, calling out to Daichi, signaling for a screen. Yuuto dribbled around Orson, pivoted, and found a sliver of space—less than a heartbeat to act.

The final play began—30 seconds left, score tied. Everything balanced on the edge.

Yuuto inhaled sharply, pulse syncing with every teammate. Marcus raised his hand, eyes locking on his friend. "Now, Yuuto!"

And in that instant, the game became pure instinct, heart, and fire.

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