Morning mist hovered over the court behind Tokyo Neo gym—quiet, empty, untouched. The match was only hours away, tension rising across the school like steam on pavement.
Riku stood beneath the old basketball hoop, spinning the ball lightly on his finger. Focused, distant. He had already run through all six phases of the team's strategy in his mind, like a symphony composed in silence.
"Thinking again?" a soft voice called out.
He turned.
Mei stood at the edge of the court, her long hair tucked behind her ears, a water bottle in one hand and a warm smile in the other.
Riku let the ball drop and rolled it toward her with his foot.
"Thinking… calculating… maybe worrying," he said.
Mei stopped the ball with her foot but didn't pick it up. She stepped forward instead. "Worrying? That doesn't sound like you."
"I worry when it matters," Riku replied, voice lower now. "And this match… it does."
She walked until she stood in front of him, placing a hand gently on his chest. "You always act like you're two moves ahead, but your heart's in the now, isn't it?"
He looked down at her hand. Warm. Still. Comforting.
"You know me too well."
Mei smirked and leaned in, their foreheads almost touching. "I memorized your patterns… like a playbook."
Riku chuckled under his breath. "Then you should know I only show my weak side before a game… to you."
"Lucky me," she whispered, closing the distance with a quick kiss to his cheek.
A gust of wind rustled the net above them. The sky was slowly brightening, and the world was beginning to stir.
"I'll be in the crowd," Mei said as she stepped back. "But I'll feel everything from here."
She tapped his chest once.
Riku watched her turn and walk away, her figure fading into the morning light. Then he looked down at the ball again, a smile curving his lips.
"Phase Zero," he murmured to himself. "Mei, my reason."
Day 4 – Block A Fourth Match: Sakura High vs. Fukuoka Wolves
Location: Neo Tokyo Dome
Commentary Team: Kenji & Ayaka
Broadcasted live across Japan
The dome pulsed with electricity. Thousands of fans were on their feet, cheers echoing like thunder beneath the golden lights of the grand court. Above them, banners fluttered—Sakura High's emblem beside the sharp fang insignia of the Fukuoka Wolves.
Toma stood at half court, wiping his hands against his shorts. Riku gave him a nod from the point, eyes already scanning every corner of the floor. Their opponents were lined up, calm and sharp like blades. Jin Takeda, the Wolves' captain, met Toma's eyes with an unwavering stare.
Tip-off.
The ball soared.
Kei leapt with a precision honed from silence and repetition. His fingers brushed the leather—Sakura High possession.
From the first dribble, it was war.
Riku controlled the tempo like a conductor—silent, smooth, surgical. Makoto darted around him with flashy footwork and flair, but Riku never blinked. Instead, he spun away, drew the defense in, and zipped a bullet pass to Yuta.
Three-pointer. Net barely moved.
Sakura 3–0.
Fukuoka's answer came fast. Rikuya, their stretch-four, floated beyond the arc.
Bang. Tie game.
Then another.
And another.
Suddenly, the Wolves ran like a storm, swift and clean.
But Daichi stood his ground—broad shoulders, heavy breath, crashing against screens like stone.
"Not today," he muttered, sending Tomae's shot into the stands.
Halftime: Sakura High 38 – Fukuoka Wolves 37
Inside the locker room, Coach Yamada sat with his legs crossed, sipping green tea. His voice, as always, was calm.
"We're not fighting their speed," he said. "We're guiding it."
Toma wiped sweat from his forehead, eyes blazing. "We adjust. We finish this."
The second half erupted.
Kei slipped behind the defense on a fake screen. Riku, without even looking, lobbed the ball over his shoulder.
SLAM.
The crowd roared. Kei didn't celebrate. He just walked back, deadpan, like it was nothing. But the bench exploded.
Next play—Makoto danced. He spun past Yuta—ankle-breaking, smooth—but as he passed, a hand swiped the ball mid-spin.
Riku.
In one motion: steal, pivot, pass to Toma.
Toma took off—one step, two—rose above the rim.
BAM!
Final Quarter. 58–57. Time bleeding.
Jin Takeda stepped up. The MVP. Ice in his veins.
Ayaka's voice rang in the announcer's box:
"Jin pulls up for three—"
But from behind, Daichi launched.
BLOCK.
The ball flew, bouncing once—twice—into Riku's hands.
He took off. A blur in white and red. The Wolves chased, but they weren't fast enough.
Corner.
Yuta stood.
He didn't speak. He never did.
He just let it fly.
Swoosh.
The arena exploded.
Final Score: Sakura High 72 – Fukuoka Wolves 68
Toma fell to his knees, fists clenched. The Wolves had pushed them to the very edge. He looked across the court to Jin, who stood tall despite the loss.
Riku walked toward him, sweat dripping from his chin.
"You read every move I made," Makoto said with a crooked smile.
"You telegraphed just enough," Riku replied, offering a hand.
They shook—rivals who knew their worth.
From the stands, Mei watched, her hands over her heart. Riku turned slightly, just enough to find her eyes in the crowd.
He smiled—just for her.
Aashi met Toma at the bench, punching his shoulder.
"You almost gave me a heart attack," she muttered.
"You're the only one who gets to do that to me," Toma said softly.
As the crowd filtered out and the lights dimmed slightly, Coach Yamada walked past his boys with a rare smile.
"One more step," he said.
And they believed him.
Sakura High remained undefeated. But the Wolves had left a mark—a warning that the road ahead would only get tougher.
The lights dimmed.
A slow, eerie silence fell over the Neo Tokyo Dome. Even the rowdiest fans quieted, unsure of what they were witnessing. The Mystic Five walked onto the court—tall, silent, masked. Dressed entirely in black with no visible logos, they seemed like shadows made real.
Commentator Kenji leaned in closer to the mic.
"This… is bizarre. No official records. No stats. No names. Who are the Mystic Five?"
Ayaka's voice, normally bright, had an edge to it.
"Are they even high schoolers? I feel like I'm watching a military unit."
Across from them, the Osaka Vipers stretched in rhythm, Shiro spinning the ball in one hand, his trademark smirk never leaving his face.
Coach Kagemura adjusted his sunglasses, even though they were still indoors.
"Tricksters versus phantoms," Kenji muttered. "Let's see who's got the better illusion."
Block A Fourth Match: Mystic Five 41 vs Osaka Vipers
Location: Neo Tokyo Dome
Commentary Team: shiro & ??
Broadcasted live across Japan
[Tip-Off – Quarter 1]
Ichi, the Vipers' center, stepped to the circle like a clumsy cartoon. The Mystic center didn't even glance at him.
The ball flew.
And the game began with a blink.
The Mystic PG didn't speak. Just received the ball, then—snap—it was already out of his hands. Like a magician pulling silk from a sleeve, the pass threaded perfectly between Gaku's legs into the shooting guard's hand.
Three-pointer. Splash.
Shiro raised an eyebrow.
"Alright," he whispered. "So this is what we're up against."
[Quarter 1 – 10:00 to 0:00]
The Mystic Five never spoke. No hand signals. No eye contact. Yet every movement was synchronized like they were a single mind.
Yami tried to pump fake his way free—but the masked SF didn't flinch.
Zan darted across the baseline, disappearing in shadows—but the PF of Mystic was already there.
It was like they anticipated every trick the Vipers pulled.
Ayaka nearly gasped, "Do they… read minds?"
Kenji shook his head. "No. They read patterns like AI. And that's what's terrifying."
[Halftime Score: Mystic Five 41 – Osaka Vipers 29]
Inside the locker room, Coach Kagemura chuckled and leaned against the whiteboard.
"You think we've run out of tricks?" he asked the team. "They've only seen our rehearsed illusions. Let's show them the real misdirection."
[Quarter 3 Begins – Osaka Strikes Back]
Shiro dribbled up… and looked away.
No signals.
No words.
He tossed the ball sideways into the empty court.
For a split second, it seemed like a turnover—until Ichi slid into frame like a dancer, caught it, and flipped it backward to Gaku for the slam.
Crowd roared.
Then came Zan—breaking the rhythm of the game by pausing mid-cut, throwing off Mystic's timing.
Backdoor layup.
Then Yami—three pump fakes, spin, jump—pass to Shiro for the bank shot.
Osaka was alive.
Ayaka shouted, "Osaka Vipers have cracked the code—don't play with rhythm, break it!"
[Final Quarter – 60 seconds left]
Mystic Five 66 – Osaka Vipers 64
Silence again.
The Mystic PG stood beyond the arc. Shiro crouched low, sweat dripping down his cheek.
He made a choice.
One-on-one.
As the PG crossed over, Shiro baited him left. For the first time… the Phantom blinked.
Shiro reached—steal!—and bolted.
Fast break.
Yami on his left. Zan on his right. He feinted the pass—
Then tossed it behind to Ichi, who rolled it up the glass for two.
Tie game.
[Final Possession – 3 seconds left]
Mystic ball. Timeout.
No huddle. No talk. No chalkboard.
They simply walked into position.
The PF inbounded.
The SF soared for an alley-oop that bent time.
DUNK.
Buzzer.
[Final Score: Mystic Five 68 – Osaka Vipers 66]
The crowd stood frozen.
The Vipers slumped to their knees—not in defeat, but in awe.
The Mystic Five simply turned and walked away, masks unbroken, expressions unreadable.
Coach Kagemura stood on the sideline, silent, then smiled under his breath.
"That… was fun."