Ace of the Bench

The buzzer screamed, slicing through the gym like a razor.

Fourth quarter.

The crowd erupted into a tidal wave of sound chants, stomps, the metallic slap of bleachers vibrating under hundreds of eager fans. The air was thick with heat, sweat, and the electric scent of adrenaline. Each player on the court felt it pressing down, yet it sharpened them, made every movement more precise, more dangerous.

Seiryō's team walked back onto the court, heads high but shoulders heavy. Jerseys clung to drenched skin, shoes squeaking with every step. Marcus clapped his hands once, sharp and loud, the sound cutting through the noise.

"We finish this. No fear," he said, eyes blazing.

Yuuto rolled the ball between his palms, chest heaving, heart hammering like a drum. Sweat stung the corners of his eyes, but his mind was calm, focused. Every late-night practice, every endless drill, every time he'd pushed himself to exhaustion all had led to this quarter.

This was the moment where games were won, legends made, and reputations forged.

The referee stepped into the center circle, ball under his arm. The players crouched, coiled like springs, energy taut. The whistle shrieked.

Tip-off.

The ball soared high, spinning under the gym lights. Marcus leapt, stretching every inch of his frame, fingertips grazing Shikoku's center by a whisper. The ball deflected perfectly back, landing in Yuuto's hands.

The gym shook as Seiryō spread into formation. Sneakers screeched, coaches barked instructions, fans pounded the bleachers in rhythm. Yuuto pushed the ball past half court, each dribble syncing with the chaos of the crowd.

The scoreboard glared at him: 74–86.

Twelve points down. A mountain to climb. Every movement now carried urgency. Every decision could tilt the game.

Yuuto slowed near the arc, surveying the defense. Shikoku's tallest and shortest starters shifted in perfect sync. Arms extended, feet poised, eyes locked on him. They were the rookies' poster children for discipline precise, patient, unrelenting. Their coach had drilled the message into them so deeply it had become instinct: trap Yuuto, cut the lanes, force hesitation.

Marcus's voice cut through the noise, sharp as a blade.

"Watch the left! Shun, rotate!"

The play erupted. A deflected pass, a loose rebound. Marcus lunged, snatched it mid-air, and rifled a bullet pass to Shunjin James streaking along the wing. Shunjin's feet barely touched the floor before he rose, pulling up for a smooth mid-range jumper.

"Bang!"

Glass kissed. Net swished.

76–86.

The bleachers detonated. Foam fingers waved wildly. Kana jumped beside Ayaka, screaming until her voice cracked. "Go, Shun!"

Shikoku's rookies countered instantly, their coordination uncanny. The smallest guard sliced into the lane, catching a pass that should have been secure. Yuuto read it early, lunging, brushing fingertips across the ball. The bobble threw the guard off rhythm, and Marcus dove in to claim the possession.

"Go, Yuuto!" Marcus bellowed.

Yuuto spun, drove forward, dribbling with precision. Shikoku's trap closed mid-step, two defenders flashing toward him like striking snakes. He slowed, hesitated, then jabbed left, then right, and exploded forward, slipping through the gap.

No-look pass. Baseline. Shunjin caught it, pivoted, rose.

Swish.

78–86.

The bench erupted. Marcus wiped sweat from his brow, grinning despite exhaustion.

"Keep moving! Don't let them breathe!"

But Shikoku responded. Crisp screens, surgical cuts. The ball moved like a live thing, slicing gaps, darting to the corner for a three. Swish.

78–89.

Yuuto dribbled upcourt, scanning the floor, eyes sharp as a hawk. He saw the trap forming, the double coming, the lane threatening to close. With a sudden flick, he split the defenders, bounced the ball to Marcus at the top of the key. Marcus faked the shot, drew attention, then dished out to Shunjin on the wing. Pull-up three.

Bang.

81–89.

The bleachers shook. Fans stomped, screamed, and roared.

Shikoku didn't hesitate. Fast break. Two crisp passes. The small forward leaped through traffic and slammed a layup.

81–91.

Yuuto exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his brow. He pulled down a rebound from Shikoku's next shot, turned on a dime, faked a dish to Shunjin, spun past two defenders, and fired an underhand pass to Marcus trailing the paint.

Marcus rose, kissed the glass with the ball, and watched it drop clean.

83–91.

Shikoku answered in kind. Their shortest rookie zipped past Yuuto, feeding the small forward in stride. Layup contested score. Whistle screamed. And-one. Free throw good.

83–94.

Yuuto's chest heaved. He locked eyes with Marcus. A nod, a thumbs-up.

"No breaks. Push harder."

The gym vibrated, alive with tension. Every dribble, every pass, every cut carried the weight of the game. The back-and-forth escalated, an unrelenting storm. The floor rattled under sneakers, whistles pierced ears, the scoreboard ticking like a heartbeat.

Yuuto pulled down another rebound, pivoted, and drove past the smallest rookie with a lightning crossover. Two defenders slid into his lane he spun under, threaded a pass to Daichi, who bulldozed through the paint and slammed the ball home.

85–94.

The crowd erupted, screams echoing off the rafters. Teachers jumped to their feet, fists punching the air.

Shikoku's rookies weren't done. They orchestrated a perfect sequence: dribble, fake, cut, dish. A contested three at the arc swish.

85–97.

Yuuto exhaled, adjusting, his sneakers squeaking against the polished hardwood. The ball bounced in his hands, every second magnified, every movement critical. He darted left, faked right, and drove through a seam between Shikoku's power forward and small forward. A defender lunged he spun past, ball clipped off a knee, recovered.

Daichi jumped in the paint, palm extended, slamming home another layup.

87–97.

The crowd's roar was deafening. Foam fingers waved frantically. Chants collided, echoing off walls. Yuuto spun back on defense, eyes scanning for the next threat. Shikoku ran another fast break. Guards slicing, screens set, ball flying. A layup floated through traffic.

87–99.

Yuuto's chest burned, sweat stinging his eyes, but he pushed forward. The ball was inbounded, dribbled upcourt. He used every ounce of his training: vision, timing, anticipation. A hesitation dribble, then a split through the defense, feeding Marcus at the paint. Layup off glass.

89–99.

Shikoku retaliated. Drive, contact, whistle. And-one. Free throw good.

89–102.

The gym felt like it would tear itself apart. Seiryō needed more than skill they needed courage, heart, and sheer will.

Yuuto gritted his teeth, reading, anticipating, commanding. He found a tiny seam, split between two defenders, and launched a bullet pass to Shunjin. Pull-up three.

Bang.

92–102.

The comeback had begun.

Possession after possession, Seiryō clawed back. Yuuto orchestrated, Marcus dominated the paint, Shunjin fired from the arc, Daichi bulldozed through screens. Every play tightened the gap. Fans rose to their feet, energy pulsing like a living thing.

Two minutes remained. Shikoku led 110–106. The tension was suffocating. Yuuto dribbled up, eyes scanning, heart hammering. He called the set, Marcus and Daichi ready, Shunjin slicing baseline.

The trap formed. Yuuto hesitated, then exploded forward, splitting defenders with a razor-sharp crossover. A quick pass underhand to Daichi, slam through the paint.

108–110.

Timeout.

The gym fell into a brief, tense silence. Shikoku's bench scowled; Seiryō's players panted, sweat dripping, jerseys soaked, hearts racing. And then… the King of the Court rose from his seat.

A hush swept across the bleachers. Students, fans, even Shikoku's rookies instinctively straightened. Every eye turned.

He peeled off his warm-up, veins pulsing, eyes cold, calculating. A predator. A force of nature. The aura radiating off him made Yuuto pause mid-dribble, chest tight, gaze locked.

The game had just entered a new battlefield.

Scoreboard: 110–108.

Yuuto tightened his grip on the ball. He had survived this far. Now, the real test began.

The gym seemed to shrink.

Every fan, every player, every coach all eyes were fixed on the figure stepping onto the court. He moved with the quiet assurance of a predator, sneakers barely squeaking against the polished hardwood, yet the sound seemed to echo in the silence.

The King of the Court.

Yuuto froze mid-dribble, chest heaving, heartbeat hammering against his ribcage.

He had heard the stories. Seen the highlights. Countless games replayed in his mind—of the King's flawless fakes, his lightning-speed drives, his unerring court vision. And now… he was here. Facing them.

Shikoku's rookies straightened instinctively, forming a protective wall around him, even as their coach barked instructions. But the aura radiating off the King was impossible to ignore. It was like standing in the center of a storm; every move, every glance, carried the weight of inevitability.

The referee blew the whistle. Possession Shikoku.

The King dribbled.

It was deceptively calm just a few taps on the ball but each tap was precise, each motion deliberate. Yuuto and Marcus adjusted immediately, sliding into defensive stances, muscles coiled, minds sharp.

The King's first move came almost instantly. A sharp fake to the left, drawing both Marcus and Daichi forward. His shoulders dipped, hips shifted, and in a blink, he spun right, leaving the taller forward grasping at air. Yuuto's eyes widened the speed, the timing, the sheer audacity of the move was unlike anything he'd ever faced.

A no-look pass zipped across the court, threading between defenders like a laser. The ball found Shikoku's small forward, who rose for a mid-range jumper. Swish.

110–111.

Yuuto gritted his teeth. Twelve-point comeback had been cut down to just one. The King's presence was already tipping the scales