The game entered its final three minutes, and the numbers on the scoreboard were painfully clear: 116:25.

Ryonan Team's offense continued to surge like a tide, and Seirin's players were completely demoralized, even their previous underhanded tactics had significantly subsided.

Especially Sato Retsu, who was covered in bruises from Gu Jin's repeated “accidental” collisions; at this point, even raising his hand to defend seemed weak, with only evasion left in his eyes.

The atmosphere in the stands had long since become one-sided.

Most of Seirin's fan club was deflated, with only a few scattered individuals still shouting, but their voices were completely drowned out by the cheers of Ryonan's supporters.

Kotozuki Misaki sat in the front row of the stands, her fingertips unconsciously tapping the railing; the lazy smile on her face had long vanished, replaced by a hint of impatience.

Seeing her bad mood, the yellow-haired follower beside her quickly leaned in obsequiously: “Misaki-san, please calm down. That Ryonan's number 17 is too arrogant, and that red-haired guy, after the game ends...”

Another tall, thin guy immediately chimed in: “Exactly! How dare they mess with Sato-san like this, we have to get even! When they leave the gym later, we have enough people, we’ll make sure they know what’s coming to them!”

Kotozuki Misaki didn't say anything, just glanced at them.

The contempt in her eyes made the two followers try even harder, spitting as they planned how to “teach a lesson” to Ryonan Team after the game, especially Gu Jin, who injured Sato Retsu, and Sakuragi Hanamichi, who constantly targeted Sato.

“Heh.”

A clear laugh suddenly came from the front, not loud, but it pricked the ears of Seirin's fan club like a needle.

The yellow-haired follower glared fiercely at the source of the sound: “What the hell are you laughing at?!”

Sitting in the front row was a male student wearing a Shohoku High School uniform, with a messy head of curly yellow hair and a sturdy build; it was Oonan Yuuji. He slowly turned his head, still smiling: “I'm laughing at a bunch of guys who only deserve a beating but still want to hit people.”

“Are you looking for a fight?” The tall, thin guy suddenly stood up, pointing at Oonan Yuuji's nose and cursing, “Where did this punk come from, daring to run his mouth here? Your uniform says Shohoku? Want a beating?”

Several other Seirin thugs also gathered around, all with menacing looks.

One of them, with green hair, looked Oonan Yuuji up and down: “Shohoku is here to watch the game too? Perfect, while we take care of Ryonan later, maybe we can have some fun with you guys too?”

Takamiya Nozomi scoffed, “Beat us? Alright! Alright! My skin is itching for a fight.”

“We can spar after the game.”

The speakers were Mito Yohei and Noma Chuichiro.

The two sat on either side of Takamiya Nozomi and Oonan Yuuji, with the four male students in Shohoku uniforms sitting side by side; although their builds varied, the fierceness in their eyes was identical.

The yellow-haired follower froze for a moment, then laughed: “Okay, looking for a beating, are we? Perfect, let's take care of you all at once, it'll be easier!”

Oonan leaned forward, his eyes, under his curly yellow hair, narrowed into slits, his tone filled with undisguised mockery: “Little minions, get out of the way.” He paused, emphasizing his words, “You don't look like you can take much of a beating.”

“You're asking for it!” The green-haired guy couldn't hold back, raising his hand to push Oonan Yuuji.

Mito Yohei grabbed his wrist, his smile unchanged, but the force in his hand made the green-haired guy's face contort in pain: “What? Does it hurt? If you're afraid of pain, then get lost.”

Mito Yohei flung his hand, and the green-haired thug stumbled backward.

Oonan Yuuji patted Takamiya Nozomi's shoulder and tilted his head towards the Seirin group: “There aren't enough of you guys to fight, what should we do?”

Noma Chuichiro didn't speak, just quietly flexed his wrists, his knuckles making crisp “crack” sounds.

The Seirin thugs instantly froze.

Although they were a well-known gang in the area, they were indeed no match for the Sakuragi Legion.

“Boss, I know that guy, I think his name is Mito Yohei, he used to be from Wako Junior High School, I heard he's really tough.” A blue-haired follower suddenly leaned into Kotozuki Misaki's ear, his voice trembling slightly.

As soon as he said that, several other thugs who had been boisterous moments before instantly quieted down considerably.

Mito Yohei from Wako Junior High School? That was a name that had spread throughout Kanagawa's delinquent circles years ago—it was said that he never actively sought trouble in fights, but once he started, he was quick and ruthless, skilled at subduing people with the simplest moves, and he was never known to have suffered a loss.

The yellow-haired follower, who had been sticking out his neck moments ago, now swallowed, stubbornly insisting: “So what if he's tough? This is Seirin's territory, there are so many of us... there are only four of them!”

Takamiya Nozomi suddenly laughed, his voice so loud that the entire stands could hear it: “You judge a fight by numbers? You've never been beaten, have you?” He pointed to himself, then to Mito Yohei and the other two, “The four of us are enough to take care of you bunch of scumbags.”

At these words, the Seirin people completely erupted. Some were already rolling up their sleeves, looking ready to charge forward.

Mito Yohei suddenly raised his hand and pointed at the court: “Don't rush. Wait until the game ends.”

“Wait for what?” Several thugs were still shouting.

“Shut up.” Kotozuki Misaki finally spoke, her voice cold. Earlier, her eyes had swept over Mito Yohei's hand that was gripping the green-haired guy's wrist—he clearly wasn't using much force, yet the green-haired guy was sweating from the pain, his wrist held at a strange angle. This grip strength and control were definitely not something ordinary thugs could match.

Mito Yohei from Wako Junior High School? She kept feeling that name was too familiar.

Looking back at the court—Sakuragi Hanamichi had just grabbed the last rebound.

The whistle on the court suddenly blew, followed by the final buzzer.

125:29. Ryonan won.

Ryonan Team's players hugged each other in celebration.

Takamiya Nozomi stretched his neck and beckoned to the Seirin group: “Come on. Weren't you going to take care of us? Let's go, let us give you a taste of getting beaten first.”

A fight? Who was Sakuragi Legion afraid of?

The lingering sound of the final buzzer hadn't faded, and as Sakuragi Hanamichi was surrounded by his teammates, the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of the stands—Oonan Yuuji's messy curly yellow hair stood out in the crowd, and beside him stood Takamiya Nozomi, Mito Yohei, and Noma Chuichiro, the four of them surrounded by a group of Seirin thugs.

“Hey! Gu Jin! Isn't that Oonan and them?!” Sakuragi suddenly broke free from his teammates' hands.

Gu Jin followed his gaze and looked up, his eyes accurately landing on the front row of the stands—that figure with disheveled curly yellow hair was sticking out his neck, his shoulders slightly hunched, clearly in a fighting stance. Who else could it be but Oonan Yuuji?

“Let's go.” Gu Jin was concise; before he even finished speaking, he had already grabbed the railing, used it to push off, and lightly flipped over the barrier, his movements much more agile than Sakuragi's just now.

As he landed, he looked back at Sakuragi, who was still in a daze, and raised an eyebrow: “What are you standing around for?”

“Coming!” Sakuragi finally reacted, letting out a cry and lunging at the railing, grabbing the wooden bar with both hands and swinging himself over like a small, red-haired beast.

The two rushed into the crowd one after another; Sakuragi's eye-catching red hair and Gu Jin's ice-cold gaze instantly made those in their way instinctively step aside, creating a path for them.