When the halftime whistle blew, the score of 52:21 on the scoreboard was like a cold chasm, stretching before the Shoyo players.

In the locker room, no one spoke, only heavy breathing and the rustle of towels wiping away sweat. Takao Gi threw the tactics board aside, his voice hoarse: “We haven’t lost yet. In the second half, we will play well.”

He looked at Fujima, his gaze sharp as a knife: “Put all your energy into it, run, shoot, even if you foul, let them know Shoyo isn’t dead yet.”

Fujima nodded, the composure he had before gone from his eyes, replaced only by a desperate resolve. He clenched his fists, knuckles white: “Second half, everyone, charge with me…”

With 5 minutes left in the break, players gradually returned to their respective lounge area.

During halftime, the gymnasium erupted, with the audience’s discussions surging like a tide.

“Is this Shoyo too disappointing?” Someone in the back row slammed a mineral water bottle on the ground, his voice full of disdain, “They’re an old powerhouse team, yet they’re getting beaten like this? 52 to 21, they’re going to lose all face!”

Someone next to him immediately chimed in: “Exactly, what’s wrong with Fujima today? Besides that one three-pointer, he’s had almost no outstanding plays. Hasegawa was practically rubbed into the ground by Gu Jin, he had no temper at all.”

“I think they’re really done for,” a boy wearing another school’s jersey shook his head, “They’ve lost their former sharpness. With Ryonan’s assault, the entire team has fallen apart, their defense is like paper.”

The discussions grew louder, many people pointing towards the Shoyo bench, their sarcasm almost overflowing.

Just then, a bespectacled boy in the front row suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, but clearly overriding the surrounding noise: “Do you really think Shoyo is weak?”

He turned to look at the people who had just complained, pointing to the Ryonan players on the court who were drinking water: “Look at Gu Jin’s stats — 23 points, 8 assists, 5 steals in one half.

Fukuda alone dunked 6 times just from his passes, and Uozumi, Sendoh, and Sakuragi’s points mostly came from his connections.”

“Shoyo’s defense is already trying its best,” the boy pushed up his glasses, his tone serious, “Fujima ran the entire half with his teammates, Hasegawa was defending Gu Jin until his legs were shaking, but what kind of lineup does Ryonan have? Gu Jin alone can break through triple and quadruple teams, Fukuda’s impact is like a beast, Sendoh’s organization is rock-solid, and there’s also a red-haired guy who’s incredibly good at rebounding…”

He paused, looking at the scoreboard: “It’s not that Shoyo is weak; it’s that Ryonan is too strong. Any other team facing this Ryonan might not do better than Shoyo. I even think Kainan wouldn’t make it!”

The surrounding discussions gradually quieted down.

Someone subconsciously looked towards the Ryonan bench. Gu Jin was leaning back in his chair, wiping sweat, his eyes calmly fixed on the tactics board. Fukuda was gesticulating excitedly next to him, saying something, while Sendoh was looking down, drinking water — the aura of that team indeed exuded a daunting pressure.

“It seems… that’s the case.” The boy who had just complained rubbed his nose, a little embarrassed, “Gu Jin’s breakthroughs, no matter who defends them, would probably be tough.”

“Exactly,” another person chimed in, “To push Shoyo to this extent, Ryonan is really going to soar this year.”

The discussions gradually changed, sarcasm turning into admiration.

When the whistle blew and both teams re-entered the court, the gazes from the stands held more apprehension towards Ryonan, and a nearly numb calm towards this vastly mismatched contest.

As soon as the second half whistle sounded, Shoyo’s offense came with a desperate intensity.

Fujima carried the ball past half-court, without hesitation, using Hanagata’s screen to directly penetrate the paint. Facing Uozumi’s block, he twisted his body in mid-air and threw the ball towards the rim — it went in, and he was fouled.

The free throw was successful, 24:52.

The Shoyo players didn’t retreat to defense; instead, they collectively roared towards the bench, as if to release all the frustration accumulated in the first half. But Ryonan’s response came even faster.

Gu Jin received the ball from the baseline, without even looking at the lunging Hasegawa, and delivered a precise long pass to Sendoh in the frontcourt.

Sendoh faked a layup, drawing Fujima’s help defense, then with a flick of his wrist, passed the ball to Sakuragi under the basket.

Sakuragi’s body was still shaking when he received the ball, but with brute force, he slammed the ball into the hoop. 54:24.

After landing, he excitedly pounded his chest and shouted, “My genius dunk is terrifying, isn’t it!”

The next ten minutes became Shoyo’s all-out struggle.

Fujima led his teammates in a frantic run, repeatedly attacking the basket. Hasegawa even pushed himself to exhaustion, yet still gritted his teeth to defend Gu Jin;

Hanagata abandoned his elegant hook shots, repeatedly using his body to battle Uozumi for rebounds.

They did manage to claw back a few points, but Ryonan’s rhythm was terrifyingly stable.

Gu Jin and Fukuda’s coordination was like precise gears. With just a look from Gu Jin, Fukuda knew which side to cut to;

Gu Jin would drive, drawing a double-team, and with a casual flick, the ball would always land in Fukuda’s hands, followed by a powerful dunk.

Sakuragi also seemed to have found his stride, his rebounding becoming more accurate, occasionally even scoring easy points under the basket with Gu Jin’s screens. Every time he scored, he would make a face at the Shoyo players, his smug expression more infuriating than any taunt.

88:42.

When Gu Jin once again, during a fast break, slammed the ball into the hoop over Nagano and Takano’s double defense, someone on the Shoyo bench finally hung their head.

Fujima leaned on his knees, panting, sweat blurring his vision. He watched the Ryonan players’ easy movements, watched Gu Jin’s calm high-fives with his teammates after scoring, and suddenly felt all his strength drained away.

They had gambled everything, pushed themselves to the limit, but that score difference was like an uncrossable chasm.

Timeout!

Takano slumped to the ground, gasping for air: “Coach… I can’t run anymore.”

Nagano’s shoulders were exhausted, even lifting his arm was difficult.

Hasegawa covered his tearful eyes with a towel, the light in them slowly dimming.

Takao Gi stood on the sidelines, the tactics board in his hand already deformed from being squeezed.

He knew that Shoyo had lost, not in tactics, but in the powerlessness of being unable to shake their opponent, no matter how hard they fought.

This feeling, more than any crushing defeat, could break a team’s will.

After the timeout, the game completely devolved into garbage time.

On the court, Gu Jin took the pass from Sendoh, looking at the panting Shoyo players opposite him, his eyes calm and unruffled.

He lightly tossed the ball towards the rim, a practice-like mid-range shot swishing through the net.

94:49.

The whistle blew, and the game ended.

Amidst the cheers in the gymnasium, the Shoyo players walked with their heads down towards the bench, their steps heavy as if filled with lead.

Fujima walked last, looking back at the scoreboard, and finally couldn’t help but smash his fist hard against the wall.

A sense of powerlessness, like a tide, completely engulfed them.