2:3.
After that ridiculous goaltending call against Teikō, they quickly flipped the momentum and took the lead.
The boys of Kaisei Middle School were instantly drowned out by deafening boos from the stands.
They thought Tendou Kageyoshi was way too full of himself. Every time he scored, he had to throw in a little strut and head bob. What's next—chewing on his mouthguard just for show?
One possession later, Tendou pulled up from beyond the arc again.
Ichize Junjin and his teammates didn't even jump. They just raised their hands, thinking that would be enough to contest.
This generation didn't respect the three-point shot. Most players, when met with a hand up, would lose their rhythm.
But Tendou answered with a dagger, sinking a heart-piercing three to let them know—your so-called defense doesn't mean squat to me.
The basketball "experts" scoffed at Tendou's wild shooting style.
Even if you got lucky and hit a couple of threes, could you really keep that up?
According to stats from last year's national middle school tournament, the top three-point shooter only averaged 2 to 3 threes per game.
That's just 8 to 10 points per match—not nearly enough to win a game.
Players like Tendou Kageyoshi, with that reckless style? Total heresy in their eyes.
Go take a mid-range jumper. Attack the paint. That's what "real" basketball players were supposed to do.
But then—
On his third possession, Tendou pulled up from the exact same spot and drilled his third consecutive three-pointer.
The Kaisei coach shot up from his seat, completely losing his cool.
Because after that opening call, Kaisei had failed to score on two straight possessions.
Meanwhile, Tendou?
3-for-3 from deep.
In under two minutes, he had pushed Teikō to a 7-point lead.
"Don't give him space! Double him!" the Kaisei coach finally stopped underestimating this pretty-boy sharpshooter.
And he began to wonder—where the hell did Shirogane Kōzō find a guy like this?
Last year's best shooter in the entire national tournament had only averaged 2.7 threes per game.
Tendou?
He just nailed three in the first two minutes.
If that's not a sniper, what is?
Ichize Junjin and his teammates nodded grimly. They finally started to respect Tendou's range.
Next play, Tendou caught the ball at the three-point line, and Kaisei's defenders lunged at him like rabid dogs.
"Been waiting for that."
Just as the double team crashed down, Tendou accelerated.
Using his powerful frame, he bulldozed past one of the defenders and charged straight into the paint.
The big man hesitated, because Tendou kept glancing at Murasakibara—as if he might dish it off. The moment of indecision was all Tendou needed.
With no hesitation, he exploded upward and scooped the ball into the basket.
11 straight points.
Kaisei's double teams were completely ineffective.
And on their own offensive end, Ichize had been forced to pass the ball every time thanks to Tendou's relentless defense. His teammates—role players—just couldn't convert consistently.
It wasn't that Ichize was making bad decisions. It was just… they weren't effective.
The game was slipping out of Kaisei's hands.
Analysts quickly caught on to what was happening.
In past seasons, Ichize was always the spearhead—the finisher—receiving setups from teammates.
Now? The roles had flipped. Teikō was deliberately giving space to the other players while locking Ichize down.
And while Ichize's passes were logical, his teammates simply weren't built for this kind of burden.
Suddenly, all eyes turned to Tendou Kageyoshi.
His offense had been so dominant—sinking absurd three after absurd three—that people had forgotten just how terrifying his defense was.
Quietly, without fanfare, Tendou had forced Ichize to pass the ball four straight times. The guy couldn't even get a clean look.
Ichize was feeling it.
Tendou's defense was absolutely suffocating.
It wasn't even rough or dirty—it was smooth, elegant, clean to the point that Ichize couldn't even complain.
But that made it even more frustrating.
"This can't go on," Ichize gritted his teeth. "If we keep playing like this, we're going to lose for sure."
No more passing.
This time, he decided to break through Tendou's defense with brute force.
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of their one-on-one showdown.
Ichize began his dance—crossover, inside-out, behind the back, dribbling with everything he had.
Left, right, left again. His control over the ball was near-perfect.
Finally, he saw a gap.
Boom—he took off, driving hard toward the paint.
At that moment, the shot transitioned—zooming into Tendou's face, then fading to black.
The screen stayed dark for a heartbeat—
Then—
SHINK!
A silver arc slashed through the darkness like a blade, tearing the scene open.
When the screen returned, the first thing the audience saw—
Ichize's face.
Shocked. Horrified. Disbelieving.
Then—
Tendou's face.
Confident. Smirking. Effortlessly cool.
He streaked past Ichize like a blur.
It wasn't that he was moving slowly—this was just animation slow-motion, to show the audience how clean his move was.
And then—
BOOM.
A vicious dunk.
13 points.
Tendou Kageyoshi was on fire.
Why?
Because his skill ceiling was just higher.
Because up to this point, he hadn't even faced any real pressure.
Kaisei's double-teams looked fierce on paper, but they had no bite.
Their contact was weak. No hard fouls. No momentum-breaking plays.
Tendou had been calm, composed, and completely in control the entire game.
And so, what the crowd saw was Kaisei sending two or even three defenders at him…
And Tendou still scoring highlight after highlight.
Funny thing was—those same experts who had just slammed Tendou's style?
Now they were criticizing Ichize instead.
"Why isn't he being more aggressive?"
"Why doesn't he take over like Tendou?"
"Why keep passing to scrubs who miss?"
They wanted Ichize to stop being so rational.
But the truth?
Ichize had tried.
Every time he drove, Tendou stole the ball without mercy.
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