Aomine had just landed when he turned and saw Tendou striking a victorious pose.
He said nothing—but he could feel it, the blood in his chest starting to boil.
How long had it been?
Since he'd felt this way—like every drop of blood in his body was on fire?
That tension. That pressure. That desperate desire for the game to never end, to keep playing forever.
It was all driving him forward, pushing him to run harder, to perform better.
"Yes! That's how it should be, Tendou!"
"This is the kind of game I've been longing for!"
Imayoshi had just taken the inbound pass from Wakamatsu when—bam—Aomine stole it from him.
He ran faster, his movements more chaotic and unpredictable.
"You talk like this is the kind of match you want—but if you're so eager to lose, shouldn't you be used to that feeling by now?"
"After all, you've never beaten me. Not even once."
Tendou caught up immediately, using his body to pressure Aomine.
"That was the old me. I'm stronger now!"
"Losing is still losing. You lost before—and you'll lose again."
Aomine's state had clearly leveled up.
Tendou could feel it—Aomine was now just a step or two away from entering Zone.
"This bastard... he's unlocked over 80% of his restraints just because of this match?" Tendou frowned.
In response, he stopped focusing on just one part of his body—and instead let every part rise together.
He too broke past 80%, heading straight toward the 90% performance threshold.
Normally, players can only tap into about 80% of their true potential during games.
But there are always exceptions.
Just look at the NBA—how many times has a 14-point-per-game guy suddenly dropped 30 or 40?
Fans called it going "Super Saiyan" or catching fire.
Clearly, Aomine was in that state today.
Maybe it was because he'd spent days preparing for this game.
Maybe it was the extensive pregame warm-up.
Maybe he'd just waited too damn long for a worthy opponent.
Either way—he had exploded.
This was, hands down, the best condition he'd ever been in during high school.
But Tendou wasn't worried.
He could enter that same state—a full-body, high-frequency firing of every cell.
Not quite the true Zone, but close. Call it the "Mini-Zone."
It wasn't as powerful, but it consumed less energy. The trade-off? Less time and less sustainability.
The problem was, when a player entered this state...
They wouldn't stop running.
Wouldn't stop playing.
And wouldn't feel tired—until it was too late.
...
"Are they… faster now?" Koganei rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was imagining things.
"Not just faster—their offense and defense have leveled up!" Hyūga was stunned. His glasses reflected only raw disbelief.
What kind of battle was this?
They'd never seen anything like it.
"This is who they really are…" Kagami clenched his fists so hard, his palms turned white.
Neither Aomine nor Tendou had treated him like a rival.
He felt like a blade of grass on the side of the road—utterly irrelevant to these two monsters.
And yet—
"Even like this… is it still not enough to defeat Tendou Kageyoshi?"
Wakamatsu couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Aomine had been pushed to his absolute limits—awakened his Wild Instinct, reached his highest form since entering high school.
And still—he couldn't break Tendou.
"What the hell is that guy?!"
He raged internally.
Right now, forget stepping in—he didn't even have the nerve to look directly at them.
The sound of sneakers scraping the court rang out in harsh bursts.
Aomine tried to break through and get to Kirisaki's basket, but Tendou never let him inside the arc.
No one dared come within two meters of them. Anyone in their path scrambled to move—no one wanted to become collateral damage.
Momoi stood frozen on the bench.
Her childhood friend... was smiling.
Just like when they were little.
Back when Aomine faced a worthy opponent, he couldn't stop himself from smiling in excitement.
That familiar feeling—it was really back again.
And Tendou?
His expression never changed. Calm. Focused.
Just like in their Teikō days—relentless, unwavering, unwilling to give an inch.
"TENDOU!!" Aomine roared, slamming the ball to the left while leaning his body to the right.
Tendou hesitated—just a split-second of processing time.
But that was all Aomine needed.
He lunged, grabbed the ball, and dove rightward with his full body behind it.
"Shut up already. Stop yelling like a damn kid." Tendou rotated, launching his left arm like a spear.
It sliced through Aomine's swirling footwork, aiming to slap the ball away.
But Aomine did something unexpected.
Iron Body Slam.
He leaned in and used his own mass to physically push Tendou back, narrowly avoiding the steal.
"You're the one who said it—basketball is a battlefield," he muttered, then stormed into Kirisaki's paint without looking back.
But Tendou wasn't done.
He chased him down, leapt with him—and snuck in a sharp elbow to Aomine's ribs mid-air.
The pain hit instantly.
Aomine's hand slipped. The layup bricked wide—airball.
"You son of a—are you trying to kill me?!"
Aomine was livid. He landed hard and turned to confront Tendou, face twisted in rage.
His chest was burning—it hurt like hell.
"You think I hit you?" Tendou casually raised a hand.
His elbow shot had been subtle—but the ref wasn't blind.
There was no way Teikō's former ace would airball a wide-open layup.
And Kirisaki's "reputation" was no secret either.
So even without seeing it clearly, the ref called a defensive foul on Tendou.
"Even now, he still won't admit it…" Momoi thought, her heart pounding.
"Even if they start a fight mid-game, neither of them will ever back down."
Someone noticed Momoi's eyes were red.
"Hey… are you crying?"
"Me?" She touched her cheek and realized—yes, tears were running down her face.
She wiped them quickly, then smiled through her tears.
"I'm not crying…"
"I'm just… really happy right now."
"Basketball is the simplest and most direct way to communicate."
...
At home, Shirogane Kōzō sat watching the game on TV with a soft smile.
"Human relationships can be so complicated," he said gently.
"Even two people who sleep in the same bed may have secrets and struggles they can't share."
"But basketball? It's pure."
"Through the game, you can always convey your truest thoughts to the person on the other side."
He looked pleased—like a father watching his child finally grow up.
But then his wife, hearing his words, frowned deeply and muttered,
"So... are you saying you're secretly cheating on me, you old goat?"
Shirogane Kōzō: "…"