The arena was still buzzing when play resumed.

Not cheering.

Not chanting.

A low, restless hum—like everyone was holding their breath.

Marcus rolled his shoulders as he jogged into position, jaw tight, pulse steadying. The Dragon's roar still echoed in his ears—not the dunk, not the score, but the message behind it.

That wasn't a play.

That was hierarchy.

Yuuto bounced the ball once at the baseline before inbounding, eyes briefly meeting Marcus's.

They didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

Hakuro reset on defense like nothing monumental had just happened.

And that was when Marcus felt it.

Hiroto Mae shifted in front of him—stance low, feet light, arms loose.

Waiting.

Not chasing.

Not reacting.

Just… ready.

Marcus narrowed his eyes.

So you're the real problem.

Everyone had come into this game talking about Ryu Kazen.

The red aura. The unblinking eyes. The king at the top of the court.

But Marcus knew better now.

Ryu controlled the flow.

Hiroto controlled you.

Yuuto brought the ball up slowly, scanning. Shunjin drifted to the weak side, Daniel hovered near the top.

Marcus cut hard toward the wing.

Hiroto mirrored him instantly.

No delay.

No stumble.

Marcus changed speed—fast to slow, slow to sudden burst.

Hiroto stayed glued.

Marcus tried again, this time faking high and cutting baseline.

Hiroto slid, sealing the angle before Marcus could even plant.

"…Tch."

Marcus stopped, palms open.

He wasn't being locked down.

He was being guided.

Yuuto noticed it too.

Every time Marcus moved, Hiroto wasn't denying the pass.

He was denying the next action.

Yuuto swung the ball to Shunjin.

Marcus stayed patient, repositioning, eyes sharp.

Hiroto stayed between him and the ball—not tight enough to foul, not loose enough to attack.

Perfect distance.

Shunjin drove.

Marcus cut to the rim.

For half a second, Hiroto hesitated.

Marcus felt it.

Now.

Yuuto threaded the pass.

Marcus caught, rose—

And Hiroto was already there.

Chest-to-chest.

Vertical.

Clean.

Marcus released anyway.

Clang.

The rebound bounced long.

Ryu collected it without effort.

Hakuro transitioned.

This time, Marcus didn't jog back.

He hunted.

He matched Hiroto stride for stride, cutting off the lane, body angled, eyes locked.

Hiroto slowed.

Smiled faintly.

Then passed.

Not flashy.

Not forced.

Just efficient.

Hakuro reset again.

Marcus exhaled through his nose.

This isn't offense vs defense.

This is restraint vs restraint.

On the next possession, Yuuto deliberately cleared the side.

"Marcus," he called quietly.

Marcus nodded.

Isolation.

Hiroto stepped up, feet wider now.

The crowd leaned in.

Marcus dribbled once.

Twice.

No crossover.

No theatrics.

Just reading.

Hiroto's eyes never left Marcus's hips.

Marcus feinted right.

Hiroto slid.

Marcus pulled back.

Hiroto stayed balanced.

Marcus accelerated—

Hiroto cut him off.

Marcus stopped on a dime, pivoted, spun—

Hiroto recovered, arms high, body square.

Five seconds passed.

Nothing gained.

Nothing lost.

The whistle didn't blow.

The crowd murmured.

Marcus passed out.

As he jogged back, Hiroto spoke for the first time.

"You don't rush," Hiroto said calmly.

Marcus glanced at him.

"Neither do you."

Hiroto nodded once.

Acknowledgment.

Hakuro brought the ball up again.

This time, Ryu didn't initiate.

He waved Hiroto forward.

Marcus felt the shift instantly.

Hiroto took the ball at the top.

No aura.

No pressure display.

Just presence.

Marcus dropped into stance, heart steady.

So that's it.

Not a shadow.

Not a lieutenant.

A king in his own right.

Hiroto drove left.

Marcus slid.

Hiroto stopped, pivoted, tested.

Marcus stayed grounded.

Hiroto passed.

Cut.

Marcus followed.

No separation.

No advantage.

Just resistance.

The ball swung back to Ryu.

Ryu glanced at the two of them, then smiled.

Interesting.

He let the possession play out.

Haruto took the shot.

Miss.

Rebound—Seiryō.

For the first time since the Dragon, Hakuro didn't convert immediately.

Marcus clenched his fist once as he ran back.

That's it.

We can hold.

Yuuto met his eyes.

"I see it," Yuuto said.

"They're not untouchable," Marcus replied.

"But they're layered."

Another possession.

Another duel.

Marcus chased Hiroto through screens, over cuts, under handoffs.

Hiroto never forced the ball.

Never panicked.

Never disappeared.

Every step he took was deliberate.

By the end of the quarter, Marcus's legs burned—but his mind was sharper than ever.

The scoreboard still favored Hakuro.

But the gap felt… different now.

Not invisible.

Not abstract.

Something you could measure.

As the buzzer sounded, Marcus bent forward, hands on knees.

Hiroto stood beside him, breathing steady.

"You figured it out," Hiroto said quietly.

Marcus looked up.

"This isn't Ryu's court," Hiroto continued. "It's Hakuro's."

Marcus straightened.

"And you're one of its kings."

Hiroto didn't deny it.

He just turned and walked toward his bench.

Marcus watched him go, resolve hardening in his chest.

They thought they'd only have to deal with a ruler.

But this was a Sky King school.

And to survive—

Seiryō would have to challenge every throne on the court.

The first true defensive duel had begun.

But it didn't stop there.

The second quarter opened without ceremony.

No speeches. No dramatic cuts.

Just basketball—stripped bare.

Marcus wiped his palms on his shorts as he stepped back onto the court. His legs still burned from chasing Hiroto through screens and ghost cuts, but the burn was familiar now. Honest. Manageable.

Across from him, Hiroto adjusted his wristband.

No eye contact.

No intimidation.

Just readiness.

Yuuto inbounded and brought the ball up, slower than before. The Dragon had scorched the court, but now the game had cooled into something sharper—something surgical.

Hakuro didn't press.

They didn't need to.

Ryu stood a few steps behind Hiroto, watching.

Not intervening.

Observing.

Marcus caught that.

So this is a test for both of us.

Yuuto motioned for a set, but Marcus waved it off.

Clear side.

The ball swung to him at the wing.

Hiroto stepped forward.

Same distance as before.

Same angle.

Same patience.

Marcus dribbled once, eyes level—not at the ball, not at Hiroto's hands.

At his feet.

Hiroto shifted weight minutely.

Marcus drove.

Hiroto slid.

Marcus stopped, shoulder brushing Hiroto's chest—not enough to foul, just enough to feel resistance.

They held there for a heartbeat.

Marcus pivoted, spun baseline—

Hiroto cut him off again.

Marcus kicked the ball out instead of forcing it.

Smart.

Daniel shot.

Miss.

Rebound—Ren.

Hakuro flowed into transition again, but this time Seiryō matched pace.

No panic.

No scrambling.

Marcus stayed attached to Hiroto, shadowing every step, refusing to give him even a passing lane.

Hiroto noticed.

He slowed.

Changed direction.

Marcus followed.

They collided lightly at the elbow—nothing malicious, just presence.

Hiroto glanced at him sideways.

"…You're adjusting faster than before."

Marcus didn't respond.

He didn't need to.

Hakuro reset into half-court.

Ryu held the ball now, eyes scanning. He looked toward Hiroto, then toward Marcus.

Something unreadable passed through his gaze.

He waved Hiroto to the weak side.

Fine.

Let's see something else.

Ryu attacked.

Yuuto stepped up.

The two collided in motion—vision against vision.

Marcus felt it behind him, the pressure shift, the moment the game leaned forward.

Ryu slipped past Yuuto, kicked out—

Haruto shot.

Swish.

Hakuro Academy — 20.

Efficient.

Merciless.

Marcus clenched his jaw.

They can score without Ryu leading the charge.

That realization hit harder than any block.

This isn't about stopping one king.

It's about surviving a system built on them.

Seiryō inbounded again.

Yuuto shook out his arms, frustration flickering briefly before settling into focus.

Marcus moved without the ball, cutting sharper now—not to score, but to pull Hiroto.

Hiroto followed.

Always.

Yuuto noticed.

He drove opposite, using Marcus's movement as gravity.

It worked.

Yuuto got a lane.

Floater.

In.

Seiryō bench erupted—not loudly, but with relief.

Progress.

Marcus jogged back, chest rising and falling steadily.

Hiroto spoke again, low.

"You're not trying to beat me."

Marcus glanced over. "Neither are you."

Hiroto's lips curved faintly.

Another possession.

Another chase.

Marcus fought through a screen, shoulder brushing Ren's hip, legs screaming.

Hiroto looped around the arc, caught the ball briefly—

Marcus closed instantly.

Hiroto passed without hesitation.

No ego.

No stubbornness.

That was the terrifying part.

Hiroto wasn't trying to win the duel.

He was trying to make sure Hakuro always did.

Midway through the quarter, Coach Takeda shouted from the sideline.

"Marcus—stay on him!"

As if there was any other option.

Marcus nodded once.

Sweat dripped into his eyes now, vision blurring for half a second before he blinked it away.

Across the court, Hiroto looked exactly the same as he had at tip-off.

Breathing steady.

Movements clean.

Like this was his natural pace.

The ball swung again.

Hiroto caught it on the wing this time, body squared.

Marcus closed.

Hiroto jabbed.

Marcus didn't bite.

Hiroto jabbed again.

Marcus stayed grounded.

Then—Hiroto drove.

Not explosive.

Not sudden.

Just persistent.

Marcus slid, chest burning, feet scraping.

They reached the paint together.

Hiroto rose.

Marcus rose with him.

No block.

No foul.

Just pressure.

Hiroto released—

The ball kissed the rim.

Rolled.

And dropped out.

Miss.

The crowd gasped.

For the first time all game, Hiroto missed a shot he wanted.

Marcus landed, fists clenched, teeth grit.

He didn't celebrate.

He just turned and ran.

Ryu caught the rebound.

Paused.

Then passed out.

Reset.

He looked at Hiroto.

Just once.

Hiroto nodded.

Understood.

Even kings miss.

The game continued, possession after possession, neither side breaking—but the tone had shifted.

Seiryō wasn't drowning anymore.

They were swimming upstream.

And Hakuro felt it.

Not as threat.

As acknowledgement.

When the First quarter buzzer finally sounded, the arena exhaled.

Players bent over.

Hands on knees.

Sweat on hardwood.

Marcus straightened slowly, chest heaving.

Hiroto stood beside him again.

"You'll get tired first," Hiroto said calmly.

Marcus wiped his face.

"Maybe."

He met Hiroto's eyes.

"But you'll have to keep earning everything."

Hiroto smiled—not amused.

Respectful.

"That's enough."

They walked to their benches.

On Hakuro's side, Ryu watched Marcus for a long moment, blue eyes sharp.

"So that's Seiryō's anchor," he murmured.

Haruto crossed his arms. "He's not flashy."

Ryu nodded. "No."

A pause.

"But he's dangerous."

Across the court, Marcus sat down heavily, grabbing a towel, muscles aching—but his mind clear.

Yuuto dropped beside him.

"…We found it," Yuuto said quietly.

Marcus nodded.

"Yeah."

Not a weakness.

A truth.

This wasn't a one-king empire.

This was a court ruled by many.

And if Seiryō wanted to climb—

They'd have to survive every duel.

Marcus looked back toward Hiroto, who sat calmly, eyes forward.

King of the court.

Not crowned by points.

But by control.

The second half awaited.

And the duel—

Was far from over.

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