The scoreboard blinked 58–52.

Easton still held the lead, but the pulse of Seiryō's team had grown stronger. Sweat dripped from foreheads, lungs burned, yet the energy in the gym had shifted. The first half had proven something: Marcus's "Pulse" could rise to meet the Watchtower—but now the question loomed.

Could they sustain it?

The whistle pierced through the air. Third quarter.

Easton inbounded cleanly, their movement sharp and mechanical.

Sho Amakusa caught the ball near half-court, chin up, eyes cutting through the defense like light through glass. He was calm—terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that spoke of complete control, of someone who had already seen every outcome before it happened.

"Formation Sigma," Sho said quietly, almost conversationally.

But that one word was enough.

Easton shifted instantly—five bodies moving like gears in a machine. Ajax slipped baseline, Orson screened high, Mori rotated into the post. Itsuki lingered just outside the arc, golden eyes half-lidded, reading. Watching. Waiting.

Sho's movements weren't fast, but they carried weight. The way his shoulders rolled, the way his dribble tapped in rhythm—it set a tempo everyone followed. He wasn't just leading; he was conducting.

Marcus watched him closely, brows furrowed.

He'd studied Sho before. The way he spoke, the way he controlled the floor without shouting. Marcus had fire, passion, rhythm. Sho had command, presence, silence. Maybe that's what he lacked.

If I can lead like that… maybe we can control this game too.

Sho passed the ball, cutting into space. Ajax curled around, received, and drove. A fake. A spin. Layup.

60–52.

The crowd erupted into a storm of noise, banners waving from Easton's section.

Marcus's pulse drummed louder, each beat echoing in his chest like thunder.

He turned to his teammates. "Formation 2–Cross!" he shouted, mimicking Sho's authority. His voice cut across the noise like a blade. "Follow my lead! Keep spacing tight!"

Riku nodded quickly. "Got it, captain!"

Daichi adjusted his headband. "Let's go!"

They moved fast—Marcus at the top, Kento setting a screen, Shunjin cutting wide. On the surface, it looked controlled. Commanding. Like Sho's formation. But underneath, something was… off.

The rhythm was wrong.

Shunjin hesitated a beat too long.

Kento misread Marcus's cue and set the screen too high.

Riku shifted before Marcus passed, colliding slightly with Daichi.

The ball bobbled, nearly stolen.

Marcus's dribble faltered. "Riku! Stay right! Don't move till I—"

"Then call it faster!" Riku snapped, recovering defensively.

Easton's bench noticed. Sho didn't need to say a word. Itsuki stepped up, eyes glowing faintly gold. He moved like a predator, intercepting Marcus's pass mid-air, and launched it forward to Ajax. Slam dunk.

62–52.

Coach Aoyama slammed her clipboard. "Marcus! Stop trying to be Sho!"

Marcus froze mid-step, her voice slicing through the chaos.

"Leadership isn't imitation! You're breaking your own rhythm!"

He clenched his jaw, eyes darting to the scoreboard. He could feel it—the Pulse stuttering. The beat he'd built with his team for months was collapsing under the weight of his own forced control.

Shunjin ran past him, whispering, "You're thinking too much. Just play, Marcus."

But he couldn't. He had to fix it. He had to lead.

"Again! Formation Cross! Follow me!" he barked.

The team obeyed—but it wasn't obedience born of trust. It was hesitation. Fear. The movements were rigid, predictable. Easton saw it instantly.

Sho motioned once, and Itsuki reacted before the ball even moved. He slipped into Seiryō's lane, reading Marcus's next pass. The golden aura around him flickered brighter—his Watchtower vision locking onto every player's rhythm, dissecting it like an algorithm.

Another turnover.

Another layup.

64–52.

The crowd's roar grew thunderous. The gym lights felt hotter. Every sound—the squeak of sneakers, the slam of the ball, the whistle's echo—gnawed at Marcus's focus.

He looked up. Sho's calm eyes met his.

And Sho smiled—not arrogantly, but knowingly. As if to say, You're trying to lead my way. But you're not me.

Marcus bit his lip. I can lead like you… I just need more control.

But the harder he pushed, the worse it got. Passes slowed. The spacing collapsed. Kento looked frustrated, Riku slammed a fist into his palm, and even Shunjin's expression darkened.

Timeout.

Coach Aoyama called it before the damage got worse.

The team huddled near the bench, sweat dripping, chests heaving. The crowd's noise faded into a low hum, replaced by the harsh sound of their breathing.

Marcus sat down heavily, towel draped over his neck. His hands trembled slightly. He'd never felt this lost.

Coach Aoyama didn't yell right away. She just looked at him—hard, disappointed, but not cruel. "Marcus. You're playing like someone else."

"I just thought—if I controlled the rhythm—"

"Controlled?" She slammed her marker against the clipboard. "You're choking your team! The Pulse isn't about control—it's about connection! You're forcing it!"

Riku exhaled sharply. "Yeah, Captain… we're reacting to you, not with you."

Kento nodded grimly. "Feels like we're puppets right now."

Marcus stared at the floor, guilt twisting his gut. "I… I thought that's what leaders do. Command."

Shunjin threw his towel down. "Not like that. You're Sho's opposite, Marcus! You make us feel the game, not calculate it!"

The silence that followed was heavy. The squeak of shoes from the court outside sounded distant, almost mocking. The once-bright energy of Seiryō felt dimmed.

Coach Aoyama turned toward the assistant coach. "Yuuto, start warming up."

Marcus's head snapped up. "Wait—Coach—!"

"If this keeps up, we'll lose our first game of the season." Her tone was steel. "You're not benched. But you need help. Yuuto will run point."

Yuuto, who had been stretching quietly on the sidelines, stood up and nodded. Calm, confident, collected. The team's secondary point guard—and the best sharpshooter off the bench.

Marcus's stomach twisted. "I can fix it, Coach. Just give me one more—"

"Marcus," she said gently, "sometimes leading means stepping back. Let your team breathe."

The whistle blew. Timeout over.

Easton's players gathered midcourt again, their focus unshaken. Sho clapped his hands once. "Stay sharp. Don't let the Pulse breathe."

Seiryō returned to the floor. Marcus glanced at the scorer's table—and there was Yuuto, stepping forward, jersey untucked, expression calm as a blade.

The horn buzzed. Substitution.

Riku came off, frustrated but understanding. "Finish it, Marcus."

Yuuto jogged in. "Got it." He bumped Marcus's shoulder. "Don't worry about Itsuki. I got him. Just… stop following Sho."

Marcus blinked, chest still tight. "What?"

Yuuto smirked, faint but confident. "You've been trying to be someone else. That's not leadership—that's imitation. You don't lead by controlling. You lead by trusting."

Marcus looked away, jaw clenching.

The ref handed Yuuto the ball. The announcer's voice boomed:

"Easton leads by six! Can Seiryō close the gap?"

Yuuto dribbled slowly, crossing half-court. His movement was smooth, measured, confident. He didn't force the tempo—he created it. Each bounce of the ball felt steady, assured, natural. The crowd began to quiet, sensing something had changed.

Marcus moved to the wing. Shunjin rotated baseline. Daichi set up near the post.

Yuuto called softly, "Daichi. Marcus. Ready?"

Marcus nodded once, still uncertain—but something about Yuuto's tone grounded him. It wasn't commanding. It was calm. Trusting.

Yuuto passed to Marcus at the arc. Marcus held it, hesitated—then passed back. Yuuto caught, stepped back behind the line.

Itsuki's golden eyes narrowed. "Don't even think about—"

Too late.

Yuuto rose. The motion was effortless. The ball left his fingertips and traced a perfect arc through the air. The gym seemed to hold its breath.

Swish.

64–55.

The crowd exploded.

The sound of the net snapping felt like thunder cracking open the tension that had been suffocating Seiryō.

Marcus blinked, then smiled faintly. "Nice shot."

Yuuto turned, eyes burning with quiet fire. "That's how it starts, Captain. Your rhythm. Not Sho's."

The next possession, Yuuto directed traffic with hand signals instead of shouting. His passes flowed like water—crisp, simple, freeing. Marcus moved without overthinking, his feet lighter, his eyes sharper. Shunjin's cuts found space again. Kento's screen timing returned. Daichi battled down low with renewed energy.

Sho frowned slightly, sensing the shift. The mechanical perfection of Easton's rhythm began to meet resistance—not chaos, but emotion. The Pulse was returning, faint but alive.

Marcus caught Yuuto's look mid-play—a silent nod. Trust.

He took a breath, stepped into his rhythm, and drove. Itsuki tried to shadow him, but Marcus's feet danced differently now—quicker, smoother, instinctive. He spun off the screen, elevated, and released.

The ball sailed, kissed the rim, and dropped through.

64–57.

Coach Aoyama's lips curved into a small smile. The Pulse hadn't died. It had just been suffocated.

The final seconds of the third quarter ticked away, the gym echoing with heartbeats and heavy breaths. Seiryō's rhythm had returned not perfect, not flawless but alive.

Marcus exhaled, sweat tracing down his face as he met Yuuto's gaze across the court.

They didn't need words anymore. The Pulse was back, steady and strong.

Sho glanced over, his calm finally cracking as a faint smile tugged his lips.

"So… you found it again," he murmured.

Marcus tightened his armband, eyes blazing. "No," he whispered, voice steady. "We never lost it."

The buzzer blared—

Fourth quarter awaited.

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