The point difference had grown to eight—a very delicate number.
One more basket, and their deficit would hit double digits.
The difference between a single-digit and double-digit gap lies mainly in mentality.
A team with a double-digit lead plays with less pressure, while the opponent often becomes more prone to impatience.
Especially in crucial matches, young players can struggle to maintain composure.
Seihō was already prepared to fight with their backs against the wall.
"Listen up, Kasuga, Tsugawa. I'm only giving you the last four-plus minutes."
"Coach..."
"Don't argue. What we must prioritize is securing our spot in the Nationals."
The Seihō coach had a clear head. He wouldn't let his players act recklessly.
He absolutely wouldn't let them burn all their stamina on a match with slim chances of victory.
If the point difference weren't this large, or if this were a game with some leeway, then sure—
He could shout something passionate like, "We are kings! Kings do not tolerate defilement!" to rouse his players' fighting spirit.
But this wasn't yet a do-or-die situation.
If they went all-out against Teikō and ended up losing their place in the Nationals because of it, that would be a true disgrace to the name Seihō had built as "kings."
History only remembers the victors.
If they failed to make it into Nationals this year, that blemish would stick.
In Seihō's not-so-long basketball history, there were only a handful of years they didn't make it to the Nationals.
Even if he didn't think his team had what it took to win it all this year, at the very least, he had little confidence facing Teikō.
But losing in Nationals and losing in the qualifiers were two very different deaths.
Losing in Nationals? You could say the opponent was too strong and you did your best.
Losing in qualifiers? That's a coaching failure.
If he gave up now, maybe some fans and players would grumble that he was being a coward.
But if they went down swinging and still lost their Nationals qualification, those same people would definitely blame him for being a fool—risking everything on an unwinnable game.
All in all, as a seasoned coach, he couldn't let that happen.
These final four minutes of the second quarter—this was Seihō's last shot.
If they couldn't close the gap to within two points or find a way to deal with Teikō's dual-core offense, they would pull out.
Seeing the dissatisfaction on his players' faces, he added, "Don't act like it's over. You still have four minutes. Believe in yourselves—just like I believe in you."
"Yeah!"
"We can win this!"
The Seihō boys' youthful memories of basketball—be it ten years or maybe just a couple—rushed to the surface and worked like self-hypnosis.
The coach was satisfied with their response, though deep down, he thought: Youngsters really are easy to talk into things.
In truth, he already believed they probably couldn't get past Teikō.
He couldn't find a way to deal with Teikō's dual-threat in such a short time.
But still, they had to give it a try—what if it worked?
...
The game resumed.
Tendou immediately noticed that Seihō had changed their defensive scheme again.
Maybe they now believed his destructive power was even greater than that of Nijimura Shūzō. Nijimura hadn't widened the gap alone, but Tendou had.
So now, Tendou was double-teamed again.
Tsugawa, meanwhile, was now marking Nijimura solo.
"So you're just straight-up telling me I'm not as threatening as Tendou, huh?" Nijimura thought grimly. Even Buddha gets mad sometimes.
He was Teikō's captain, damn it. Was he supposed to take that lying down?
Furious, he decided to attack.
But to his dismay, he realized the bald kid's defense wasn't for show. He could score—but not easily.
Tsugawa's suffocating defense would definitely drag down his efficiency.
You don't know until you try, and now he knew: Tendou's already this strong?
When Tendou had just joined, he'd been powerful—but not enough to threaten Nijimura.
Now, in just a month or two, he had already surpassed him.
"Damn it... You really are a total monster, Tendou."
Nijimura slapped the ball and launched a fierce pass.
At some point, a monster appeared in his field of view.
While most players didn't notice it, Tendou had already used off-ball movement to cut to the right side of the free-throw line.
Nijimura saw it. That was proof of his basketball IQ.
To see the monster was to see Tendou.
Tendou's expression remained unchanged. If he weren't watching the anime from the outside, he wouldn't know these guys had so many internal monologues when they played.
Receiving the pass, Tendou immediately faced the basket and drove.
He had already shaken off both defenders. With the monster's help, he broke through their trap.
Now, only the Polish center stood between him and the basket.
Help defense or stay put? The big man was caught in a dilemma.
He feared Tendou's passing. Behind him was Murasakibara Atsushi.
And Tendou's eyes were still locked in Murasakibara's direction, applying pressure.
"Damn it! I'm going all in!"
In the end, the Polish center made his move, lunging forward with a shout.
At the exact same moment, Tendou pretended to pass—his left hand snapping the ball to the side.
Seeing this, the big man cursed, shifting his weight and stretching out his right hand to intercept.
But just then, Tendou slapped the ball with his left hand, bouncing it to his right, and fluidly transitioned into a running floater.
Yet the Polish center refused to give in.
He jumped with everything he had, retracting his blocking arm mid-air and swinging it into a wide arc to contest the shot—a dramatic full-body recovery motion.
Tendou was briefly stunned.
Do all Polish centers love dramatic recoveries? It reminded him of a certain "Dark Lord."
But I'm the one attacking here!
Swish—
The ball kissed the glass and fell in.
The lead extended to double digits.
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