"Hehehe... we got you," Reiji smirked, glancing sideways at Dirga like a hunter admiring the snare tightening around its prey.
"He'll adjust," Asahi replied coolly, arms crossed, voice flat. No gloating. Just certainty.
"So, what now?" Tsukasa asked, bouncing the ball softly, eyes already scanning for the next move.
Asahi didn't blink. "We widen the lead. Make it too far for comfort. Then we go back to our usual strategy."
He turned toward them—calm, merciless.
"We don't just win. We break teams. We crush the brain first."
There was no laughter now. Not even from Reiji.
Because they knew: Asahi's tactics were never loud. Never flashy.
Just rhythm.
A subtle shift in tempo. A nudge in timing. A delay in movement. He didn't need to outplay Dirga. He just needed to manipulate the lens through which Dirga saw the game.
And Dirga?
He was the lens. The tempo reader. The one who saw the court as a song.
So Asahi changed the tune—bar by bar—until even the conductor lost the beat.
