Kuroko no Basket: Honored One

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Thinking things through?

That wasn't Aomine's style. He was the kind of player who followed his instincts—free and unrestrained on the court.

And that was precisely what made him dangerous: there was no pattern to his moves.

"But why doesn't Tōō try passing the ball to someone else?"

If they couldn't break through Tendou, couldn't someone else on the team take over?

Let's not forget—Tōō had a top-tier strategist backing them up.

They at Seirin knew firsthand how deadly Momoi Satsuki's intel could be. If not for Kuroko, they would've been utterly crushed long before Aomine even stepped onto the court.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," said Kiyoshi Teppei, frowning slightly. "If his 'Six Eyes' ability is really as you say…"

"Then the entire court is already under Tendou's control. A random pass now…"

"…will absolutely be intercepted," Riko finished, her tone heavy.

That meant that to beat Kirisaki Daiichi, there was no way around Tendou.

With that kind of speed—and eyes that could track every player's movement and rhythm on the court…

Teamwork was meaningless in front of him.

The realization was devastating.

"In other words, right now, Tōō can only place their faith in their ace—Aomine Daiki!"

Faith?

Aomine wasn't thinking about any of that. The only thing in his mind right now was Tendou—his opponent.

His current state had risen to 97%, and he was about to reach 100% of his potential.

In other words, he was nearing his limit.

If he still couldn't beat Tendou after going all-out—then this match was already lost.

"It's been a long time since I've had to wrack my brain just to beat someone," Aomine thought, without a trace of fear.

He launched himself at Tendou again.

This was how he'd always played.

If he couldn't win, he'd keep attacking—until the opponent went down.

Once he beat that person, he'd go find someone even stronger. Just like a honey badger that never backs down.

Bit by bit, battle after battle, that's how he'd become the ace of the Generation of Miracles.

"TENDOU!"

He roared as he surged forward, faster and fiercer than ever.

His movement was impossibly complex—like an endless slideshow of shifting frames—making it almost impossible to track.

"I told you to stop yelling," Tendou said calmly, opening both eyes wide to capture every motion.

Then—

"Cleave!"

He let out a low call as his arm slipped through Aomine's blinding afterimages and found the real body.

"Not a chance!" Aomine snapped, slapping the ball downward and narrowly avoiding the steal.

But just as he tried to seize the opportunity to charge into the paint…

He froze in shock—Tendou's arm swept out like lightning, smashing the ball out of bounds with a clean, explosive motion.

"If 'Dismantle' is a slash that ends the battle in one strike—then 'Cleave' is an endless severing. It won't stop until the opponent is cut down."

Yagyū Jūdai had already expected it.

The old man sank into memories again—and the production team animated the flashback for the broadcast.

They showed eleven-year-old Tendou gripping a wooden sword, relentlessly slashing at Yagyū again and again like a torrential downpour.

"Tch!" Aomine immediately spun around.

Because he'd already seen it—Tendou was signaling for the ball without even looking back.

A moment later, unbelievably, the ball dropped obediently into his hand.

He had fully taken control of the court—able to anticipate everything that would happen.

The two clashed again.

Sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right—but never stopping for even a moment.

Harasawa Katsunori knew this much: Tendou had already foreseen Aomine's every move and was positioning himself perfectly in response.

In the blink of an eye, Tendou, glowing faintly with white light, dove straight into the paint.

Aomine went all-out on defense, his body moving in strange, unpredictable forms to block him—just like his signature chaotic playing style.

"Cleave."

Tendou whispered again, instantly shifting into a ferocious display of dribbling and cuts.

Aomine felt as if he were being surrounded by a storm of blades, slashing toward him from every direction, threatening to consume him.

Two seconds later, Tendou slammed the ball down and, in one fluid motion, launched past Aomine's left flank.

Aomine didn't even react—he just stood there.

"Aomine couldn't even react?" Kise's pupils trembled.

This was the same Aomine Daiki who'd crushed the entire junior high league—how could someone blow past him so effortlessly?

"That wasn't a delay in reaction," Midorima said, his expression no calmer than Kise's.

"Aomine's court sense and instincts are the sharpest among us."

"Even the slightest contact, and he can read the ball's trajectory."

His instincts were second to none. His sense of the game—unmatched.

That's what allowed him to shoot from any position, in any form, and still land the basket.

There was no move in this world that Aomine couldn't respond to.

"Which means there's only one answer," Kasamatsu Yukio muttered, eyes narrowing.

"Tendou broke his balance—he disrupted Aomine's center of gravity."

"Disrupted the center of gravity… of a small forward?" Kise looked at Aomine's beast-like coordination and physique. How difficult would that be?

But then he remembered Tendou's absurd dribbling and driving style… and he was left speechless.

"This is insane," Mizuhashi muttered in front of the screen. "At this rate, who could even stop Tendou?"

What did he see?

Only the sound of slashes—slow at first, then faster and faster.

The screen went black.

Then came the sound effects: "Shua, shua-shua, swoosh swoosh—"

And finally, the entire darkened screen was shredded apart.

By the time they returned to the action, Tendou had already broken through.

BOOM!

Tendou threw down another dunk.

Without anyone realizing it, the score gap had widened to double digits.

Tōō was in deeper trouble than ever before.

"A monster like this… do we really have any hope of beating him?" murmured one of the players, voice trembling.

Harasawa Katsunori had called a timeout—not to draw up plays, but just to let them catch their breath.

He'd already noticed that the players on Kirisaki Daiichi weren't even trying to interfere with the duel—they were conserving their stamina.

Which could only mean one thing: the Zone wasn't without flaws. Its biggest weakness… might be stamina.

Once both players were forced out of the Zone—that would be Tōō's moment to strike back.

But until then, they had to make sure the score gap didn't grow too large.

"My strategies aren't the problem," Harasawa thought grimly. "The question is—how do we keep the game from slipping too far?"

Aomine hadn't scored in a while now.

He had tried everything—but Tendou's airtight defense gave him no opening.