Miyagi Ryota walked toward the sideline with his head lowered.
Sweat dripped from his curly hair.
Beneath the shadow of his bangs, those eyes—usually blazing with fighting spirit—were now bloodshot.
His clenched fists trembled slightly, his nails digging deep into his palms.
In just that single minute, the speed he took such pride in had been trampled… toyed with… by a man named Fujima Kenji.
"Miyagi."
A hand suddenly entered his line of sight.
Miyagi paused, then looked up.
Makino Juro stood at the sideline, scratching his back with one hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His loose, lazy posture made it look less like he was stepping in to save the game—and more like he'd just pulled an all-nighter at an internet café and happened to pass by.
"Don't make that dead-face expression. It's ugly."
Makino Juro yawned, even squeezing out a couple of tears at the corners of his eyes.
"Go sit down and rest."
"And remember to chill my water. I'll want it later."
"I've got this."
Miyagi froze.
"…You damn master…"
His eyes suddenly burned hot.
He slapped Juro's outstretched hand hard, gritting his teeth.
"Go… kick that narcissist's ass for me!"
"Yeah, yeah. So noisy."
Makino Juro waved him off and turned, stepping onto the court.
The moment his feet touched the hardwood floor—
A cold mechanical voice exploded deep within his mind, instantly sweeping away all traces of drowsiness.
[Ding!]
[Kuroko Tetsuya Template — Activated]（Locked for this match）
[Skills Activated: Misdirection, Accelerated Pass, Vanishing Drive]
[Stamina Consumption: Normal]
[Attributes Panel]
[Dribbling 80, Passing 98, Steals 95, Basketball IQ 98]
[Mid-range 60, Three-point 55, Rebounds 40, Blocks 45]
[Strength 50, Speed 90, Stamina 65, Vertical 70]
[Skills Equipped: Misdirection, Accelerated Pass, Vanishing Drive]
In that instant, Makino Juro felt the world change.
The roaring crowd became muffled—like it was separated by frosted glass.
The power within his body didn't surge.
Instead… it sank.
Like a drop of ink dissolving into the deep sea—vanishing without a trace.
He glanced at the semi-transparent panel in the corner of his vision.
Some stats were even lower than his own.
"…This Kuroko build is seriously lopsided."
"Wait—no. It's just passing and steals. Speed's decent too."
But that was exactly what made it the perfect vessel for a "shadow."
A powerful body draws attention.
Mediocrity… is the ultimate camouflage.
"Makino Juro."
Akagi Takenori's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
The gorilla's face was dark, the pressure brought by Fujima weighing on every Shohoku player like a mountain.
"Fujima is yours."
"Whether we can stop Shoyo… depends on you."
Akagi stared hard at this usually lazy junior who gave him the most headaches.
"Got it."
The whistle blew.
Play resumed.
Shohoku 40 : 46 Shoyo.
A six-point gap.
Under Fujima Kenji's suffocating control of the game, it felt like an uncrossable chasm.
Makino Juro strolled casually to the top of the arc.
Across from him, Fujima held the ball one-handed, his gaze sharp as a blade as he directed his teammates.
Then..
Something strange happened.
Fujima's eyes swept over Akagi, over Rukawa, even paused briefly on Sakuragi—the loud redhead.
But...
He completely skipped over Makino Juro.
As if he were just a patch of floor.
A pocket of empty air.
"So this is Misdirection…"
Makino Juro looked down at his hands, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"As long as I don't act, to these high-level players… I might as well not exist."
He glanced at the mission panel.
[Shock Value: 650 / 1000]
"Still need 350 more for a draw."
A hint of annoyance flickered in his dead-fish eyes.
"What a hassle… I'm supposed to be a stealth assassin, and yet you want me to be the center of attention."
"If you can't see me…"
"Then let me show you something supernatural."
Shoyo possession.
Fujima advanced with the ball.
His movements were smooth, elegant—each dribble carrying a rhythm, like he was conducting a symphony.
"Fujima! Fujima! Fujima!"
The cheers from the stands thundered.
Fujima enjoyed it.
That feeling of being the center of attention.
His gaze swept forward, cold and composed.
"Where's that No. 16?"
A vague impression surfaced in his mind.
That newly substituted Shohoku guard—
Loose stance.
High center of gravity.
Arms hanging casually.
No defensive posture whatsoever.
Full of openings.
The thought lingered for less than 0.1 seconds.
Then was filtered out.
No threat.
No need for attention.
"Go past him."
Fujima moved.
No fancy crossover.
Just a simple eye fake—
Then an explosive first step.
Left-side drive!
"So fast!" Ayako gasped from the sideline.
Fujima's first step was lightning-quick, instantly slicing through the gap beside Makino Juro.
"He's past him!"
The crowd erupted.
Fujima thought the same.
His body had already cleared the defensive line.
Open space ahead.
The red rim beckoning.
Too easy.
The Shohoku substitute?
Nothing special.
A confident smile curled at Fujima's lips as he prepared to gather the ball and attack the basket—
And then...
His fingers met nothing.
The familiar touch of leather—
Gone.
"…Hm?"
Fujima's pupils shrank violently. His heart skipped a beat.
Where was the ball?
He was moving at full speed—
He had passed…
But the ball hadn't followed?
Impossible!
As Kanagawa's top point guard, a mistake like that was unthinkable!
Fujima slammed to a stop and turned his head.
And what he saw...
Was something he would never forget.
The No. 16 who should've been left behind—
Was still standing exactly where he had been.
Same posture.
Same lazy stance.
The only difference—
There was now an orange basketball in his hand.
Makino Juro held the ball casually with one hand, his half-lidded eyes calmly meeting Fujima's stunned expression.
"Senpai."
His lazy voice wasn't loud—but it pierced straight into Fujima's ears.
"You dropped your ball."
Silence.
Total silence.
As if someone had hit mute on a roaring opera mid-performance.
"W-What just happened?!"
"Did Fujima… lose the ball?!"
"He just handed it over?!"
In the stands, Kiyota Nobunaga gripped the railing, eyes nearly popping out.
"No."
Maki Shinichi's voice was terrifyingly low.
The King of Kanagawa had never looked this serious.
His gaze locked tightly onto that unremarkable No. 16.
"That wasn't a mistake."
"Fujima's rhythm didn't break. His dribble placement was perfect."
"It was that No. 16…"
"He took the ball at the exact moment Fujima started his move."
"But… I didn't even see when he reached for it," Jin Soichiro frowned.
"…Neither did I."
Maki took a slow breath, a chill lacing his voice.
"That guy… cut off his own 'presence.'"
"Fujima thought he passed through empty space…"
"But in reality, he ran straight into an invisible net."
Ryonan bench.
Sendoh Akira, who had been lounging lazily, suddenly sat upright.
For the first time—
The smile in his eyes faded, replaced by something serious.
"…Interesting."
"A ghost, huh?"
END OF CHAPTER
You can access now the advanced chapters of this game!
The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
👉 patreon.com/MrBehringer