"What a pain…"
Juro clicked his tongue, staring at the three Shoyo players closing in on him.
Fujima. Takano. Itou.
They formed a perfect triangle, sealing off every possible lane—no gaps, not even a sliver of space.
"Got you, Makino Juro!!"
Fujima Kenji's roar exploded from his chest, thick with a bloodthirsty edge.
Front—Fujima.
Left—Itou.
Right—Takano.
A flawless triangular trap.
The shadows cast by the three of them felt like a solid cage, pinning Makino Juro in place.
Sweat dripped from Fujima's chin.
His eyes were no longer those of a calm strategist—
But of a gambler driven to madness.
"Stop wasting your energy!"
"I've already seen through your tricks!"
"As long as I don't look at your face—as long as I lock down the zone with my peripheral vision—"
"You're nothing but a rat trapped in a jar, relying on cheap tricks!"
Fujima lowered his stance, arms spread like the wings of a hawk, locking Makino Juro down completely.
In the stands.
Maki Shinichi slowly lowered his crossed arms, his expression indifferent.
"It's over."
Beside him, Kiyota Nobunaga frowned. "That first-year was pretty strong though, wasn't he?"
"Once a trick is exposed, it's worthless."
"And a sustained ability like that—something that constantly manipulates perception—consumes stamina at a devastating rate."
"He's already at the end of his rope." Maki said calmly.
At center court.
The air seemed frozen.
Yet Makino Juro, standing at the heart of the storm, showed none of the panic everyone expected.
His eyelids drooped heavily, as if he'd just pulled an all-nighter gaming and was dragged out for a morning run.
"Hey, senpais…"
"Don't you feel hot, crowding me like this?"
"I prefer girls who are soft and smell nice, you know."
His voice was lazy, tinged with a hint of hoarseness.
"Cut the crap! Leave the ball!" Fujima snapped, his eye twitching.
His anger sharpened his movements—he lunged forward, reaching to strip the ball.
"Alright, alright… if you insist…"
Makino Juro shrugged as he slipped past the attempt.
『Disable Reverse Misdirection.』
He muttered silently in his mind.
Being a walking spotlight for the entire court was just too draining.
Now that they'd figured it out, there was no point wasting energy.
[Ding! Skill deactivated]
[Current Shock Points: 750]
Click.
It was as if an invisible switch had been flipped.
The strange magnetic field around Makino Juro—the one that forcibly pulled everyone's attention—
Vanished instantly.
The sensation was bizarre.
Like staring at a glaring light bulb for too long, then having it suddenly go out—
Your vision stutters, leaving behind afterimages and momentary disorientation.
Fujima and the others' pupils shrank sharply.
In their perception.
The once "huge," "blinding" Makino Juro—
Suddenly became small, ordinary… even vague.
That suffocating presence receded like a falling tide.
"Now."
Seizing that split second of visual lag—
Makino Juro flicked his wrist in a near-invisible motion.
The basketball slipped along the floor as if alive, threading through the tiny gap between Fujima and Itou's legs.
A surgical bounce pass!
"Rukawa Kaede!"
The ball popped perfectly into the hands of Rukawa, who had already cut into the paint.
"No way!!"
But Shoyo, already pushed to the brink, didn't collapse.
Hanagata Toru roared, his massive frame blocking the path like a wall of flesh.
Rukawa adjusted midair, twisting his body to evade—
"SMACK!"
A sharp crack echoed.
Hanagata's hand swatted the ball clean away.
"Blocked!!"
The entire Shoyo crowd erupted in thunderous cheers.
The ball flew outward—right into Fujima's hands.
"Fast break!!"
Without hesitation, Fujima exploded forward the moment he secured it.
His speed was astonishing—like a car fitted with a brand-new engine.
This time—
He didn't look at Makino Juro.
With that strange "attention-grabbing" ability gone—
Makino Juro was nothing more than a fatigued first-year substitute in his eyes.
"Just basic misdirection?"
Fujima sprinted while dribbling, his cold gaze sweeping over Makino Juro, who tried to reposition defensively.
"Too naive!"
"As long as I don't look at you—only at space—you have nowhere to hide!"
At full speed, Fujima abruptly stopped and changed direction, shaking off Mitsui with ease.
Then, facing Makino Juro's help defense—
He rose straight into a pull-up jumper.
Ignoring the contest.
"Swish!"
49:48.
Just a one-point gap.
"Defense! Full-court press!"
"Lock Shohoku down in their own half!!"
Fujima didn't celebrate after landing—he barked orders, directing his teammates like a pack of rabid hounds toward Shohoku's inbound.
The momentum—
Had completely flipped.
The next three minutes became hell for Shohoku.
Without the restraint of [Reverse Misdirection], Makino Juro returned to his low-profile "ghost mode," trying to organize the offense.
But against a fully awakened Fujima—who had already mastered the counter—
Its effectiveness plummeted.
The moment Makino Juro touched the ball, Fujima stuck to him, using physical pressure to force mistakes.
And once Makino Juro passed—
Shoyo's height advantage took over.
"Smack!"
Takano intercepted a pass.
Fast break—Nagano finished at the rim.
49:50. Shoyo took the lead.
"Rebound!!"
Akagi Takenori roared inside, but Hanagata softly tipped the ball out to Fujima.
Catch.
Three-point shot.
"Swish!"
49:53.
Time ticked away—
Like a dull blade slicing through Shohoku's nerves.
The scoreboard numbers flickered mercilessly.
3 minutes 50 seconds remaining.
Score: 55:58.
Shohoku trailed by three.
"Tweet!"
The referee's whistle blew. Out of bounds.
On Shohoku's bench—
Silence.
Coach Anzai adjusted his glasses, the glare hiding his expression.
On the court.
Akagi bent over, hands on his knees, sweat pooling beneath him.
His chest heaved like a broken bellows.
Mitsui gasped for air, despair creeping into his eyes.
"Damn it… that Fujima… he's gone completely insane…"
"There's no stopping him…"
A suffocating aura of defeat began to spread through the team.
And then...
A lazy, almost annoyed voice cut through from behind them.
"Hey."
Makino Juro straightened up, wiping sweat from his eyes with the hem of his jersey. His gaze swept across his exhausted teammates.
"We're only down three."
"Why do you all look like you're about to be buried?"
"Planning your own funeral already?"
Mitsui gritted his teeth, his knees trembling—his stamina nearly gone.
"Easy for you to say…"
"Acting dead half the game…"
"That's called strategic idling," Makino Juro grinned. "Ever heard of energy conservation?"
His white teeth flashed—strikingly out of place in the suffocating atmosphere.
He walked over to Mitsui.
Mitsui's face was pale as paper.
Sweat soaked his hair, sticking it to his forehead.
Makino Juro lowered his voice so only the two of them could hear.
"Micchi."
"Don't call me that!!"
Veins bulged on Mitsui's forehead.
If he had any strength left, he'd punch this guy.
"Can you still lift your arms?"
Makino Juro ignored him. His tone turned serious—cold, even.
Mitsui froze.
He looked at his trembling hands.
Two years of absence—
His lack of stamina had been brutally exposed in this high-intensity game.
Even breathing now burned his lungs.
But he lifted his head.
In his eyes burned something fierce—
Pride.
"As long as the ball gets to my hands…"
"I'll make the shot. Even if my arms break, I'll still make it."
A wild, confident smile curved his lips—the pride of a former MVP.
"Good."
Makino Juro nodded and turned toward the inbound spot.
"Then when the time comes—just run."
"Run to the spot you like best… and shoot."
"I'll handle the rest."
Mitsui frowned, instinctively asking:
"What do you mean? Where's the ball? If you don't pass it first, how am I supposed to shoot?"
"It'll come."
Makino Juro waved his hand without turning back.
"As long as you believe… it will find you."
END OF CHAPTER
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The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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