Three days until the prefectural finals round-robin begins.
Shohoku's gym was sealed shut—doors locked, curtains drawn tight.
The evening sun struggled to squeeze through the gaps, casting a few sickly yellow beams inside. The entire space felt like a pressure cooker about to explode.
This wasn't training.
This was a battlefield called: "If you don't collapse, then train until you do."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The sound of basketballs slamming against the floor was heavy and painful to hear—dull, rapid, like a barrage of war drums pounding straight into the skull.
"Slow. Too slow. What are you, an old lady crossing the street?"
Makino Juro lounged on a padded chair at the sidelines, lazily fanning himself with a worn folding fan like some heartless landlord from the old days. A lollipop spun between his lips.
"Miyagi, if your wrists are rusty, oil them."
"With passes that soft and sentimental, Maki Shinichi could steal the ball with his eyes closed—and launch a fast break while he's at it."
On the court, Miyagi Ryota gritted his teeth.
Sweat streamed down his signature curly hair, dripping onto the floor until it was slick enough to raise fish. His fingers were wrapped in white tape, swollen and red from relentless ball handling.
"Shut up! I'm already fast enough!!"
He growled, dropping his center of gravity low—so low he looked like he was gliding across the ground.
The basketball became a blur, weaving wildly between his legs and behind his back.
This was Juro's special training for him.
Not just speed—but dirty speed.
Using rapid wrist vibrations to create irregular spin, distorting the ball's trajectory at the moment of release—creating visual misdirection.
"Still not enough."
Juro didn't even lift his eyelids.
"Your rhythm's too clean. What are you, a printer?"
"Maki Shinichi's strength will crush you. Your only way out is to make him unable to catch you."
"Don't treat your hands like hands. Treat them like whips. Like venomous snakes."
Miyagi panted like a broken bellows, but his gaze only grew sharper.
In his mind flashed that unstoppable tank—Maki Shinichi.
Height, weight, strength—he was outclassed in every way.
If he didn't evolve, he'd be the weakest plank in Shohoku's barrel.
"Again!!" he roared, launching forward once more.
On the other half of the court.
Mitsui Hisashi looked like he'd just been dragged out of a lake.
His knee pads were soaked, heavy like sandbags. His arms trembled uncontrollably.
"Elbow higher. Use your knees."
Makino Juro's voice drifted into his ears.
"Mitsui-senpai, stamina is your fatal weakness. If you try to outlast them, you'll never outrun Jin Soichiro—that stamina monster."
"So you shoot before he gets moving."
"Range… is truth."
"At this distance, no one will guard you—unless they've lost their mind."
"If you turn this into your 'absolute territory,' Kainan's defense becomes worthless."
Mitsui wiped the sweat stinging his eyes, staring at the absurdly distant hoop.
Ridiculous.
But he didn't argue.
Because he'd seen Makino Juro make those shots.
That unreasonable, sky-piercing arc—like it would punch through the gym ceiling.
After wasting two years of his life, this was his only shortcut to catch up.
"I am… Mitsui Hisashi. A man who never gives up."
He muttered to himself, inhaled deeply, adjusted his rhythm—flick.
The ball traced a towering arc, dropping straight down—
Swish!
A perfect shot. The sound was almost heavenly.
The lingering sensation on his fingertips made his exhausted soul tremble.
Damn… that felt good.
Under the basket.
Akagi Takenori and Sakuragi Hanamichi were reenacting Godzilla vs. King Kong.
A brutal, close-quarters battle.
Muscle slammed against muscle in the cramped paint, the sound almost painful to hear.
"Positioning isn't about brute force—use your brain. Use this."
Makino Juro pointed at his backside.
"Lower your center of gravity. Sit on it. Make it impossible for your opponent to stand up."
"Sakuragi, jumping is your talent."
"But if you don't have space to jump, you're just a flea that jumps high."
"Who are you calling a flea?!"
"I'm a future rebounding king!!"
Sakuragi yelled wildly, pinned behind Akagi's broad back like a trapped monkey.
"Instinct! Use your animal instinct!"
Makino Juro's voice cut through the chaos.
"Don't watch the ball—feel Akagi's force with your body."
"The moment he pushes is when his balance is weakest."
"Release, slip around, lock him down—that's using force against force!"
Sakuragi froze for a split second.
Then—something clicked.
The next moment, Akagi pushed again.
This time, Sakuragi didn't resist head-on.
He slipped away like a slick eel, riding the force—
Then stepped forward—
And in an instant, seized position in front of Akagi.
Arms wide, forming an impenetrable wall.
Bang!
The ball bounced off the rim.
"COME DOWN!!"
Sakuragi roared, exploding upward and snatching the rebound at its highest point!
"Wahaha! See that?!"
"That's the genius's comprehension!"
"Even you have to step aside, Gorilla!"
He landed, proudly holding the ball overhead.
Akagi's face darkened—but a flicker of shock passed through his eyes.
This kid… learned veteran-level post positioning in just two tries?
What a monster.
In the darkest corner of the gym.
Rukawa Kaede stood alone.
No dribbling. No shooting.
Just standing still, eyes closed.
A chilling aura radiated from him.
Makino Juro's assignment for him was the most abstract of all—
Wildness.
Return to the self before textbooks, before tactics.
Like a beast in the wild—abandon calculation, rely on instinct to tear down prey.
Suddenly.
Rukawa's eyes snapped open.
His pupils shrank to needlepoints.
Without warning, his body exploded forward toward the basket.
That speed. That burst.
It carried a primal brutality, as if tearing through the air itself—
BOOM!!!
A savage dunk.
The rim groaned in pain.
Rukawa landed, breathing heavily—his gaze now sharper, wilder than ever before.
"Good enough."
Makino Juro glanced at the wall clock and stretched lazily, joints cracking.
"Technical training's over."
Everyone was about to collapse in relief—
When Juro smiled.
A devil's smile.
He dragged out a massive box filled with weighted leg bands.
"Now for the main event—endurance hell."
"All of you—double the weight. One hundred shuttle runs."
"Anyone who doesn't finish… doesn't eat tonight."
"You'll just watch me eat."
"WHAT?!!!"
The wails nearly blew the roof off.
"Juro, YOU DEMON!!"
"ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL A GENIUS?!"
Sakuragi pointed at him, furious.
"Oh? Then don't run."
Makino Juro shrugged casually.
"Just don't cry when you lose to Kainan."
"Watch Maki Shinichi lift the trophy."
"Watch Kiyota Nobunaga dunk on your head and ask if you enjoyed it."
That line struck like a poisoned dagger—right into everyone's weak point.
Sakuragi gritted his teeth, grabbed the heaviest weights, and strapped them onto his ankles.
"Run? Fine! You think I'm scared?!"
"I'LL DO TWO HUNDRED!!"
Akagi. Mitsui. Miyagi. Rukawa.
Not a single one backed down.
Even as their lungs burned. Even as their legs felt like lead.
One hundred shuttle runs.
Sweat pooled across the floor, forming mirrors of their collapsing bodies.
At the end—
Everyone lay sprawled on the ground like dead dogs, unable to move even a finger.
Only their chests rose and fell violently, greedily sucking in thin air.
[Stamina Increased]
[Current Stamina: 80]
END OF CHAPTER
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