[KNB] Chapter : 17

Two more weeks passed in a flash.

As the national tournament loomed closer, Teikō Middle School began to stir.

Coach Shirogane believed that the team's coordination had reached a solid level.
The freshman players showed exceptional combat ability right out of the gate—no grinding, no need for long-term development.
They were plug-and-play athletes—assets that could immediately boost Teikō’s bench depth, even if they didn’t start.

Just slot them in with a seasoned senior, and a formidable second lineup was ready.

Still, practice could only take a team so far.
What the coach needed now was proof—real performance under pressure.

So, after a few more days of polishing their rhythm, Shirogane scheduled a training match.

That match was today.

The venue? The legendary Teikō Basketball Club gymnasium.

Now, a powerhouse like Teikō never had to ask for scrimmages.
Teams practically lined up, hoping to test themselves against the dynasty.

Shirogane didn’t need to reach out—he simply picked from the pool of eager challengers.
And for this first match with the new lineup, he chose carefully.

Not too strong to crush morale.
Not too weak to be meaningless.

The selected opponent? Kawasaki Dai-fuzoku.

A team from Kanagawa that had come this close to qualifying for Nationals last year—losing by just one point in the final regional qualifier.

The perfect test.

The gym wasn’t exactly packed.
It was Saturday, and aside from Teikō’s basketball club, there were no outside spectators.

In the locker room, the players changed into their uniforms, the air casual but focused.

The seniors weren’t fazed. They’d faced tougher opponents, and Teikō’s results in the past two years had far outshone Kawasaki’s.

As for the freshmen?

They didn’t even know what pressure looked like yet.
Aomine, for instance, was more interested in how many minutes he’d get to play than in any actual competition.

Once ready, the team followed Nijimura out to the court.

Their opponents were already there, warming up. The match was moments away.

Teikō's jersey numbers followed the traditional model—1 to 15, captain wearing No. 4.

Han had chosen number 14.

No deep symbolism.
It wasn’t his lucky number. He just liked how it looked.

Back when he watched Slam Dunk, he admired Sakuragi’s hot-blooded idiocy and envied the cool grace of Rukawa and Sendo.

He wanted to be them.

But as he got older, his favorite became someone else.

Mitsui Hisashi.

Why?

Because Mitsui fought.

He clawed his way back from ruin, whispered “Coach… I want to play basketball” through gritted teeth, and cried.
And Han? He cried too.

He admired that kind of undying fire—the will to rise, no matter how far you’ve fallen.

Also, Mitsui’s family was rich. That didn’t hurt.

As both teams finished warming up, the ever-eager Jun Kubo burst in to get a closer look.

Coach Shirogane approached Han with a sharp look in his eye.

“See number 7 over there?” he asked, gesturing at Kawasaki’s side. “That’s their ace guard. Last year, in Kanagawa’s qualifiers, he dropped 20+ points in three consecutive games.”

Han glanced at No. 7, then turned back to Shirogane with curiosity.

“He’s your matchup for today,” the coach said bluntly.

“Wait… you mean I’m starting?”

“Scared?”

“Terrified,” Han grinned. “Terrified he won’t be strong enough to make it interesting.”

Shirogane smirked.
He liked that. Confidence—real confidence—was a weapon as sharp as any skill.

Across the gym, Aomine heard the exchange and couldn’t stay quiet.

“Coach! What about me? Do I start too?”

“You’re still young,” Shirogane replied without hesitation. “Start by observing from the bench.”

Young?
He’s the same grade as me!

Aomine’s heart sank. His pride took a hit.
That answer hurt more than running five laps.

Midorima Shintarō stood nearby, silent—but his pride burned just as fiercely.

He didn’t say a word, but his clenched jaw spoke volumes.

Geniuses don’t accept being second-best.

Not without a fight.

It was Akashi who observed the situation most calmly.

Among all the first-year students, only Han and Atsushi Murasakibara had earned a starting spot.

Both had delivered exceptional defensive performances during the entrance assessments.

Murasakibara dominated the paint, a walking fortress in the restricted zone.
Meanwhile, Han locked onto the opposition’s key players with an almost eerie precision—like a predator picking his mark.

Coach Shirogane’s intention was clear:
Start with defense.
Build from the ground up.
It was a philosophy rooted in the fundamentals of this generation’s basketball culture—play steady, play smart.

“Keep your eyes open,” said Nijimura, turning to the benched first-years. “Your time will come.”

Then he returned to warm-ups, his words settling into the silence with quiet authority.

As both teams approached the center circle, murmurs stirred in the crowd.

The players from Kawasaki Dai-fuzoku eyed Teikō’s lineup and blinked.

“First-years?”

It was rare—very rare—for freshmen to start in a school like Teikō.

To Kawasaki’s side, this was confusing. Suspicious, even.

“Did Teikō finally lose it this year?”

Every year after Nationals, rosters shifted.

Third-year aces graduated.
Teams that had soared to semi-finals or finals fell off cliffs the next year.
Last year’s kings became this year’s cautionary tales.

Kawasaki wasn’t one of them. Their core players were all second-years.
No cliff. No drop.

This year was their peak.

So seeing two freshmen in Teikō’s starting five?

They couldn’t help but smirk.

“Looks like Teikō’s dynasty days are over.”

“Giving up already?”

Their captain sneered, sizing up the newcomers.

The center was tall, sure—but his slack expression screamed airhead.
The other one was even worse. Sunglasses.
Sunglasses, indoors, just before tipoff?

Who shows up to a serious game like that?

“Maybe he thinks this is a photo shoot.”

The Kawasaki players stifled their laughter—but only just. The arrogance was palpable.

It was like watching the Hung's Team Evil from Shaolin Soccer laughing at the monks before getting crushed.

And then—

“Han, you moron! How many times have we told you—no sunglasses during games!”

“Huh?” Han blinked. Reached up.
“Oh. Forgot again. Sorry!”

“Pffft—HAHAHAHA!”

That was it.

Kawasaki’s players couldn’t hold it in any longer.
They howled with laughter.

Their mockery echoed across the gym, bouncing off the high ceiling like thunder.

‘They’re laughing now. Just wait till they cry later.’

‘This is giving Shaolin Soccer team energy.’

‘You know what happens next, right?’

‘Oh yeah. They’re gonna get wrecked.’

‘Dare to laugh at the cat? Prepare to die, fools.’