[KNB] Chapter : 10

While Han led his team’s counterattack, elsewhere on the court, the Generation of Miracles wasn’t idle either.

Daiki Aomine, with his darker skin tone and cocky swagger, didn’t even need an introduction—you could tell he was a baller the moment he touched the ball.

His streetball-inspired style was unpredictable, explosive, and devastating.
Second-string defenders tried everything—tight man-to-man, double teams, aggressive switches—but nothing worked.

Aomine was always one move ahead.

In just 10 minutes, the so-called “problem child” took 12 shots, nailed 9 of them, and put up a blazing 18 points.

Like Han, once his teammates realized they had a powerhouse on their side, they fed him the ball nonstop. He practically carried the entire freshman team on his back, taking on all five second-string players.

It was chaos—raw, breathtaking chaos.

And yet, he led his squad to a narrow 44–42 victory, sealing the win by just two points.

Shintarō Midorima played a very different game but was just as lethal.

Not as flashy as Aomine and far less animated, Midorima operated like a cold, calculated machine.
In those same 10 minutes, he rained down three-pointers with mechanical precision—5 makes out of 7 attempts, totaling 15 points.

His uncanny range forced the second string to stretch their defense farther than they wanted, opening up the paint and allowing the freshmen to feast on easy layups.

Then there was Seijūrō Akashi.

He didn’t score like Aomine.
He didn’t shoot like Midorima.
And yet, his impact was just as terrifying.

The flashy numbers weren’t there—just 2 points in total—but the moment he stepped on the court, the game changed.

Somehow, this team of strangers, who didn’t even know each other’s names, suddenly played with unity and coordination.
Plays flowed.
Spacing improved.
Decisions were crisp.

In just 10 minutes, Akashi racked up 7 assists.
The offense ran entirely through him—every movement, every decision guided by his quiet command.
He didn’t dominate the ball. He orchestrated it.

His only score?
A calm, mid-range jumper in the final minute—subtle, understated, and completely in control.

That Night After the basketball club trials.

Coach Shirogane sat with a report in hand, staring at the numbers compiled by his assistant, deep in thought.

He had been paying close attention to Atsushi Murasakibara, the massive center he'd already earmarked as a future star.

And Murasakibara delivered—7 rebounds, 4 blocks.
Numbers that the starting center of the First string might not even reach.

But what shook Shirogane wasn’t Murasakibara.

It was everyone else.

• Daiki Aomine: 20 points, 2 rebounds, 1 block

• Shintarō Midorima: 15 points, 2 rebounds, 2 assists

• Seijūrō Akashi: 2 points, 3 steals, 9 assists

• Han: 10 points, 2 rebounds, 7 steals, 2 blocks

In previous years, the freshman team always played the role of cannon fodder during the entrance test—learning the ropes while getting steamrolled.

But this year?
This year was different.

This year, the second string got dismantled.

Shirogane turned to his assistant, and for a brief moment, their eyes met—ecstatic, stunned, disbelieving.

“Is this… a gift from the heavens?” Shirogane whispered.

He remembered the last time a freshman overturned the second string—Shuzo Nijimura.
That player had grown into the team captain and one of the top forwards in the entire country.

But now?

Now there were four of them.
And even better—Their positions didn’t clash..

• A defensive titan in the paint

• An explosive offensive spearhead

• A perimeter sniper with endless range

• A floor general who sees the game five moves ahead

All first-years. All his. For three entire seasons.

Even the usually composed Shirogane Kozo could barely contain himself.

He looked skyward, wanting to laugh, cry, or maybe scream.

“We’re gonna dominate…” he muttered.

Today had rewritten the history of Teikō Basketball Club.

The second string, made up of trained, disciplined players with at least a year of experience, had been overrun by a team of untested, unknown newcomers.

And yet Shirogane didn’t feel frustration.

He felt joy.

The Next Day.

The Youth Sports section of Tokyo Daily published a piece that quickly stirred up chatter among local basketball fans.

The headline read:

"New Era Dawns at Teikō: Freshmen Overwhelm the Second string!"

The article opened with excitement:

“We had the rare privilege of witnessing the entrance trials of the basketball powerhouse, Teikō Middle School. Following tradition, Coach Shirogane used the same rigorous evaluation method from previous years to test this year's newcomers.”

Normally, these tryouts were a formality.
Veteran players—battle-tested in national competitions and drilled under Coach Shirogane's brutal regimen—would crush the freshmen with ease.

But not this year.

Everything changed.

Four of Teikō’s second-string squads—twenty seasoned players in total—were decisively beaten by teams led by four first-year students.

It wasn’t just a fluke.

It was a statement.

This article, unsurprisingly, was written by Jun Kubo—the scout who had stumbled upon Han the day before.

In his report, he highlighted the remarkable performances of Han and the other prodigies, complete with match statistics and on-the-court photos.

His closing remarks carried a subtle warning to every school in the Tokyo region:

"This year’s Teikō is not to be taken lightly. Prepare accordingly."

The article caused a stir in some basketball circles, though its impact was muted.

After all, it was still middle school basketball.

And unless something truly extraordinary happened, public interest rarely rose above the noise of high school or collegiate competitions.

That Night — In the Real World.

On a popular streaming site known for its anime coverage and fan-generated content, a familiar stream flickered to life.

A man with a prominent nose and sharp black eyes leaned toward the camera and started his live broadcast.

The stream’s title:

"Welcome to Pan Pigeon’s House of Wonder!"

The chat exploded immediately:

"First!"
"Second!"
"Number 10086, reporting in!"
"Where there’s a Pan Pigeon, there’s me!"

Though "Pan Pigeon" wasn't his real name, it was the online alias of a beloved content creator—one of the so-called Three Phantom Gods in MegaStation’s anime community.

Every time he went live, fans swarmed in.

Known for his deadpan humor and sarcastic commentary, Pan rarely showed his face on stream. Instead, he entertained his audience with sharply edited, rant-style videos. But when he did stream live, it was an event.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m your one and only Pan Pigeon,” he greeted with mock grandeur, flashing his signature smirk.

He opened a fresh anime release schedule on-screen.

“It’s April already, and the spring season’s got a bunch of new shows lined up. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

As he scrolled through a list of recently aired episodes, indecision flickered across his face.

Months ago, he’d uploaded a preview video of upcoming titles. With the exception of a few completely original works, he’d already read the source material for most of the new adaptations.

“Guess I should start with something original then,” he muttered.

Just as he was filtering out titles based on whether they had an existing manga or light novel base, something unusual caught his eye:

A new show—tagged “live broadcast”—suddenly popped up.

“Live?” he blinked. “What’s that about?”

Curious, he clicked.

To his surprise, the episode was being streamed live, with no option to skip ahead or rewind.
You had to watch it in real time—like a sports match.

Even stranger, it was centered around basketball—a rare theme in modern anime.

“What kind of stunt is this?” he asked aloud, narrowing his eyes.
“Did B-site actually recommend this?”

Intrigued, he leaned back in his chair and watched, unaware that he was about to witness something that would shake even the otaku community.

Something that wasn’t just a sports anime.

But a phenomenon in the making.