[KNB] Chapter : 09

The chat was in chaos.

Commentators and viewers alike were scrambling to decode what exactly Han's "solution" meant.

Was it a reference to kendo? A mental state? A calculated rhythm in his movements?

Everyone had a theory, especially those trying to read into his plays through the lens of Shirogane-style cultivation.

But before any consensus could form, the second string’s offense collapsed again.

Yuta Yamanaka—their spearhead, their engine—was completely shackled by Han’s defense.

His confidence wavered. His rhythm broke.

With every failed drive, frustration mounted among the second string. They were visibly rattled—snapping passes too fast, rushing shots they didn’t need to.

In a real match, the coach would’ve called a timeout by now to let them reset.

But this was no official game.

It was just an entrance exam.

There were no whistles coming to save them.

Meanwhile, Han had become the heartbeat of the freshman squad.

Every fast break ran through him.
Every possession, he was the outlet.

This time was no different.

As soon as he caught the ball, he took off—no words, no hesitation.

Yamanaka gritted his teeth and chased.
He wasn’t about to let Han dominate the court again.
Not without a fight.

Despite the sting of earlier failures, Yamanaka’s instincts as an explosive athlete kicked in. He turned, sprinted, and gave chase.

The two of them—Han and Yamanaka—crossed the half-court line, one behind the other.

And then it happened.

Just past the free-throw line, Han launched into the air.
Not a cautious jumper.
Not a measured layup.
He soared—fierce and unflinching—like fire bursting toward the sky.

Yamanaka followed immediately, coiled like a spring, his legs exploding upward.
He wasn’t shorter, and he was clearly stronger.
In fact, he prided himself on that strength.

Freshmen were usually lean, still developing, still growing into their frames.
Yamanaka had already spent time under Coach Kozo Shirogane’s regime, and the difference showed. He was broader, heavier, built for contact.

Shirogane—once a national team player—was famous for molding young talent. After retirement, he joined Teikō’s coaching staff with one mission: to raise the next generation.

And it showed.

Any player who spent even a year under his guidance left stronger—more muscle, more grit, more edge.

Basketball, after all, is a game of physical confrontation and skill.

Yamanaka believed this moment—this mid-air clash—would be his redemption.

I’ll bump him mid-air. Knock him off balance.
This time, he’s not getting past me.

But Han had other plans.

Just as their bodies were about to collide, Han twisted mid-air, narrowly avoiding contact.

With precise body control, he leaned back just enough to slip past Yamanaka’s shoulder—and with a gentle flick of his wrist, floated the ball off his fingertips.

The ball arced up—

Past Yamanaka’s outstretched hand.
Over his head.

Swish!

Nothing but net. Clean. Crisp. Effortless.

On the sidelines, Jun Kubo couldn’t help but lean forward, heart racing.

That jump... that touch... that hang-time... that in-air adjustment—

It was unreal.

Han didn’t even look like a typical freshman.
Sure, next to Yamanaka he appeared a little thinner, a bit wiry—but that didn’t matter.

In his past life, he’d always been lean.
Yet even then, he’d routinely racked up high scores in amateur tournaments and pick-up games.

Why?

Because of this one signature weapon—his fingertip layup.

Soft. Deadly. Precise.

He had the trademark touch of many great Asian guards—a gentle, versatile finish he could adapt mid-air.

In that regard, he was a lot like George Gervin, the legendary Iceman of the Spurs.

Gervin, too, looked fragile in a league full of tanks.
Yet he glided through defenders with elegance, slicing through games with his signature finger roll.

Thin frame, monstrous game.

Han, a lifelong basketball junkie, had grown up watching highlight reels of the greats.
And what caught his eye? Not brute force. Not showboating.

Elegance.

He studied the beauty of movement.
The timing. The footwork. The flow.

He didn’t try to imitate everything—only the parts that felt like poetry.

The fingertip layups of the Iceman, Kobe’s step-back jumper, T-Mac’s smooth pull-ups—
Han had studied them all.
Obsessively. Relentlessly.

Maybe his shooting percentage wasn’t elite yet, but his form? Impeccable.
Every move looked sharp, practiced—damn good-looking, even if he said so himself.

After sinking the basket, Han couldn’t help but mutter inwardly:

“Aside from the Generation of Miracles, Teikō’s other players aren’t exactly impressive…”

Not that it was a surprise.

The Generation of Miracles were once-in-a-decade prodigies.
The kind of talents who had to crush their peers just to prove they belonged on a different level.

It’s the same story in every era—like the future high school draftees: Garnett, Kobe, LeBron, Dwight Howard.

They all dominated beyond their years.

Kobe, still in high school, was hyped as a magician with the ball.
Even Howard, known for his brute power, was being praised for a jumper he barely used.

Basketball has always had that kind of magic—where genius breaks the rules of development.

Yuta Yamanaka, a cornerstone of the Second string, was no slouch.
He played the role of the sixth man—vital, trusted, and often the spark plug off the bench.
Coaches loved players like him.

But today?

A freshman had just outclassed him on both ends of the floor.

On the sidelines, Jun Kubo looked like he’d been struck by lightning.

He had come to scout Shuzo Nijimura and Atsushi Murasakibara.

He never expected to stumble upon a white-haired whirlwind with no prior scouting notes.

Han? Who even is this kid?
It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere…

Once is luck. Twice, maybe a fluke.

But three times? Ten? A whole half of dominance?

That’s no accident.

The game wound to a close.

With Han on the court, the second string managed only 4 points in the entire second half.

Meanwhile, the freshman team, riding his momentum, completed a stunning comeback—36 to 30.

In just 10 minutes, Han racked up:

10 points

2 rebounds

and a jaw-dropping 7 steals

Yuta Yamanaka walked off the court in a daze.

I just got dismantled… by a first-year.

His confidence, so vibrant in the first half, now lay in ruins.

He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss—and the abyss dunked on him.

“Good work, Yuta,” said Nijimura, handing him a water bottle and trying to lift the mood, a subtle smile on his lips.

“Don’t laugh at me, Captain,” Yuta muttered darkly.

“I’m not,” Nijimura chuckled. “I’m just... relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“Yeah. That monster’s joining our team—not someone else’s.”

Yuta blinked.

Right. Han may have torched him today—but starting tomorrow, they’d be teammates.

The team just got a whole lot stronger.

Looking back at the court, he saw Han surrounded by the other freshmen, full of energy and confidence, as if the game had only just begun.

Yuta’s gloom faded into something like hope.

“Captain... do you think we can dominate the nationals this year?”

Nijimura smiled faintly, his eyes drifting not just to Han—but to a few other standout first-years.

“Who knows?”

Off-camera, in parts of the gym no one was watching, another group of rookies was already dismantling what remained of the second string.

This year’s Teikō class was going to be different.
And everyone in that gym could feel it.