[KNB] Chapter : 08

Yuta Yamanaka’s strength had already been proven in last year’s national tournament.

When facing a heavy-handed defender, he’d blown past them in seconds with his explosive first step.

But against someone like Han—who could match him stride for stride, and whose instincts felt far beyond his years—Yamanaka’s straightforward approach became a glaring weakness.

Like a ghost striking from behind, Han reached out and cleanly slapped the ball away mid-dribble.

Then, without missing a beat, he muscled past Yamanaka and sprinted down the court.

“Pass it, Kuroko!”

Kuroko, who’d scooped up the loose ball, was still processing what just happened when Han had already reached half court.

With no time to lose, Kuroko launched the ball forward with a sharp, fast pass.

A defender from the Second string was already on alert, managing to recover just in time—a one-on-one in the open court.

But Han didn’t waste time on fancy footwork.

No flair, no frills—just raw speed and surgical precision.

He dipped his shoulder, feinting right, only to explode left in the blink of an eye.

Gone.
The defender was swept aside.

The move showcased Han’s incredible body control and balance—fluid, efficient, deadly.
If his core had been rigid or untrained, that change of direction would’ve been sluggish and easily read.

Instead—

Swish!

Han chose the smart play, banking the ball off the glass for a clean finish.

He could’ve dunked—but he held back.
He wasn’t the type to force highlight plays. Like Steph Curry, flashy dunks weren’t his forte, and forcing one could’ve led to an embarrassing miss.

The lead shrank to six points.

Meanwhile...

At the edge of the court, Jun Kubo—sports journalist for Tokyo Youth Weekly—watched intently, pen hovering above his notebook.

Every year around this time, Kubo visited middle schools across the prefecture, scouting for rising stars and writing season previews.

Elite academies like Teikō were always at the top of his list.

Especially this year.

News had broken that the “Little Giant” Atsushi Murasakibara had enrolled at Teikō. That alone made it his first destination.

He needed to know: could Murasakibara still dominate at the junior high level like he had in elementary school?

And the answer?

A resounding yes.

Even against Teikō’s seasoned Second string, Murasakibara’s presence in the paint was overwhelming.

Though still raw in technique—every basket either a slam or a two-handed jam—his sheer physical power made him a one-man fortress on defense.

Thanks to him, the paint was nearly impenetrable.

With Murasakibara anchoring the middle and Teikō’s ace, Shuzo Nijimura, already playing at a star level as a freshman, this team had serious potential.

Add in a dependable power forward, and Teikō wouldn’t just be strong—they’d be unstoppable.

But just when Kubo thought the surprises were over, something else caught his attention.

On another court, Yuta Yamanaka—the so-called Bench Assassin of Teikō—was getting dismantled.

Blown up.

“That jump… that speed… that timing…” Kubo muttered in disbelief, eyes wide.
“That steal…”

On that day alone, Han had stripped the ball from Yamanaka three times in a row.

Kubo exhaled sharply.

Three times.

And Yamanaka wasn’t some nobody.

He’d averaged 16.3 points in last year’s national tournament and was Teikō’s leading scorer during the qualification rounds.

His signature performance? A 30-point outburst against a top-seeded team in the match, single-handedly leading Teikō to victory.

Yet here he was, losing the ball again—for the fourth time.

“He’s not just a defensive wall,” Kubo whispered.
“He’s a defensive wall who can score.”

In basketball, offense wins fans.
Defense wins championships.

It was a truth etched into the minds of players, coaches, and fans alike.

With a beast like Murasakibara inside, and a defensive savant like Han locking down the perimeter, Teikō didn’t just have talent—they had balance.

That meant star players like Nijimura could focus entirely on offense.

And if these two freshmen could maintain this level through the season…

Just imagining it gave Kubo chills.

He wasn’t the only one.

From the sidelines, Coach Shirogane watched with razor-sharp eyes.

As a former national player himself, he knew better than anyone—a team that can’t defend will never last.

In single-elimination formats like the Nationals, poor defense was a death sentence.

But Han wasn’t just a lockdown defender—he had elite court awareness, a natural instinct for the counterattack, and a surprisingly polished shooting form.

That first jumper he took?

Clean. Effortless. The kind of elegance that only comes from hours of focused training.

“If he shoots above 40%,” Platinum thought, “he’s got it all—defense, transition, shooting.”

Glancing up at the scoreboard, he made a decision.

With one subtle gesture, he signaled the assistant coaches to mark down Han as a core player.

In his mind, the future Teikō starting five had just taken shape:

Murasakibara Atsushi controlling the paint,

Han Suichi sealing the perimeter,

And Shuzo Nijimura—the all-around scorer—leading the offensive charge.

Offense and defense.
Power and finesse.
Perfect.

The Second string was rattled.
The sudden momentum shift—fueled by the ferocious energy of the first-year lineup—had thrown them completely off balance.

At the heart of their collapse was a single name: Yuta Yamanaka.

Their top scorer, their offensive engine—completely shut down.

Without Yamanaka’s dribble penetration to crack open the defense, the second string struggled to generate clean points. Their entire rhythm broke down.

And Yamanaka?

He wasn’t just playing anymore—he was pressing.
Driven by frustration, pride, or maybe something deeper, he seemed obsessed with scoring directly on Han.

One-on-one. Head-to-head. My points, your face.

But before he could even cross the three-point line, Han was already glued to him.

Tight. Physical. Relentless.

This time, he didn’t even give Yamanaka the space to gather.

Forced to shield the ball with his body, Yamanaka turned sideways, trying to buy time—eyes darting across the court, searching for an opening.

But something felt off.

He’s... stronger than me?

Yamanaka’s heart pounded. Han wasn’t just keeping up—he was overpowering him.

It didn’t make sense.
They were of similar age, and yet Han’s physical presence felt a tier above.

This… this isn’t normal!

Realizing that he was dragging the team down—squandering the lead they’d worked so hard to build—Yamanaka made the mature call.

He gave up the attack.

Faking right with his eyes and body, he sold the illusion of a pass down the wing.
Hands gripped firmly on the ball, the motion looked convincing.

Then—snap—he reversed direction, sending the ball left instead.

A textbook no-look misdirection. Clean. Deceptive. Effective.

Except it wasn’t.

Bang!

The pass never left his hands.

Han’s arm shot out like a whip, smacking the ball down hard into the floor, where it bounced away with a sharp thud.

No way...!

Yamanaka’s pupils trembled.

All he could see now was that arm—long, sharp, and terrifying—hanging in front of him like a guillotine.

The golden ratio arm.

Even Shuzo Nijimura, watching from the bench, felt his breath catch.

Could I have avoided that?

And honestly?
He wasn’t sure.

He’d seen it clearly. Yamanaka had full control of the ball. His timing, footwork, and fake were textbook.

But in the next instant, Han’s arm blurred, slicing through the air like a katana—clean, fast, brutal.

That wasn’t a steal. That was a kill.

The live chat exploded:

"Bro, he’s finished."

"This is just bullying. Shut it down, we’re done."

"100% lock rate—how the hell do you even play against that?"

For everyone watching, one thing was clear:

Han wasn’t just here to play.

He was here to dominate.