[KNB] Chapter : 07

Boom!

A thunderous slam echoed through the gym, silencing the entire Teikō basketball club.

Even Coach Shirogane instinctively raised his hands to shield his head, eyes wide with disbelief.

Standing beneath the basket, the source of the uproar was none other than Han.

At 1.74 meters tall, Han’s height wasn’t exactly elite-tier for his age—not a top-tier (T0) figure, but easily a strong T1. However, what made him terrifying wasn’t his height. It was his wingspan—an absurd 1.92 meters.

To put that into perspective: Michael Jordan stood at 1.96 meters, with a wingspan of 2.16 meters—20 centimeters longer than his height, one of the key reasons he dominated as the greatest shooting guard of all time.

Han? Just two centimeters shy of that difference. At twelve years old.

Of course, a longer wingspan isn’t always a blessing—too much reach can mess with your dribbling, killing your ability to explode off the drive. But Han’s reach?

Perfect. The golden ratio. Just behind the legendary GOAT.

And the livestream chat? Exploded.

“Did I just see that?! What the hell?!”

“Wait, isn’t this junior high?”

“Bro’s 12 and flying like an NBA highlight reel, and I’m 28 and can’t even touch the rim…”

“Are you sure this isn’t Han’s Basketball? Not Kuroko’s?”

A 12-year-old throwing down a one-handed dunk on a regulation rim was absurd. Unreal. Legendary.

Han, landing with a light thud, looked visibly thrilled.

It was the first time he’d pulled off a real dunk on a full court. The sheer release—muscles surging, the rim bending beneath his power, the primal satisfaction of slamming the ball down with everything he had—set his blood on fire.

And yet…

He acted like it was nothing.

Letting go of the rim casually, he turned to his teammates and barked,

“What are you standing around for? Back on Defense!”

Trying his best to look composed. Mature. Like a true leader.

Trying to impress Coach Shirogane with a composed “I do this every day” vibe.

The internet wasn’t buying it.

“Don't stand there, BLOW IT!”

“Where’s the applause?? Pop~!”

“I knew that one-handed dunk was all for show!”

“6. Just... 6.”

“Anyone read the spoilers yet?

“What spoilers? It’s an original anime, no manga to peek at!”

Han blinked. Original anime?

That line caught his attention.

Right… there’s no manga. No spoilers. Nothing to predict.

The original Kuroko no Basket barely showed what happened during the Generation of miracles' early Teikō years—just fragments, flashbacks, vague timelines. The real drama was always hinted at, never shown.

But now that he was here—living it—the timeline had already begun to shift.

The match continued.

Back on defense, the first-year team suddenly came alive, their eyes gleaming with renewed purpose.

They’d just realized something: they had a real monster on their side.

In the first half, the Second string’s star had sliced through them like butter. But now? With Han on the floor?

Frozen.

Completely shut down.

A win no longer seemed like a fantasy—it was starting to feel like a very real possibility.

26–18.

The freshmen had scored six unanswered points, all from defense-fueled fast breaks.

And it wasn’t over yet.

It’s 2009.
Last season, the Boston Celtics had just claimed victory over the Los Angeles Lakers in the NBA Finals.

In this era, basketball was still largely shaped by old-school positional play. Centers didn’t drift out to the three-point line like unicorns—they battled in the paint, hand-to-hand, foot-to-foot. The game was gritty, grounded, and physical.

So when Han unleashed a modern-style fast-break offense in the middle of a practice match, it completely overturned the rhythm of the Second string.

Their slower, more deliberate style couldn’t keep up. They were steamrolled—blindsided by sheer speed.

Han demanded hustle from every teammate. Especially on the break: no hesitation, just run.
And when he led by example, even this hastily assembled team of first-years began to function like a well-oiled machine.

From the sidelines, Coach Shirogane had already pulled out Han’s application form. Though it listed nothing particularly special—just basic data—he was staring at it like it was a rare gem unearthed in rubble.

He could already see it: Han wasn’t just a player—he was Teiko’s future.

At this stage in a player’s development, things move fast. Especially for perimeter players without dominant height.

Michael Jordan was barely a sophomore when he made the All-American team.
Jimmy Butler averaged under 10 points per game as a junior—no one then imagined he'd one day lead a team to the NBA Finals.

And if high school comparisons feel too distant, just look at the Generation of Miracles.

In the anime, there's a flashback: a first-year Aomine is frustrated at scoring less than 20 points against a tough opponent—and swears revenge.
A year later, they meet again. Aomine annihilates him on the court.

That’s what potential looks like.

Before age 20, a player’s body is a treasure trove—you could dig up diamonds… or just scrap metal.

While Coach Shirogane pondered that, Yuta Yamanaka made his move.

Again.

He took the ball and charged toward Han, refusing any help on the screen. He wanted to do this solo. A classic alpha move.

He wasn’t just playing to win—he was playing for a First string starter slot. Losing face to a freshman in front of the head coach? Unacceptable.

But sometimes, being too stubborn just means you’re going to eat dirt harder.

Yamanaka ignored Han’s defense and attacked straight on—low center of gravity, strong first step, bursting left with everything he had.

Make no mistake—Yamanaka wasn’t weak. He wasn’t a benchwarmer by luck. His first step was explosive, sharp like a dagger. That’s how he’d earned the nickname Teiko's Bench Assassin.

But this time?

No hesitation. No feints. Just brute force.
And brute force wasn’t enough.

Han smirked slightly, his voice casual:

“Still going left, huh?”

He gave Yamanaka the space—inviting him through.

Yamanaka’s heart leapt.

Did I just break through?!
He could feel it—the ball still in his control, Han mostly behind him.
Just one more step, and he’d hit the paint. Score. Prove himself.

And then—

"Steal"
The whisper came from right behind him. Cold. Close.

Huh?!

A searing chill shot through his spine. In the next instant, the ball was gone from his grip.

He spun around in disbelief—and there they were: those pale blue eyes, staring him down.

It was a scene straight out of anime—reminiscent of when Kagami first entered the Zone and stole the ball clean from Aomine.

“This zone’s off-limits.”

Boom!

The ball smashed hard against the hardwood floor. Han had put real power into that steal.

“He broke through again!”

“Yamanaka didn’t even stand a chance.”

“So fast—I couldn’t even see what happened!”

The gym fell into stunned silence, especially among those who knew how skilled Yuta Yamanaka really was.

And yet—Han had shut him down again.