[KNB] Chapter : 06

The first-year team had only managed to scrape together 12 points, all from mid-to-long-range shots. Not a single point had come from under the basket.

In stark contrast, the second string’s 26 points were ruthlessly efficient—every play targeting the paint, punishing the first-years right where it hurt most.

Even when the freshman team scrambled back with five players, it made little difference. The second string didn’t bother with such theatrics.
To them, this kind of match didn’t even require substitutions. They could dominate a full 20-minute game without breaking a sweat.

Leading the charge was a second-year player and teammate of Shuzo Nijimura: Yuta Yamanaka.

Out of the 26 points scored, 12 belonged to him.

Not just a top scorer, Yamanaka was also a key rotation player for the First String—a rising star with a strong presence and sharper instincts.

“Do anything funny, and I won’t hold back,” Yamanaka warned coldly, his eyes narrowing at the cocky freshman—Han.

Yamanaka was the no-nonsense type. He didn’t like flashy types, especially not someone who strutted in with sunglasses like he was on a catwalk.

Besides, every player here had been through their own initiation—getting knocked around by their seniors.
Han wouldn’t be an exception.

Everyone on the second string—understood the true reason this match was arranged.

It wasn’t a game. It was a lesson.

The coach’s intent was clear: crush the confidence of the first-years, bring them down a peg, and ensure obedience.

And if a team of green rookies actually managed to compete?

Then they weren’t ordinary rookies. They were rare talents—raw gems worthy of Teiko.

That’s what had happened with Nijimura.

Despite being a first-year back then, he was so exceptional he skipped the usual grind and was immediately drafted into the First string.
Even if such players weren’t ready to be mainstays yet, they were brought to national competitions for experience, preparing to inherit the mantle the following year.

That’s why defending championships in middle school was so difficult. Coaches had only three years with any player.
Even for geniuses, you couldn’t just plug them in like batteries—it took time to sharpen them into champions.

If they were lucky, one year was enough.
If not, it could take until their third year before they were entrusted with a key role.

Teikō had been fortunate.

They had Nijimura, an absolute prodigy already being hailed as the best power forward—the Number 4—in all of middle school basketball.

And beside him? A freak of nature: Atsushi Murasakibara, blessed with explosive athleticism and absurd reach.
With these two monsters in play, Coach Shirogane believed their chances at another national title were still solid.

That was until—

“He stole it again! Unbelievable!”

“Wait—isn’t that Yamanaka? He’s a First string rotation player!”

“Fast break! Long pass to the basket—he scores!”

“That’s four unanswered points—this is crazy!”

The voice came from one of the courts. Shirogane Kozo turned toward the noise, curious.

And what he saw stunned him.

Yuta Yamanaka stood rooted, wide-eyed, staring at one of the freshmen like he’d seen a ghost.

That freshman was Han.

Arms outstretched, grinning, he looked every bit the king—soaking in the spotlight with casual grandeur.

"What happened?" Shirogane asked.

One of the teaching assistants turned to him, still in shock.

“Yamanaka’s drive got shut down. Twice. In a row. By that kid.”

“Twice?”

Shirogane's expression shifted from curious to cautious.

Yuta Yamanaka was no pushover.
He was a textbook bench assassin—aggressive, explosive, and unafraid to bulldoze through defenders.
The only reason he wasn’t a starter was because of the sheer presence of Nijimura and the other starting players.

His specialty? Slashing into the paint, drawing contact, and forcing points with sheer momentum.

“Was it a trap defense?”

“No,” the assistant replied, shaking his head. “One-on-one. Straight-up.”

One-on-one?

That wasn’t just impressive.

It was serious.

Coach Shirogane narrowed his eyes, now focused entirely on Han’s movements.

This wasn’t just another flashy rookie.

This kid might actually be the real deal.

The game continued.

The scoreboard now read 26:16—first-years had clawed back four points in two quick counterattacks.

Yamanaka took the inbound pass, dribbling up the court himself.

He was still reeling.

Twice. He had been cleanly picked off twice—by a freshman, no less.

What unsettled him most wasn’t just being stripped of the ball.
It was that he couldn’t even see how it happened.

Now, with the coaches’ eyes on this side of the court, he had no choice but to push back.

With the third-years having moved on to high school, this season was supposed to be his.
His year to shine. His year to step out of the shadows and become a starter for Teikō.

And here he was—getting humiliated by a first-year?

No. That wasn’t going to happen.

Bang. Bang. Bang...

He dribbled slowly toward the top of the arc, motioning for his teammates to clear out.

It was time for a showdown.
One-on-one.

He exhaled slowly, lowering his center of gravity into a textbook explosive stance.

Then—he launched forward.

It was a sudden, sharp burst, designed to blow past the defender before they could react.

But Han had already figured him out.

After two encounters, the pattern was obvious:
Yamanaka relied too heavily on his first-step explosiveness, always looking to burn his way to the rim in one clean move.

Against slower defenders, it worked.
Against Han?

Not a chance.

“Predictable.”

With a silent whisper of movement, the ball was suddenly no longer in Yamanaka’s hands.

Stripped. Cleanly. Again.

“No way—AGAIN?!”

Yamanaka gritted his teeth, pushing past Han with sheer will—but the basketball had already been left behind, bouncing aimlessly.

Coach Shirogane’s eyes narrowed.

Even from the sideline, he hadn’t seen the exact moment of the steal.

It was as if a blade had been unsheathed and sheathed in a moment too fast for the eyes—silent, swift, final.
By the time the opponent realized it, they were already dead.

Bang!

The ball struck the hardwood with force as Han slapped it free.

“Your dribble's too right-hand dominant, senpai.”

Leaving those words hanging in the air, he snatched the rebound and took off like a bullet.

Most people are born with a dominant hand.
Only a rare few are ambidextrous by nature.

Elite players? They train their off-hand until it becomes second nature.
If they don’t—
Their every move becomes an open book.

And Han? He was already reading that book cover to cover.

In a blur, he crossed half-court in a single sprint.

Fast.
Faster than any freshman should be.

Coach Shirogane barely heard the thud of his shoes before Han was at the rim again.

This one’s special, the coach thought.
That fluid motion, the lightning reflexes, and the terrifying dynamic vision—he’d seen many top middle school players.

But this?

This was SS-tier talent drawn from a blind box.

It all happened in a heartbeat.

Han surged down the court again.
But this time, the second string was ready.

After two punishing fast breaks, they were on high alert.
The defenders were already racing back into position, determined to cut him off.

“You’re not getting past me, first-year!”

The upperclassman in front—whether a second or third-year, it didn’t matter—tried to intimidate Han the old-fashioned way: by shouting.

But seriously… did he really think yelling would work on him?

Han, who'd faced far worse than playground bluster, didn’t even flinch.

“Did I say I wanted to go that way?” he shot back with a smirk.

In one smooth motion, he slowed his pace, turned his back to the defender, and leaned in.
That pressure forced the defender to step in closer, trying to brace—but it was exactly what Han wanted.

He exploded upward.

Using the defender's own force as a springboard, Han pivoted mid-air in a perfect spin, raising both hands above his head as his legs gently swung beneath him.

A textbook turnaround fadeaway—graceful, effortless, deadly.

The defender couldn’t recover in time.
He couldn’t contest.
He couldn’t even jump.

All he could do was watch—as Han launched the ball with the elegance of a master sculptor brushing the final stroke.

Swish?

Poink!

“Huh?”

The ball clanged off the rim with a crisp clang, echoing through the gym like a punchline.

The seniors of the second string, who’d just been on the verge of collapse moments earlier, suddenly came back to life.

“He bricked it!”

“There you are, Kobe Bryant!”

“Beautiful form, embarrassing result!”

“God really is fair, huh?”

The live chat—or what might as well have been one—erupted. It was like watching Hanamichi Sakuragi’s dramatic slo-mo dunk fail all over again.

The sudden contrast was too much. One second, Han was stealing, slashing, and spinning like a demon. The next, he was bricking a wide-open jumper like a YouTube compilation fail.

He had the pose, the attitude, the flair—just not the finish.

Even Shirogane Kozo, watching from the sidelines, was momentarily stunned.

This guy…

But the coach quickly collected himself.

A miss is a miss. A brick is a brick.
Still—how many kids like this drop out of the sky fully leveled up?

Even if the shot didn’t go in, the movement, the vision, the presence—it was all there.

Surely that was the end of Han’s show, right?

Wrong.

“Rebound!” someone shouted on court.

A second string player snapped to attention, turning and lunging toward where the ball would land.

But someone else moved faster.

That same silver-haired freshman—Han—was already in motion.

Despite just landing from a high-effort step-back fadeaway, he launched again, faster than anyone on the court.

“Stop right there!” the senior shouted, reaching out—but caught nothing but air.

Han wasn’t stopping for anyone.

He knew this better than anyone: to become the most beloved rogue of underground basketball, your style needed to be electric.

He darted to the rebound like he’d been slingshot forward, scooping the ball without hesitation.

Then, in one stunning motion, he leapt again—this time straight at the rim.

The moment was surreal.

In his past life, he never could’ve done this in a pair of KD12s.

But now—this body, this spring, this instinct—it felt inevitable.

He hadn’t taken a vertical leap test. He didn’t need to.

He knew.

He wasn’t grounded anymore.

And in the stunned silence of the gym, it looked like he was flying.

In slow motion, Han shifted his grip—from two hands to one.
His arm pulled back as he soared, and then—he slammed it down.

BOOM.

A thunderous dunk.

For a heartbeat, Teikō Gym fell completely silent.