[KNB] Chapter : 05

In a sense, Kuroko wasn’t wrong.
Most people do fall in love with basketball because of pure passion.
The joy of movement. The thrill of the shot. The sound of sneakers on polished wood.

But that kind of innocent love doesn’t always survive the real world.

In modern basketball—or really, in the entire history of the sport—the court is a battlefield.

Whether it’s a professional league or an international tournament, every game is a war disguised as sport.
And when the stakes are high enough, players won’t hesitate to trample rules, clash violently, or swing with injured limbs just to stay on the court and win.

The truth is: there’s no such thing as a pure game at the top.

As Han mulled over this thought, the system’s livestream barrage rolled again:

“Han Suichi?!”
“What is he, the B-Drama protagonist?”
“Calling it now—he’s the No.1 B-King of the series!”
“Damn, this guy’s so handsome I’m feeling threatened…”
“Bro chill, you look like Fat Tiger from Doraemon at best.”

The internet never fails to entertain.

Han figured the story must barely be past the first episode.
They hadn't even gotten to the explosive arcs yet, and already the comment section was losing its collective mind.

“These trolls are having more fun than the plot right now…”
“I haven’t even shown my real moves yet!”

But there was no time to waste.

After a short wait, Kozo Shirogane, the coach of Teikō's basketball team, walked in with his assistant and the current team captain, Shuzo Nijimura.

Coach Shirogane’s eyes swept across the gym full of eager faces.

“First, welcome to the Teikō Basketball Club,” he said, his voice steady and sharp. “As you’ve probably heard, we play to win. Always.”

He pointed toward a giant beam stretched across the upper walls of the gym.

Four bold characters were engraved in striking black ink: “百战百胜”

One Hundred Battles. One Hundred Victories.

The meaning was clear.
At Teikō, winning wasn’t the goal—it was the expectation.

Of course, Han knew better than to be impressed by slogans.

After all, while Teikō had long been a dominant force in national tournaments, their actual championship count was... underwhelming.

The problem wasn’t their skill—it was the format.

Japan’s national junior high basketball championship was a single-elimination tournament.
One game. One chance. One shot at glory or total elimination.

It was brutal.
Unforgiving.
And the perfect storm for upsets.

Every year, some powerhouse team was knocked out by a weaker underdog riding an unexpected hot streak—or by one singular player having the game of their life.

To win once took skill.
To win again required discipline.
But to win consistently, year after year?

That demanded something else entirely: luck.

Coach Shirogane let the weight of his words settle over the newcomers.

Their lighthearted expressions began to fade.
They could feel it now—the pressure, the intensity, the legacy they were about to step into.

Seeing that gravity dawn on their faces, Coach Shirogane gave a small nod of approval.

Only then did he continue.

“We are a team built on triumph,” Coach Shirogane declared, his voice steady and commanding. “And because we are victorious, we let our basketball do the talking—even during the entrance ceremony.”

He swept his gaze over the crowd of new recruits.

“I won’t assign you to positions,” he continued. “If you want to earn a place at Teikō, you’ll have to fight for it yourself.”

“Group confrontation training starts now. The names I call will form a team—you’ll be going up against Teikō’s Second String.”

Coach Shirogane’s method was direct and efficient.

With such a massive turnout, testing each player individually was simply impossible. It would’ve taken all day—and wasted precious time.

Better to throw them into real matchups. On the court, everything becomes clear.
A donkey or a thoroughbred—you know the difference the moment they start running.

Still, despite the crowd, a few players had already caught his eye.

And among them, one stood out unmistakably.

A boy towering at 190 cm.
Coach Shirogane blinked.

That height… and he's only in junior high? Unbelievable.

The comments began buzzing in the system feed again:

“Yo, this kid's a walking skyscraper!”
“Is this a basketball prodigy or a mini-Godzilla?”
“Bro’s playing on ‘easy mode’ with that frame.”

That boy’s name?

Atsushi Murasakibara.

A rising star. A natural-born athlete who had been dominating since elementary school.
Thanks to his freakish height and agile build, coaches everywhere had been fighting to recruit him. He hadn’t even needed to learn the game—his sheer presence on the court was overwhelming.

He was like a child version of a Slam Dunk legend.
A one-in-a-million physical talent.
A monster prodigy.

Even when he barely understood strategy or positioning, he crushed his opponents by sheer instinct and size.

In his very first year, he’d led his team to a regional championship—effortlessly.

A player like that doesn’t train to win.
He exists to rewrite the game.

Soon, the teams were set.

There wasn’t enough time to organize a full 40-minute match, so each game was trimmed to 20 minutes—split into two 10-minute halves.

Han ended up grouped with Kuroko and eight other first-years—ten players in total.

Naturally, each of them would get roughly 10 minutes to prove themselves.

As the games kicked off across the gym, Han and Kuroko found themselves sitting on the bench, watching the first five newcomers take the court.

What followed was... predictable.

The first-years were completely outmatched.

Thrown together with no synergy, no chemistry, and barely any preparation, they were quickly dismantled by the discipline and cohesion of Teikō’s Second String.

But that’s no surprise.

This was Teikō, after all.

Even their second-string players were talented enough to be starters on other schools’ top teams.
In fact, the Second String wasn’t just a bunch of benchwarmers—they were the reserve pool for the First String, the elite of the elite.

There were only a handful of main players in Teikō’s starting lineup, and the rest were pulled up based on merit—from the Second String.

So, for these nervous new recruits, this wasn’t just a practice match.

This was a trial by fire.

Coach Shirogane had orchestrated it deliberately.
He wanted to humble them.
To show these overconfident rookies what real basketball looked like at Teikō.

And it didn’t take long.

Within just five minutes, the score read: 16–4.

Han’s team of first-years had only managed to scrape together 4 points—while Teikō’s Second String had scored effortlessly, as if they were playing against middle schoolers.

Because, well... they were.

The difference in strength was obvious.
The first-years weren’t just weaker than the Second String—they had no teamwork, no chemistry, no strategy.
Losing this badly? Completely expected.

“Damn, it’s already 16 to 4?”
“Didn’t you hear the opening narration? Teikō is a powerhouse. What did you expect—rookies pulling off miracles?”
“I’m just waiting for Kuroko to turn things around. You know how it goes—teammates start beefing, then the MC explodes and leads the comeback, right?”

The online comments came pouring in.
And honestly?
They weren’t wrong.

Most people had seen enough sports anime to know the usual formula—fall behind, then pull off a dramatic reversal in the second half.
All eyes were on Kuroko.

But today’s story wasn’t going to follow the usual script.
Because the one leading the comeback wouldn’t be Kuroko.

Not yet.

Before he developed his signature misdirection technique, Kuroko was... well, honestly, kind of useless.
A total benchwarmer.
Expecting him to carry the team at this stage was just wishful thinking.

The first half of the game was almost over. The score hadn’t improved.

And that’s when Han stood up.

As he stretched and prepared to step onto the court, he caught a glimpse of Kuroko beside him.
His hands were trembling.

“What’s this?” Han raised an eyebrow. “You nervous, Kuroko?”
“Aren’t you excited? You’re finally getting to play.”

Kuroko’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I… I’m sorry, Suichi-kun. The seniors are just too strong…”

He knew his limits.
No one could doubt his love for the game—but he wasn’t blind to the fact that he was the weakest player on the court.

Han could tell.
And yet, he just grinned, confident and calm.

He bent down, spreading his legs and placing his palms on his knees as he warmed up, moving with easy, relaxed control.

“That’s it?” he said, glancing at Kuroko.
“That’s all that’s shaking you?”

Kuroko looked up.

“You’re not nervous at all?”

Han straightened, flashing a wide, fearless smile.

“Of course not,” he said. “Because I’m the strongest.”