At 9 AM the next day, the gymnasium was just being bathed in warm golden light by the morning sun, but the roar of the crowd on the sidelines was already deafening.
The first match of the individual tournament semifinals, Gu Jin vs. Fujima Kenji—this showdown, dubbed “God-tier” by fans, had all nerves stretched taut even before it began.
The player benches on the sidelines were already full; Shoyo’s team members clustered around Fujima, while Ryonan’s players surrounded Gu Jin.
Hanagata Toru clapped Fujima’s shoulder, his voice full of trust: “Fujima, go for it! Beat him.”
Fujima turned around, a familiar calm smile on his face, twirling a basketball with his fingertips as he softly said, “I’ll give it my all.” As his gaze swept across Gu Jin on the opposite side of the court, a hint of imperceptible gravity entered his smile.
On the other side, Taoka Moichi stared into Gu Jin’s eyes, his tone firm and unequivocal: “Gu Jin, no holding back. Finish it quickly, don’t let him get into any rhythm.”
Gu Jin nodded slightly. He looked up, his gaze falling on Fujima, comprehensively analyzing Fujima’s data in his mind.
Fujima Kenji’s most outstanding trait was his agility, which Gu Jin estimated to be at least 9.8 points. In the quarterfinals against Murasame, he repeatedly dodged malicious collisions, his reaction speed comparable to a professional player’s.
Also, his dribbling error rate was 0.03%, almost negligible.
His defensive anticipation could be rated at 8.5 points; in this aspect, Fujima was definitely stronger than Maki Shinichi.
However, he also had a crucial weakness: his physical strength was too low, barely a 7 points.
Additionally, Fujima’s offense was incredibly sharp!
His attacks always found the most tricky angles in defensive gaps, using changes in rhythm and subtle force to shatter seemingly solid defenses.
But that was when he was playing against others.
Although the 1v1 court was never a one-sided hunt, and Fujima excelled at “using softness to overcome hardness.”
However, his “softness” would inevitably be ineffective against absolute “hardness.”
And Gu Jin’s hardness was a different dimension of overwhelming power; through continuous training, his physical qualities were gradually matching his experience and skills from his previous life.
“Rock-paper-scissors for possession!” the referee signaled.
Fujima played paper, Gu Jin played rock. “Fujima gets possession!”
Fujima stood with the ball outside the three-point line, his dribbling rhythm light as flowing water, the force of his fingertips on the ball varying, like tuning a string.
The murmur of discussion surged in the stands: “Fujima’s going to start controlling the tempo!”
“Will he go for a direct attack?”
Gu Jin bent his knees and lowered his waist, his arms spread like an iron gate.
He didn’t rush to steal the ball but kept his center of gravity between his legs, his gaze locked on Fujima’s wrist—the first point of force for a ball-handler’s change of direction.
Two seconds later, Fujima suddenly executed a front-cross dribble, feigning a drive to the left with his right hand, but his wrist flicked lightly the instant he touched the ball, which then switched to his left hand as if glued to his fingertips.
This was his signature move, which had caused countless players to be faked out and then driven past.
But Gu Jin didn’t move.
His feet were as if nailed to the floor; only at the moment Fujima switched hands did his left arm shift ten centimeters horizontally, perfectly blocking the opponent’s breakthrough path.
Fujima’s change of direction was abruptly cut off, forcing him to gather the ball and jump, attempting to complete his first attack with a pull-up jumper.
The instant his body left the ground, Gu Jin moved.
Like a mountain suddenly rising, Gu Jin’s jumping height far exceeded Fujima’s prediction, his long arm like a dark cloud pressing down, accompanied by the sound of tearing air.
“Whap!”
With a crisp sound, the basketball was firmly slammed against the backboard and bounced back into Gu Jin’s arms.
The entire venue fell silent, then erupted in deafening gasps of astonishment!
“A huge block! It’s Gu Jin’s signature monster block!”
Fujima stumbled half a step when he landed, his gaze on Gu Jin colored with astonishment for the first time.
He was accustomed to using rhythm to fake out opponents, but he had never imagined that someone could, without falling for any fakes, complete a block with absolute height and wingspan—like a precise sniper rifle, ignoring all feint traps and directly locking onto the bullet’s trajectory.
He truly wasn’t strong in an ordinary way!
Gu Jin turned with the ball and dribbled straight towards the basket.
Fujima gritted his teeth and chased back; his speed was usually an advantage, but Gu Jin’s strides were too large, each step like crossing half the court, and the power of his dribbling made the floor vibrate with a dull thud.
Just as he was about to catch up, Fujima reached out to steal the ball. His fingertips were about to touch the ball’s surface when Gu Jin suddenly stopped and jumped, his body leaning back slightly in the air, his left arm fending off the defense, and his right hand slamming the ball fiercely into the hoop!
“Dunk over him!!!” The commentator’s roar pierced the stadium,
“1-0! Gu Jin responds to Fujima with a monstrous dunk!”
Ryonan’s side erupted, Taoka Moichi forcefully pounding the tactical board.
Gu Jin landed expressionlessly; he knew this was just the beginning—Fujima’s rhythm relied on “predicting the opponent’s prediction,” and what he had to do was use his absolute physical talent to tear apart all predictions.
In the next possession, Fujima adjusted his rhythm, incorporating more crossover dribbles to try and disrupt Gu Jin’s center of gravity with continuous fakes.
But Gu Jin’s defense was like an impenetrable wall; no matter how the opponent changed direction, he maintained an effective blocking range with his arms.
Fujima attempted to drive three times without success, forced to pull up for a jump shot outside the three-point line—the ball had barely left his hand when Gu Jin leaped up and swatted it away.
“Another block! Fujima’s shot is denied again!” The commentator also exclaimed.
Fujima again had possession, but Gu Jin stole it! Possession returned to Gu Jin.
Gu Jin didn’t hesitate for a moment, suddenly accelerating with the dribble, his left shoulder pressing against Fujima’s defense as he drove directly to the basket, scoring with an underhand layup.
2-0.
Sweat beaded on Fujima’s forehead.
He found himself in a dilemma: driving would be blocked, shooting would be interfered with, and even his most adept rhythm changes were completely neutralized by Gu Jin’s “unchanging” defense.
What alarmed him even more was how terrifyingly accurate Gu Jin’s defensive anticipation was—every time he wanted to change direction, it felt as if it was already within Gu Jin’s control.
The next second, Fujima tried to break free with a behind-the-back dribble; his wrist had barely completed its rotation when Gu Jin’s hand was already there like a shadow, “slapping” the ball away.
Fast break, tomahawk dunk, 3-0.
The stands erupted again. Could Fujima, an S-rank player, not escape the curse of being shut out?
In all of Gu Jin’s games, only Rukawa Kaede had scored against him.
In the very next possession, a hint of imperceptible panic appeared in Fujima’s dribbling; his rhythm finally broke.
Gu Jin seized this 0.3-second flaw, lightning-fast, he stole the ball, then pulled up for a jump shot from outside the three-point line—the basketball arced smoothly, swishing through the net. 4-0.
Fujima gasped, leaning on his knees, his chest heaving violently.
He had lost his previous composure. Gu Jin was like an unassailable scoring machine. Fujima had a delusion that—no matter who it was, the only outcome against Gu Jin was to be dismantled.
Gu Jin stood outside the three-point line, his gaze calmly fixed on Fujima.
This showdown, perhaps from the very beginning, was not a contest of skill versus strength, but a dimensional reduction strike in terms of talent.
The spectators in the stands were stunned, and Shoyo’s players clenched their fists. Hanagata Toru murmured, “Fujima… his rhythm has been completely disrupted…”
Fujima took a deep breath, raising a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
He looked at Gu Jin, his opponent standing like an iron tower on the court.
Crushing skill with absolute talent, countering experienced anticipation with data-driven precision.
“Again,” Fujima’s voice was a little hoarse, but carried a tenacious refusal to give up, as he bent down to take possession of the ball once more.
Gu Jin nodded slightly, lowering his center of gravity again.
Sunlight streamed through the high windows of the stadium, casting long shadows between the two, and a true battle of S-rank players was about to enter its climax.