To all my esteemed readers, I have a slight fever today and am not feeling my best, so the quality of the writing might be a little lower.
However, I will still stick to updating 10,000 words today! The next few chapters will be released a bit later.
Thank you all for your support!!!
As soon as the jump ball whistle blew, Na Takamitsu lightly tipped the ball, and it fell into John Gedd's hands.
The number 10 point guard's speed was severely disproportionate to his physique; he was incredibly fast, as if he had a motor installed.
In just one step, he blew past Makoto Ikegami, then stopped short at the free-throw line, flicked his wrist, and the ball swished through the net.
2:0, just 9 seconds into the game.
This lightning-fast fast break was practically a replica of Ryonan's play style!
Fujisawa Eri stood courtside, the collar of her blue-black tracksuit revealing her fair neck.
Blue-black was once Fujisawa Eri's most hated color combination; even her personal assistant privately whispered that the young lady's wardrobe had, at some point, become filled with this 'monotonous color scheme' she once disdained.
Only the assistant didn't know that it was Ryonan's color scheme, and also the color Gu Jin often wore.
And the pair of limited-edition Generation 7 sneakers on her feet were identical to the ones Gu Jin wore, even the wear marks on the sides of the shoes looked as if they were deliberately mimicked.
Fujisawa Eri watched the copy-and-paste fast break on the court, her fingertips unconsciously clenching the corner of her clothes.
This style of play seemed to let her trace Gu Jin's shadow!
Like?
She wouldn't admit it.
It was just that she wasn't reconciled, that's all.
"Gu Jin," she stared at the scoreboard, her eyes gleaming with a hint of unwillingness, and a stubbornness she hadn't even noticed herself, "You watch closely, the person I found can still play at your rhythm.
Just you wait, I'll make you regret it!"
On the court, Ryokufu's pick-and-roll worked again, very much like the plays Ryonan often ran.
Fujisawa Eri's lips tightened, but at the moment of the goal, her fingertips moved slightly—with a hidden hint of joy.
Buri served the ball, and as soon as Matsui Gō dribbled past half-court, Kurami Ichiro snatched it away, making a long pass to Mike Okita, who, over Makoto Hoshino, delivered a thunderous dunk that shook even the stands.
4:0, 17 seconds into the game.
A gasp erupted from the stands: "Is this even a game? It's a slaughter from the start!"
The roar was mixed with gasps of cold air; some people instinctively leaned forward, as if wanting to see if Ryokufu really intended to nail the score at such a disparate number.
A few Buri supporters in the front row clutched their cheer sticks, their knuckles white, but even their shouts of encouragement sounded weak—the green torrent on the court was using Ryonan's swiftness to crush Buri's resistance.
Fujisawa Eri's eyelashes fluttered when she heard this.
This was exactly the effect she wanted.
To show Gu Jin that she could still create a sharper team without him.
But for some reason, as her gaze swept over the Ryokufu players, her heart felt as if something was grating against it—ultimately, it wasn't him.
In the stands, Sendoh's fingertips tapped lightly on his knee, his gaze fixed on John Gedd's dribbling path—this point guard's change of direction seemed half a beat faster than Maki Shinichi's.
Gu Jin leaned forward on his crutches, then suddenly said in a low voice, "Ryokufu is still hiding Mitsui; perhaps they haven't even gone all out."
No sooner had he spoken than James Wallace grabbed the rebound; he could have gone straight for a layup but deliberately passed the ball to an open Kurami Ichiro, as if practicing a play.
Ikegami suddenly spoke, his gaze fixed on the court: "Don't you feel it? Ryokufu's style of play is too similar to ours.
I had this feeling from the videotapes Hikoichi showed us before, but watching it live today, it's like looking in a mirror."
Uozumi's thick eyebrows furrowed, and he grunted, "They're just imitating the superficial; they're just putting on a show.
If they really faced us, they'd be crying."
"Shut up!" Taoka Moichi suddenly raised his hand and slapped the railing of the stands, his voice abruptly stern, "As captain, don't you understand the principle that pride goes before a fall?
Everyone, open your eyes and remember clearly—Ryokufu's timing for switching on every pick-and-roll, Mike Okita's habits when driving, that black point guard's hesitation when dribbling with his left hand... Especially that number 11 power forward, his play style is not to be underestimated.
After playing against Kaohsiung this afternoon, the whole team will return to Ryonan tonight; we need to dissect these details one by one!"
His gaze was as sharp as a knife, sweeping over the Ryonan players: "Underestimating the enemy? That's a mistake only fools make!"
Uozumi choked on the scolding and sullenly shut his mouth, but couldn't help but glance at the court again—that green number 11 figure stopped short for a jump shot during a fast break, the crispness of his movements, and the pass he just made, really did have a few hints of Gu Jin.
His brow furrowed even deeper, and his knuckles clenched secretly on his knee.
The team members responded in unison, their gazes refocusing on the court.
Ryokufu's offense continued, the score climbing like a rocket, but in the eyes of the Ryonan players, there was no surprise, only an increasingly strong fighting spirit.
Ten minutes into the game, the score had already reached 46:9.
Ryokufu's offense was like an unceasing downpour, making it a luxury for the Buri players to even catch their breath.
John Gedd's passes were like threading a needle, always finding an opening at the tightest moment of Buri's defense.
James Wallace, receiving the ball in the corner, didn't even need to adjust; a flick of his wrist was a three-pointer, and the sound of the basketball swishing through the net was particularly jarring in the empty gymnasium.
Buri's point guard, Makoto Ikegami, tried to replicate a fast break, but as soon as he crossed mid-court, John anticipated his route.
The latter, like a poised beast, suddenly darted out, deftly tipped the ball away with his fingertips, and as he turned to make a long pass, Mike Okita had already rushed to the basket like an arrow, delivering another powerful dunk that made the rim groan under the strain.
As time passed... the second half's timer ticked towards its end, the red numbers "58" blinking in the corner of the screen, as if counting down for this game that had long lost its suspense.
On the scoreboard, the numbers 133:43 stung the eyes, a 90-point difference like a huge boulder, pressing down heavily on the Buri players' hearts.
Makoto Hoshino gasped for air, leaning on his knees, sweat dripping from his chin onto the floor, creating a small wet patch.
He looked up at the hoop, his vision somewhat blurred—Ryokufu's "substitute number 14 guard" had even done a behind-the-back dribble outside the three-point line before slowly sinking the ball.
This almost mocking composure was more despair-inducing than a sharp offense.
Buri's head coach, Sato, stood hunched over on the sidelines, his suit jacket long since thrown onto the bench, his shirt collar open, revealing skin wrinkled with sweat.
He stared at the young figures on the court, his steps so unsteady he looked like he might fall at any moment, yet he continued to move mechanically.
In the last ten seconds, Ryokufu even gave up on offense, merely passing the ball among themselves outside the three-point line, as if playing with an insignificant toy.
When the final whistle finally blew, Buri's players didn't stop moving, nor did they celebrate—they just stood in place, some with their heads bowed, some staring at the ceiling, even their movements to wipe away sweat showed numbness.
A 90-point difference was not a chasm that could be filled with effort, but an annihilation whose outcome was predetermined from the start, crushing all struggles into futility.
Buri, last year's top four team, was now completely reduced to a footnote in this slaughter.
Makoto Hoshino's fingernails dug deep into his palms, but the pain couldn't override the suffocation in his chest—last year, they could still contend with opponents in the top four playoffs, even losing with the fierce spirit of fighting to the last second;
But today, they were like a group of ants being rubbed on the ground, unable to organize even a decent resistance.
On the bench, a freshman who had just joined the team finally couldn't hold back, slamming his towel to the ground, crying out in a choked voice, "This is not even the same level... We can't even reach their shadow!"
Coach Sato turned his back, looking at the poster on the gymnasium wall of last year's top four team photo.
In the picture, Makoto Hoshino was still raising his fist, his eyes full of aspirations for the future.
In just one year, that sharpness had been crushed by this 90-point difference.
He pulled out a lighter, trying to light a cigarette, but his hand trembled so much he couldn't get it lit for a long time.
Finally, he just threw the cigarette on the ground and stomped on it fiercely with his foot—losing so badly, even feeling heartache seemed superfluous, leaving only a dull sense of powerlessness.
Ryokufu's players had already begun to leave the court, and as they passed Buri's bench, no one deliberately showed off, but that calm detachment was more hurtful than any taunt.
Last year's glory of being in the top four was now like a joke, torn to shreds by this crushing defeat, scattered across the sweat-soaked floor, never to be pieced back together again.