Landing on his feet, Jung Ho wiped his palm across his face, smearing away the droplets of sweat. The ball lay at his feet. The crowd was buzzing like a disturbed hive. Some were whistling, some were clapping, and others were shouting new bets, drowning each other out:
"Ten thousand on the little guy! He's gonna crush him!"
"I cancel my previous bet! Only on the winner!"
"He's already on his last legs, look!"
These words drilled into his temples like nails. Jung Ho clenched his fists; he was already mentally unsure of himself:
"Are they right? Am I really that weak?"
"Your move, Captain," Ming You stood half a meter away, knees slightly bent, arms spread wide—a living barrier. His smirk was more irritating than the crowd's screams.
Jung Ho picked up the ball, felt the rough texture of the leather seams. He started dribbling.
A dash to the left, a sharp crossover to the right—but Ming You didn't even flinch. Instead, he lunged forward lightning-fast, his hand flashed out and his fingers slid over the ball, tearing it from Jung Ho's hands with unnatural ease.
"You don't have any chances left." Ming You stepped back beyond the three-point line.
Jung Ho exploded into motion, rushing after Ming You. It seemed he was about to catch him—another surge, another step—but at that same moment, Ming You came to an abrupt halt, froze for an instant, and released the ball from beyond the three-point line.
Jung Ho soared into the air, his hand shooting up, fingers straining in an attempt to reach the ball. But it was already too late—the projectile traced a high arc, relentlessly approaching the hoop.
A soft whistle cut through the air, followed by a clean swish: the ball passed cleanly through the net without even touching the rim.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Jung Ho kicked at the air. His voice cracked, and someone in the crowd laughed.
Mentally, Ming You laughed, but his face remained impassive:
"Hahaha! Breaking down in the middle of the game, looks like I've overachieved on my plan."
Ming You bent down sharply, scooping up the ball. His fingers tightly gripped the leather surface. He slammed the ball against the asphalt—once, then a second time, maintaining a precise rhythm.
His eyes narrowed, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.
"They see the truth." He nodded towards the spectators. "You're in a trap."
"What trap?!" Jung Ho grew alarmed.
"The one you set for yourself. Heh-heh, Did you think I was just a braggart? You've gotten in over your head, Captain."
"To hell with this hulk! He's a weakling! I'm changing my bet!" shouted someone from the crowd.
Jung Ho braced himself, muscles tense, fingers trembling slightly in anticipation. His gaze was fixed on the ball, his legs were coiled springs, ready to burst forward.
A dull thud sounded—the ball shot downwards, hitting the asphalt with a sharp snap. The bounce was low, swift, right in front of Jung Ho. He lunged forward, but Ming You was faster.
A deft shoulder fake, a deceptive movement—and then an immediate, hard shove with his body. Jung Ho felt the ground disappear from under his feet. For a moment, he hung in the air, then crashed heavily onto the asphalt, expelling all the air from his lungs. Ming You was already racing onward, leaving him lying in the dust.
"Oopsy-daisy, that was awkward," Ming You made a shot from under the hoop.
"Get up!" they yelled from the crowd. "You've already lost!"
Jung Ho punched the asphalt.
"Why..." he got up, his voice rasping. "Why is everyone betting on you?"
Ming You picked up the ball and switched it to his other hand.
"Because, unlike you, I deliver results, not hopes for the future. And you… heh-heh, you're just afraid."
Jung Ho lowered his gaze and gritted his teeth.
"Bet change!" a skinny guy in the crowd shrieked, waving money. "Two to one against Jung Ho!"
"He's already given up!"
Jung Ho felt the ground giving way beneath him:
"They're right? I…"
"No, ENOUGH!" He burst from his spot, breaking all the rules of anticipation. His body, like a battering ram, slammed into Ming You.
A sharp impact from his shoulder—and Ming You was thrown back a step, but his fingers clenched the ball even tighter. He barely kept his balance, his torso lurching forward, but he didn't lose the ball.
"Wow, and who was it that told me about fair play?" he feigned surprise.
"No rules, you said it yourself!" Jung Ho hissed.
Ming You let out a theatrical laugh.
"Ha-ha! Finally, a spark. Too bad it's too late."
Ming You abruptly changed his rhythm, the ball hitting the asphalt in perfect time with his rapid dash. He slipped past the defender, making a swift drive towards the three-point line.
Stopping beyond the arc, he instantly gathered himself for a jump shot. Jung Ho desperately lunged forward, throwing his hands up, trying to block the view.
But it was already too late—the ball, released with perfect backspin, was already gaining height.
"It's over." Ming You spread his hands. "Admit it, you're not good enough."
Jung Ho stood there, clenching and unclenching his fingers. The crowd's roar, the taunts, his smirk—it all merged into a fiery ball in his chest.
"No." He lifted his head. "It's not over yet, Ming You!"
Ming You raised an eyebrow.
"Heh-heh, well, prove it."
The ball rolled across the asphalt to his feet. He bent down, picking it up with seeming carelessness, but the movement betrayed fatigue.
Jung Ho squeezed the ball in his palms, feeling its rough surface. The weight in his hands wasn't just physical—the confidence, so firm just moments ago, was now melting away with every heartbeat.
He looked up. The stands were buzzing, spectators jumping to their feet, shouting, waving their arms and money.
"This is just a disgrace!" he exclaimed, trying to muster all his strength for one last attack. "I can't let this happen, Ming You!"
Steeling himself, Jung Ho decided to risk it all. He started dribbling and charged into the attack. His heart was pounding, and he felt adrenaline flooding his body. He bypassed Ming You, but the latter seemed to anticipate his move.
"You can't fool me," said Ming You, confidently taking up position.
Jung Ho sharply brought the ball up for a shot, his muscles tensing for a final effort. But Ming You, as if predicting the move, stepped forward lightning-fast.
A slight flick of the hand—and the ball was no longer in his fingers. A crisp sound of leather being struck, quick as a snap. A steal.
Jung Ho froze in place. Emptiness appeared in his eyes.
"This is the end, Jung Ho," uttered Ming You, sinking the ball into the basket and increasing the score. "You should have understood that this game is meant for those who are ready for a real challenge."
Jung Ho lowered his head, realizing that his opponent was not only physically stronger but also psychologically superior. He had lost faith in himself, and now it was obvious to everyone.
"This game," he whispered, "I won't just accept defeat like this."
"Defeat is part of the game," said Ming You, his voice soft but confident. "Part of the game for weaklings like you, but I'll give you a chance."
"I can make a comeback? Thank you..." he said, his voice becoming more confident and full of hope.
"Not a chance," smiled Ming You. "A defeat is a defeat. Now you're mine. Right, guys?" Three guys, led by Taek Joon, approached Jung Ho.
"No hard feelings, kid. This Ming Yu gets on my nerves a bit too, but a deal's a deal. I hope that explanation is enough," said Taek Joon with a serious expression.
"Alright, I understand."
"Don't let me down, Jung Ho," said Ming You with a sinister smile.