Effort equals reward—the harder you work, the greater the payoff.
The player's panel finished loading.
Unleash physical potential.
Activate learning mechanism.
A golden finger?
Cory Grant's heart leapt. He knew exactly what this meant.
To be honest, when he promised Mitch Harris that he'd carry the team until his return, Cory hadn't had much confidence. His body simply wasn't blessed with talent.
But now—something mysterious spread through his muscles and bones. A warm, tingling current sank into every cell, filling him with new energy, vitality, and strength.
His eyes burned for a moment, then cleared as though polished glass. The world sharpened instantly—he could see the intricate wood grain on the table several meters away.
His myopia, the curse that had trailed him for years, was gone. Cory's vision was now perfect.
At that same moment, Mitch stared at him in stunned silence. Cory's words carried a strange power, as if filled with conviction that made them impossible to reject.
And Charles Ackerman, Shohoku's towering center, was swept up as well. He clenched a fist and declared firmly, "Me too!"
Hearing the two of them, Mitch's eyes grew red. His breathing steadied, and with effort he choked out, "Cory, Charles… I believe in you. You can do it."
For victory—for dreams—Mitch stretched out his right hand.
Without hesitation, Cory and Charles stacked their hands on top of his. Their grips tightened, silent sparks of determination flashing between them.
Just then—knock, knock, knock.
The ward's door rattled.
Turning, Cory saw a burly man framed in the doorway. He stood tall, roughly 6'1", with a broad chest, weathered face, and long hair falling across his shoulders. Three gleaming earrings dangled from his left ear.
Cory's eyes widened. Terry.
Wait. Mitch already knew Terry this early? That wasn't how the story was supposed to go.
Most fans thought Terry was just a thug—but Cory knew better. Beneath the rough exterior, he was fiercely loyal. He'd once backed Mitch in a fight against Shohoku, only to be betrayed when Mitch turned back to basketball mid-confrontation.
From Terry's perspective, that had been humiliation—yet when fate reunited them at a hospital years later, Terry hadn't cursed him. Instead, he simply said goodbye with parting words that carried both blessing and closure: "Goodbye, athlete."
That support had been key to Mitch's eventual return.
"Mitch," Terry stepped inside, his presence dominating the room. He didn't even glance at Cory, instead locking onto Charles—the one man whose size rivaled his own.
Mitch introduced them quickly: "This is my good friend Terry. Don't let his rugged look fool you—he's only two years older than us. Terry, meet my teammates, Charles and Cory."
The quick introductions softened the tension. Hands were shaken, nods exchanged.
Soon after, Cory excused himself. "Mitch, it's getting late. We'll come see you again in a few days."
Charles agreed, and they left together into the evening.
The streetlamps buzzed to life, casting long shadows across the pavement.
After a long silence, Charles finally asked, "Cory… do you really think we can pull this off? Every year, Shohoku flames out in the first round. Our roster is weak. Our coach hardly shows up. Be honest—can we really uphold that promise to Mitch?"
Cory smiled faintly. Golden Finger or not, now he had conviction. He patted Charles on the shoulder.
"Charles, do you remember our dream?"
"…To dominate the nation," Charles muttered.
"That's right. Our dream isn't just the County Tournament—it's to dominate the nation. Compared to that, what's a small regional bracket? If we commit together, nothing is impossible."
Charles's eyes lit with fire. The weight seemed to lift, his soul re-ignited.
They parted ways soon after. Alone at last, Cory finally summoned the gift that had awakened inside him.
A translucent panel floated in front of his face:
Effort Will Be Rewarded (High School Basketball Ver.)
Name: Cory Grant
Age: 15
Height: 5'8" (173 cm)
Wingspan: 5'10" (178 cm)
Weight: 126 lbs (57 kg)
Physical Attributes
Strength: 50
Speed: 58
Stamina: 65
Flexibility: 74
Reflexes: MAX
Injury Resistance: MAX
Offensive Skills
Ball Handling: 60
Passing: 58
Layup: 75
Inside Shooting: 62
Mid-Range Shooting: 59
Three-Point Shooting: 70
Free Throw Shooting: 72
Off-Ball Movement: 62
Defensive Skills
Steals: 55
One-on-One Defense: 57
Defensive Rebounding: 50
Skills: Crossover LV1 (32/100)
Status: Healthy
Evaluation: Weak Team – Bench Player
(Note: Attributes below 50 not shown!)
Cory's lips curled into a smile. His stats were weak, yes—but two things stood out: MAX Reflexes and MAX Injury Resistance.
Those were game-changing. Reflexes elevated both offense and defense while reducing mistakes. Injury Resistance was self-explanatory—it meant safety in a career where one bad twist could end everything.
Most exciting of all? Every single attribute line had a progress bar.
"A proficiency system…" Cory grinned. "Perfect. With a progress bar, I can grind all the way to the top."
Before, dreams without talent meant nothing. Now—with this system—dreams finally had a chance.
And the "High School Basketball Version"? That meant there were higher tiers too—College, NBA… maybe even beyond.
The thought alone made his grin widen.
Later that night, Cory reached home—a detached suburban house, not unlike the one you'd see in a Sunday cartoon family sitcom. Except here, there was no 30-year mortgage weighing it down.
He hesitated at the sliding door, still disoriented by his awakened memories.
With a deep breath, he stepped inside.
On the sofa in the living room sat his parents: Samuel Grant, a mild-mannered teacher wearing glasses, and Marianne Grant, a graceful accountant with fair skin who always carried herself with composure.
Cory had inherited the bespectacled intelligence of his father and the delicate looks of his mother. Together, they watched him curiously.
"Mom, Dad—I'm home!"
Marianne immediately set down her sewing. "Cory, you're late tonight… And wait—where are your glasses?"
His father stayed quiet, eyes narrowing.
"Sorry to worry you. Something happened today…" Cory explained everything—Mitch's hospitalization, his miraculous eyesight, and why he no longer needed glasses.
Finally, after a long pause, he straightened. His voice grew serious.
"Dad, Mom… I need to ask you something. I promised Mitch I'd keep the team alive until he comes back. To do that, I want to take one month's leave from school—so I can pour everything into basketball training. I know this might disappoint you, but…"
He lifted his eyes, filled with determination. "…I want your support."
He already braced himself for anger. He knew time wasn't on his side—Shohoku had limited chances left. If he didn't grow stronger now, the team's tournament run would end before Mitch returned.