When the freshmen attacked again, Daniel Irving himself stepped up, spreading his arms wide across from Cory Grant.
Daniel had studied Cory's crossover carefully. This time, he didn't press too close, instead giving distance, determined not to get tricked.
But even that wasn't enough.
Cory's growth over the past five days was staggering. He was no longer the "starter for a weak team." His panel now read sixth man on a strong team. To put it bluntly—he and Daniel weren't on the same tier anymore.
With controlled rhythm, Cory dribbled between his legs, snapped into a fluid crossover, shifted Daniel's weight—and in the blink of an eye drilled into the gap.
One sharp step. One sudden stop. Pull-up jumper.
Swish!
The crowd of Shohoku players watching gasped.
Cory's scoring mode snapped alive. He broke down defenders with simple crossovers, unleashed sudden mid-rangers, even drained an occasional three. If the seniors sent a double-team, Cory never forced it—he zipped the ball out to an open teammate for the assist.
Five minutes was all it took. Cory tallied 11 points and 2 dimes. The freshmen's lead ballooned.
It wasn't that Cory had suddenly become invincible—it was that the seniors were too weak compared to his sudden rise, just like how Victor "Tank" Uozumi once got inflated numbers against squads with no legit big men.
Desperate to respond, Daniel Irving attacked with force. He drove hard, trying to break through Cory's defense.
But Cory stuck like shadow. Both leapt. Cory's fingertips brushed the ball—altering its path.
BANG! It smacked off the board. Charles Ackerman cleaned up the rebound, and the freshmen ran the floor again.
The seniors' morale plummeted. Their patience cracked, mistakes piled up. Daniel had to burn another timeout.
In the huddle, Cory turned to Charles, slapping his shoulder. "Charles—don't you get it yet?"
Charles blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Owen Suzuki's weakness."
Charles frowned, thinking hard. "…His speed?"
"Exactly. Not just speed—his stamina too." Cory explained ruthlessly. "He can't run the floor. Every fast break will leave him behind. Five-on-four transitions. Free points."
Charles's face brightened, realization hitting him. "But… what if he doesn't join the attack?"
Cory stared at him like he'd asked if the earth was flat. "Then it's even better! Four-on-five offense for them? We'll crush them."
"…I'm an idiot. How did I miss that?" Charles smacked his forehead, instantly fired up.
Timeout ended. Seniors tried standing tall, rediscovering some rhythm on offense. Daniel slipped a pass to Isaac Takahashi, who knocked down a mid-range jumper.
But Cory immediately barked, "Quick attack!"
Charles grabbed the ball from baseline, fast-served, and sprinted. Okamoto advanced, then slid the ball to Cory, who drove. At the perfect moment, he dished back to Charles inside.
Daniel sprinted, desperate to contest. But Charles was a runaway truck. He soared, snatched the ball, and tore down the rim.
BOOM!
The gym shook with the violence of his dunk. Charles landed, pounding his chest, roaring like a freed gorilla. All the stress of years of losing records burst out at once.
Teammates piled in for high-fives. The freshmen roared with joy.
The seniors looked at one another in despair. There it was—the flaw exposed. Owen's defense was making them collapse.
From that point on, the difference was night and day. Seniors grew anxious, disjointed. On defense, they rotated late, leaving wide gaps. On offense, forced shots clanged.
The freshmen only flourished more. Their confidence stacked with each score. Their spacing grew tighter, timing smoother. One-Star, Four-Shooters finally clicked into fluid motion.
Daniel tried substitutions—pulling Owen. But without him, they lost their physical paint presence. Charles destroyed smaller defenders at will. With Owen back in, transition fast breaks killed them.
A lose-lose equation.
The scoreboard margin soared past 20. The result was clear.
At last, Coach Anderson raised a hand, voice solemn: "Stop the game."
Both teams froze. Though the freshmen wanted to continue crushing, no one dared disobey the coach's word.
Players streamed back to the sideline. Whispers spread:
"This year's freshmen are incredible."
"With Charles and Cory leading, maybe Shohoku can finally get past round one this year."
"Top eight if we're lucky…"
"Hah! Keep dreaming—but who knows."
The seniors were dejected, but even they couldn't deny hope had returned at last.
Cory, meanwhile, checked his system notifications:
[Your Organization attribute has reached the standard and is now displayed on your Panel!]
A new line appeared.
He quickly recalled: Passing measured accuracy, but Organization was different. It dictated initiating the offense, commanding teammates' spots, connecting plays, controlling pace—the invisible leadership glue.
Cory grinned. Even scrimmages were worth more than training.
A sudden rumble snapped everyone out of thought.
Coach Anderson rose from his oversized chair, thermos still in hand, studying each player.
"I have news," he said slowly. "I've received an invitation from Coach Tian of Ryonan High. They want a friendly game against us this weekend. Right here, in Shohoku's gym. I expect everyone to be ready."
The air thickened. Shohoku versus Ryonan.
A "friendly match"—but everyone knew it would be a real test.