The Turnaround Jump Shot had officially become Cory Grant's fourth mastered skill. Not only did it add another weapon to his arsenal—it also accelerated his growth rate.
"Grant, your learning ability is absurd," said Yusaku Ozawa, eyes complicated.
He couldn't deny it. It had taken him six months under Coach Tian's personal guidance before he could wield the turnaround jumper properly. Cory had cracked the essence in just hours.
That shot Ozawa took such pride in—now, this freshman had already learned it.
"Senior, it's my turn now," Cory said seriously. "We agreed—I'll teach you the Pull-Up Jumper."
Ozawa nodded. The move fascinated him. If mastered, it could raise his scoring efficiency and sharpen his already diverse offensive repertoire.
He demonstrated, showing his attempt. Immediately, Cory spotted flaws: Ozawa braced too high when stopping, sometimes landing on the forefoot instead of both feet evenly. That shifted his rhythm off, breaking balance.
Cory broke the motion into smaller fragments, teaching piece by piece, forcing Ozawa to rep each movement over and over.
Though the pull-up looked "simpler," it was a deceptively tough technique—requiring precision, muscle memory, and thousands of reps for mastery.
They trained straight through lunch into the afternoon. Both dripping with sweat, eyes sharp, locked in repetition—teacher and student now sharing roles.
Even Ozawa, usually composed, skipped his meal just to keep practicing. Cory quietly respected it. He's as stubborn as me… we're the same type of grinder.
By sundown, Ozawa finally started hitting consistent pull-ups in rhythm. He wasn't ready for in-game execution yet, but Cory had given him the essentials. Actual combat would come with volume.
"Mmm… Grant," Ozawa exhaled, dropping the ball into his palm. "Thank you. Come to Ryonan anytime. We'll sharpen each other again."
Cory smiled. "See you soon, Captain."
They parted ways with mutual respect.
By then, most Ryonan players had already left. Only Shohoku's gym remained open, with two familiar figures lingering: Charles Ackerman and his sister, Hannah Ackerman.
Cory wiped his sweat, but noticed Hannah kept glancing his way, hesitant, lips pursed.
"Hannah?" he asked gently. "Do you need something?"
Her eyes wavered, then firmed as she drew courage. "…Grant-senpai, could you… teach me? I know it might trouble you, but I really love basketball. I want to learn properly."
Her voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet hall it was like a bell.
Charles froze. His sister—asking Cory, his best friend, instead of him. His jaw tightened with a complicated heaviness. He'd been the one to coach her, but… she wanted more than he could give.
Cory looked straight into Hannah's earnest eyes. He saw it—real passion.
He smiled. "If you want to learn, I'll teach you."
Her face lit up in a radiant grin, eyes sparkling. "Thank you, Grant-senpai!"
Training began. Cory corrected Hannah's fundamentals—her stance, dribble, release. Her mistakes were obvious: she had been absorbing Charles's inside-centric habits, but their builds were worlds apart. She needed perimeter basics, not bruiser footwork.
She listened earnestly, hair tied in a ponytail bouncing lightly with every drill.
She has no natural athleticism, Cory thought. But she has fire. What matters is whether she can endure the boring work.
After setting her on repetitive shooting drills, Cory returned to his own grind. He worked relentlessly at the Turnaround Jumper—hours pouring sweat into motion. Eventually his system notified:
[Turnaround Jump Shot: LV1 → LV2]
[Close-Range Shots: 69 → 71]
[Flexibility: 78 → 79]
[Explosive Power: 65 → 66]
The shot flowed smoother, and his frame stronger.
When he tired of post work, he shifted to three-pointers. For weeks he'd hammered 200 attempts a day—not the legendary 500 of shooting "gods," but enough to build steady gains.
He studied Curry's mechanics—snap of wrist, fingertip flick, economy of motion. Slowly but surely, his range solidified.
"Senpai, I'll pick up the balls for you!" Hannah chirped, bounding across the hardwood.
Her small frame raced constantly, ferrying rebounds. Her presence was a blessing—Cory no longer had to waste time collecting misses. He simply caught, set, fired.
Efficiency doubled. His percentage crept higher than usual.
"Thanks, Hannah. You're a lifesaver," Cory said between jumpshots.
Sweat poured, the gym echoing with swish, bounce, swish.
And in that rhythm, two futures worked quietly—
One, a girl chasing her love for basketball.
The other, a boy secretly forging weapons for Shohoku's climb to glory.