Having decided to "keep playing basketball," Sakuragi Hanamichi absentmindedly rubbed his chin.
So… following the plot's trajectory, it seemed—probably, maybe—he'd still end up joining the Shohoku basketball team?
He wrestled with it internally.
To think that he, the self-proclaimed "Genius of the Red Hair," would now have to start from scratch on some Japanese high school squad… The drop in status felt like free-falling off a rollercoaster at its highest peak.
Still, there was an upside: if you had real skill, Japan's competitive basketball scene could lift you up. On the flip side—if you weren't over 195 cm, good luck getting noticed. Hell, they might even tie you down and charge you "training fees"!
But reason won out. You couldn't leap before you walked. Take too big a step, and—crack!—you'd tear something vital.
Right now, he was just a broke first-year with nothing but red hair and attitude. If he wanted to break into the NBA someday, he needed to make noise here first—become Japan's top high school player, draw scout attention, build a legend.
And Shohoku's basketball club? That was his only viable starting point.
"It's settled!" he declared inwardly, snapping his mental fingers.
The moment the final bell rang, the Sakuragi Gang arrived as usual—arms linked, swaggering down the hallway.
"Hanamichi! C'mon!" Takamiya Nozomi grinned, nudging him. "Heard a new pachinko parlor opened on the corner—let's test our luck!"
"Nope." Sakuragi slung his backpack over one shoulder with practiced cool. "I'm heading to the basketball club."
"Basketball… club?"
Those two words hit like a freeze ray. The four delinquents froze mid-step.
Then, as one, their eyes lit up with theatrical realization.
"Ohhh~!" Nozomi gasped, slamming a fist into her palm. "I get it! It's revenge! All that pent-up rage from fifty failed confessions—it's finally boiling over! She's gonna storm the gym and burn it down!"
"Exactly!" Oonan Yuuji chimed in. "Total chaos incoming!"
"No way Hanamichi actually likes basketball," Noma Chuichiro added, stroking his fake mustache sagely. "This is clearly a setup."
Even quiet Mito Yohei gave Sakuragi a knowing pat on the back. "We'll come cheer you on."
Sakuragi glanced at his friends—already scripting an entire melodrama in their heads—and opened his mouth to explain… then shut it again.
Eh. Let them believe what they want. Actions speak louder than words anyway.
The gang marched toward the gym like an invading army.
When they shoved open the heavy doors, the air hit them: sweat, rubber mats, dust—the unmistakable scent of hard work. The rhythmic thump-thump of dribbling, squeaking sneakers, and scattered shouts filled the space.
A few freshmen practicing basic drills near the entrance froze when they saw the group—especially the red-haired leader flanked by four rough-looking guys.
One kid dropped his ball. His eyes widened in alarm.
Sakuragi ignored them. His gaze swept the court like a radar dish—past unfamiliar faces, past nervous underclassmen—until it locked onto a lone figure warming up near the far basket.
Rukawa Kaede.
Even from across the gym, the guy radiated "don't talk to me." He stretched with lazy precision, utterly absorbed.
He must've sensed the commotion. His eyes flicked toward the door—lingered on Sakuragi's red hair for half a second—then dismissed him completely, turning back to his routine as if the disturbance were nothing more than a passing breeze.
Tch. Still as arrogant as ever.
Sakuragi scowled—but begrudgingly admitted Rukawa was better-looking. Barely.
Before he could dwell on it, Nozomi leapt forward, hands on hips, puffing out her chest. "Hey! Get your boss out here!"
She tried her best yakuza impression—deep voice, narrowed eyes—but it came off more "angry Pomeranian" than "feared enforcer."
The tension spiked. Upperclassmen paused mid-drill, frowning.
Then—a voice like thunder rolled from behind them.
"What do you want?"
They spun around.
Blocking the doorway stood a mountain of muscle: bronze skin, chiseled jaw, arms like tree trunks, nearly two meters tall.
Akagi Takenori.
The Sakuragi Gang collectively shrank.
Nozomi vanished behind Sakuragi in a blink. Noma and Oonan exchanged panicked glances: We're dead. That guy could bench-press a car. Even Yohei looked uneasy.
Just as they plotted their tactical retreat, Sakuragi stepped forward.
He looked up—way up—at Akagi and said clearly:
"I want to join the basketball club."
Silence.
Absolute, stunned silence.
From the doorway, Akagi Haruko—who'd followed her brother in—gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Him? The boy who'd just yelled "I hate basketball!" in the hallway?
The gang's jaws dropped.
Then—lightbulbs went off.
"No way…" Nozomi whispered, eyes gleaming. "He's bluffing! Fake enrollment, then ghost them!"
"Brilliant!" Oonan hissed. "Classic misdirection!"
"Since when did Hanamichi get this clever?" Noma muttered, reevaluating everything he knew about friendship.
Yohei just raised an eyebrow. Huh. Maybe he's serious?
Akagi's thick brows knotted. He eyed Sakuragi's red mop, then the delinquent entourage behind him. "This isn't a place for troublemakers."
Sakuragi sighed inwardly. Yeah, yeah—we look like a biker gang.
Before anyone could bolt, he flashed a grin—bright, confident, slightly cocky.
"Let's give it a shot. You'll know if I'm any good once I play."
Without waiting for permission, he peeled off his blazer and tossed it to a startled Yohei.
Underneath: a plain white undershirt that clung to broad shoulders and toned arms—clear signs of raw, untapped athleticism.
He rolled his neck. Cracked his wrists. Ankles popped with sharp clicks.
Then he strode to the sideline, picked up a stray ball, and palmed it.
The leather felt foreign yet familiar. Muscle memory—forged through countless hours in another life—woke up. Combined with this body's explosive power, agility, and coordination, it sparked something electric.
He dribbled twice.
Thump. Thump.
In the hushed gym, the sound echoed like a heartbeat.
Every eye locked onto him—even Rukawa paused, watching.
Then—Sakuragi exploded.
He slammed the ball down and surged forward like a bullet from a gun.
Long strides ate up the court. Midcourt to free-throw line in three steps.
Left foot planted.
Launch.
His body soared—graceful, powerful, defying physics. Arm cocked back like a spring-loaded piston.
Time slowed.
Red hair streaming. Muscles coiled. Ball gripped tight.
SLAM!
The dunk shook the rim. The backboard rattled. The ball thudded to the floor like a gong.
Sakuragi landed softly, knees bent, perfectly balanced.
Silence.
Then—chaos of the mind.
Rukawa's eyes snapped wide—truly awake for the first time.
Akagi stood frozen, mouth agape, as if he'd just seen a dragon do calculus.
Haruko pressed both hands to her flushed cheeks, eyes sparkling. "Amazing…"
And the Sakuragi Gang?
Nozomi's jaw hung loose. Noma's mustache trembled. Oonan looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Only Yohei spoke, voice hushed with awe:
"Sakuragi… since when could you do that?"