Dead silence. Absolute, utter silence.
The only sound in the basketball gym was the thump-thump-thump of the basketball bouncing, gradually slowing, rolling to the sidelines, hitting the wall, and finally coming to a stop.
Uozumi Jun's mouth hung open wide enough to fit an orange. His towering frame suddenly seemed rigid. His eyes were round, unblinking, his mind frozen on a single thought: A free-throw line takeoff… a free-throw line dunk? Is this kid even human?
Fukuda Kicchou dropped the towel he had been holding. He didn't even notice.
That scene kept replaying in his mind: the takeoff point, the gliding trajectory, the dunking force… every detail challenged everything he thought he knew about junior high basketball.
Sendoh Akira's smile had vanished. He tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on Sakuragi with a complex mix of emotions.
This red-haired kid… that jump just now—his hang time had to be at least a second. Maybe even longer.
Sendoh instinctively calculated: Could I dunk from the free-throw line like that?
Answer: No. Not even close.
Taoka Moichi stood frozen in place.
His scalp tingled, as if a thousand ants were crawling over it.
A shiver ran up his spine, swiftly replaced by a rush of heat that hit his forehead like molten lava.
His hands trembled—not from fear, but from excitement. Pure, uncontainable exhilaration, like discovering a once-in-a-lifetime treasure.
A free-throw line dunk.
Could anyone in Japan do that? No.
Asia? Also no.
Names flickered through Taoka's mind… NBA's flying legends: Jordan, Wilkins… only those monster-level talents could even attempt such a feat.
And now…
A middle schooler from Wakou Junior High, a messy mop of red hair, had casually done it—right here in his gym.
Taoka felt his breath catch. He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat felt blocked by some invisible weight.
"Coach… what do you think?"
Sakuragi's voice broke the silence. He stepped in front of Taoka, a perfectly measured look of anticipation on his face—not arrogant, not overly humble, just like a student waiting for fair judgment after showing their skills.
"You…" Taoka's voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, tried to regain composure, and failed.
The corners of his mouth twitched upward, his eyes squinting into narrow slits. His face instantly transformed from the stern coach to a warm, kind elder.
"Good! Excellent!"
Taoka's voice rose, and he pounded Sakuragi's shoulders firmly with each hand, solid and reassuring.
"Sakuragi Hanamichi, huh? From now on, you're officially part of the Ryonan basketball team! Welcome aboard!"
Sakuragi smirked internally. First step—done.
But appearances still mattered. He scratched his red hair and feigned a modest expression:
"Um… Coach, there's something I should clarify first."
"What is it? Go ahead!"
Right now, Taoka looked at him like he was staring at a priceless treasure.
Sakuragi fidgeted, scraping his toes against the floor.
"I'm… not good at school. My grades are terrible. In three years of junior high, my highest math score was 37, and English… uh, 26."
He said it with a sincerity worthy of a morning drama's inspirational lead.
Taoka waved his hand dismissively.
"Grades? Not important! Ryonan has a sports scholarship system. I'm the coach, and I have that authority! As long as you perform on the court, your academic requirements can be relaxed."
"Really?" Sakuragi's eyes lit up briefly, only to dim again. "But… there's one more thing."
"You say it," Taoka said, his mood so good he could forgive anything.
Sakuragi looked down, voice quiet:
"My parents… are both gone. We don't have much money. Ryonan is a private school… I probably can't afford the tuition."
Taoka's expression stiffened.
Tuition. Private school tuition was expensive. Ryonan, one of Kanagawa's basketball powerhouses, charged middle-to-upper private school fees. A middle schooler who'd lost both parents—definitely couldn't afford it.
But…
Taoka looked at the red-haired boy in front of him, and the image of that free-throw line dunk flashed in his mind again.
That leap. That hang time. That innate basketball sense…
This was a talent that might not appear in ten years. No—maybe not in a hundred years across all of Asia.
If he trained him properly, if this boy really could make it to the NBA…
Taoka's breath quickened again.
He imagined the future: NBA draft day. Sakuragi Hanamichi gets picked by a team. During an interview, a reporter asks:
"Who was the coach that influenced you the most?"
The red-haired boy smiles at the camera:
"Coach Taoka Moichi of Ryonan High School. Without him, I wouldn't be here today."
Then Taoka Moichi's name would spread across Japan, no—the world!
He would become the coach who produced an NBA player. His name etched in Japanese basketball history…
"Coach?" Sakuragi's voice pulled him back to reality.
Taoka gritted his teeth and made a decision:
"I'll handle the tuition! I'll personally speak with the school board—sports scholarships can cover it. If not…"
He paused, voice resolute:
"If the board refuses, I'll pay it myself!"
Even Taoka was startled at his own words.
Pay it himself? His salary was decent, but not wealthy enough to casually cover tuition.
But looking into Sakuragi's eyes… he didn't hesitate.
This was a kid who could dunk from the free-throw line. Could Japan—or even all of Asia—produce another one?
If he could nurture this boy, any investment now would pay back tenfold in the future!
No, it wasn't about money. It was a coach's dream—a dream to raise a world-class player.
Sakuragi beamed inside, but outwardly masked it with a modest gratitude:
"Coach… really? This is so much trouble for you…"
"No trouble!" Taoka patted his shoulders again, firmly.
"You just focus on basketball. Train hard. Leave everything else to me! But…"
His tone sharpened, expression serious:
"I need to see your effort and progress. Talent alone won't do—you must work hard. Starting tomorrow… no, starting now, you join team training! I'll make a specialized training plan for you!"
"Yes! Coach!" Sakuragi stood at attention.
Taoka laughed at him.
"Alright, go home for today. I'll handle your enrollment paperwork. Wait for my message."
"Thank you, Coach!" Sakuragi bowed deeply.
When he looked up, he caught the expressions of the team members. Uozumi Jun's eyes were a mix of shock and envy.
Sendoh Akira… his smile returned, but Sakuragi could feel the fire burning beneath it.
He grabbed his school jacket, gave the coach a brief goodbye, and walked out of the gym.
The door closed behind him, cutting off the court's noise. The hallway was quiet, the echo of his footsteps the only sound.
Outside Ryonan High School, Sakuragi exhaled a long breath.
The March wind carried the scent of cherry blossoms and a hint of sea salt—the school was by the coast. The sunlight was warm and pleasant.
First step complete.
Hands in pockets, he strolled toward the train station.
One week after transmigrating, he finally had tangible progress: Ryonan, Coach Taoka, free tuition, scholarship… all part of the plan.
Next came training, improvement, and then…
Dominating Kanagawa? Conquering all of Japan?
Sakuragi's mind started drafting a training plan. This body was phenomenal, but his skills were crude. Experience alone wasn't enough—the body needed refining.
His past-life professional experience became his ultimate advantage. He knew how to train scientifically, avoid injuries, read defenses, and motivate teammates.
"Oh, right. Need to work on my left hand too," he muttered.
Two-handed ball control under pressure—basic, but essential for any professional-level player.