By mid-April, the air in Kanagawa had begun to carry the faint warmth of early summer.
Inside Ryonan's gym, the sharp squeal of sneakers against the floor rose and fell, blending with the steady thump, thump of basketballs striking the court.
Sakuragi Hanamichi stood beyond the three-point line, catching the pass from Aida Hikoichi.
He adjusted his breathing, bent his knees slightly, and planted his feet firmly, feeling the spring of the wooden floor through his soles.
His wrist turned.
His fingers cradled the ball.
Elbow up. Eyes locked on the rim.
He jumped.
For that brief moment in the air, his core tightened, his arms extended.
Release.
The ball traced a high arc.
Clang.
It struck the back of the rim and bounced out.
"Ugh…" Sakuragi sighed.
That made it his seventy-sixth missed three-pointer of the day.
Half a month.
It had been exactly two weeks since he joined Ryonan. In those fifteen days, his life had collapsed into a monotonous triangle: school, the gym, and the convenience store where he worked nights.
Training ran from after school until seven. Then he worked until ten, dragged himself home, and collapsed into bed.
But the results were undeniable.
Under Coach Taoka Moichi's meticulously designed training plan—and Sakuragi's own relentless extra practice—his strength was improving at a visible rate.
His ball-handling was steadier.
Though still short of the "man-and-ball-as-one" state from his past life, it was already more than enough for a professional-level point guard.
His passing had grown far more refined. Bounce passes found teammates at the most comfortable catching angles, and his long passes were beginning to show real precision.
Defensively, his growth was even more terrifying.
That already monstrous physique, combined with decades of defensive instincts from his past life, made him a nightmare in one-on-one matchups.
Sendoh had stopped challenging him in isolation drills—too exhausting, and the success rate was too low.
Only Fukuda, that stubborn idiot, kept provoking him. He lost every time—badly—but also improved the fastest. His defense was finally starting to rise.
Right now, there was only one problem:
Shooting.
Especially three-pointers.
Sakuragi stepped back beyond the arc and caught another pass from Hikoichi.
He took a deep breath, recalling the fundamentals from his past life.
Feet shoulder-width apart.
Lower the center of gravity.
Index and middle fingers release last.
Follow through completely…
Jump. Release.
Clang.
Miss again.
Sakuragi clenched his jaw.
This body had to rebuild its muscle memory from scratch. In his past life, he had played for over twenty years—his shooting form was instinctive.
Now, he had to forge it all over again.
Worse still, the era was wrong.
It was the early 1990s.
In Japan—and even the NBA—it was still the age of "win the paint, win the game."
Three-pointers?
They were novelty shots.
Even Coach Taoka's training plans barely emphasized them—midrange and inside scoring were the real focus.
But Sakuragi knew the truth.
In the future, the three-point shot would dominate basketball.
In the small-ball NBA of 2030, a point guard without a three-ball wouldn't survive.
This might be an era of iron muscles and brutal defense—but Sakuragi had no intention of crashing into giants in the paint.
If he wanted to return to the NBA as a point guard, the three-point shot had to start now.
Magic + Curry in the '90s—why not?
That was why, every day after training, he stayed behind.
Two hundred midrange shots.
One hundred threes.
Never skipped.
Sometimes his arms were so sore he could barely lift them, and his shoulders felt like they'd been run over by a truck when he woke the next morning.
"Sakuragi, take a break," Sendoh called.
He had just finished a drill, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Fifty more," Sakuragi said, shaking his head as he picked up another ball.
Sendoh shrugged and didn't push. By now, he was used to Sakuragi's stubbornness.
This red-haired rookie looked carefree most of the time—but when it came to training, he worked harder than anyone.
Sometimes Sendoh even felt that Sakuragi carried the discipline of a veteran—someone who knew why he trained, and how to train.
At the sideline, Coach Taoka stood with his arms crossed, eyes sweeping across the court.
He tried to keep a stern face—but the corners of his mouth were creeping up uncontrollably.
Sakuragi's growth over the past half month was beyond imagination.
Not just skill—but game sense.
Reading defenses.
Making decisions under pressure.
And that growing aura of leadership.
Sometimes Taoka even thought—
Sakuragi is the one who should be captain.
In the last scrimmage, Sakuragi had directed a perfect set.
He drove, drew the double-team, kicked to Koshino in the corner.
Koshino pump-faked and returned the ball.
Sakuragi didn't rush—waited for Uozumi to seal inside—then lofted a high entry pass.
Uozumi scored easily.
The whole sequence flowed like something rehearsed a hundred times.
But Taoka knew—it was all instinct.
Even more impressive was Sakuragi's defensive versatility.
As a point guard, he could lock down the opponent's perimeter ace.
When switched inside, he could battle Uozumi for position—and was even beginning to out-rebound him.
"Offense like a guard… defense like a big…" Taoka murmured, stroking his chin.
If Sakuragi could just fix his shooting—even only his midrange
He would become Kanagawa's best point guard.
No.
Possibly the best in the nation.
Taoka glanced at Sendoh.
The second-year genius was outstanding—but compared to Sakuragi…
He lacked that overwhelming command of the court.
And worse—his discipline was poor.
With Sakuragi on the floor, it felt like a general commanding troops. Every cut, every pass—he saw it all.
"Coach… you're smiling like a creep," Hikoichi whispered beside him.
Taoka coughed, face reddening. "Nonsense! Go record stats!"
"Yes, sir!" Hikoichi stuck out his tongue and ran off.
Taoka clapped his hands.
"Gather up!"
The players rushed in, gasping, uniforms soaked. Though April wasn't hot yet, the training had drenched them like rain.
Sakuragi wiped his face. Sweat burned his eyes.
"This weekend," Taoka announced, "we're playing a practice match against Shohoku."
The gym went silent—then exploded.
"Shohoku? That public school?"
"They've got a monster rookie—Rukawa Kaede!"
"Akagi Takenori is still there…"
The team buzzed.
Sakuragi froze.
Shohoku.
Practice match.
The plot had arrived.
In the original story, this scrimmage was a turning point.
But now—
Everything was different.
Shohoku had lost its red-haired rebounding king.
Miyagi was still hospitalized.
Mitsui was still a delinquent.
Only Akagi and Rukawa remained.
Could they hold on?
"Quiet!" Taoka barked.
"Shohoku may not have had results last year, but with Rukawa Kaede, they are dangerous. And Akagi Takenori is one of Kanagawa's top centers. Stay sharp!"
He paused, then added:
"I want to see the results of these two weeks."
Then his expression darkened.
"But—your recent training has been full of holes! One by one!"
The next ten minutes became a personal Taoka roast session.
"Uozumi! That spin move is slower than a grandma crossing the street!"
"Sendoh! Focus on defense! What was that missed assignment?!"
"Koshino! Your shot selection is garbage!"
"Ikegami! You hesitate even when wide open!"
The pressure dropped like lead.
Sakuragi counted silently.
Next should be me…
But Taoka paused when his gaze reached Sakuragi.
He couldn't find anything to criticize.
And he didn't want to.
So he skipped him.
"Fukuda!"
Taoka's voice sharpened.
"Your problems are the worst! Lazy defense, selfish offense, terrible court vision! Basketball is a team sport! You—#￥%…!"
Fukuda's shoulders trembled.
Sakuragi's heart sank.
He knew this scene.
The Serpent Strike.
"Coach—" Sakuragi stepped forward, "Fukuda actually worked hard today—his backdoor cut—"
Too late.
Fukuda's head snapped up, eyes bloodshot.
"You don't understand!" he roared. "I train the latest every night! I work harder than anyone! Why can't you see that?!"
Taoka froze.
Then
Fukuda's right hand shot forward, fingers together—
like a striking snake.
"Stop!" Sakuragi shouted.
Too late.
The blow struck Taoka's forehead.
Chaos erupted.
Taoka's face went from shock… to iron… to crimson.
He stared at Fukuda.
Three seconds.
Then
"From now on, you are no longer a member of Ryonan's basketball team.
Get out."
The door slammed.
Sakuragi stood there, chest tight.
Still too late.
He picked up a ball and walked to the arc.
He raised his hands.
Swish.
Fukuda would return one day.
For now—
Let them breathe.
He bent, retrieved the ball, and stepped back to the line.
Again.