The weekend shopping street baked under the afternoon sun.
White light scorched the asphalt, and visible heat waves twisted up from the road like ghosts.
"Hahahaha! Hanamichi, your face just now! When that '777' popped up, your eyes nearly fell out!"
Takamiya Nozomi clutched his belly, laughing so hard his whole body jiggled like human jelly.
The five members of the Sakuragi Squad, freshly out of the pachinko parlor, still carried the murky stench of cigarette smoke and metal friction.
Sakuragi Hanamichi held a few pitiful tokens in his hand. His luck today had been unbelievably bad—
the steel balls seemed to dodge every winning track as if they had eyes.
"Shut up, you fat idiot!"
Sakuragi kicked Takamiya in the butt—not hard, of course.
"If you hadn't been jinxing me the whole time—"
"That's just your bad luck!" Ohkusu Yuji piled on.
"Yeah, yeah!" Noma Chūichirou followed.
Mito Yohei smiled and played peacemaker.
"Alright, alright. You lost, so what? We'll win next time. Come on—I'll treat you to soda. Let's cool off."
The five of them bickered as they walked beneath the roadside trees, heading for their usual vending machines.
The street was nearly empty. Only cicadas screamed endlessly from the branches, adding to the stifling heat.
Just as they turned a corner—
"Finally found you, red-haired monkey!"
A hoarse, low voice—thick with anger—cut through the lazy afternoon.
Sakuragi stopped.
That voice… sounded familiar.
He slowly turned his head, gaze sliding past Yohei's shoulder toward the source.
On the sidewalk stood six men.
At the front was a man in a tight red tank top, muscles bulging, long hair, a cigarette in his mouth, and vicious triangular eyes—
Tetsuo.
Beside him was Ryu, the thug Sakuragi had kicked flying last time, now glaring like he wanted to tear him apart. He wore a black-and-white striped T-shirt.
And on Tetsuo's other side stood a long-haired boy missing a front tooth—
Mitsui Hisashi.
Sakuragi felt a dull ache return to his temples.
What was this—fate's reunion?
He had already transferred to Ryonan.
So why was he still tangled up with this crew?
Was the pull of the original story really this strong?
"Well, if it isn't the red-haired kid who ran faster than a rabbit last time,"
Ryu shoved aside one of his underlings and stepped forward, lips curling into a cruel grin.
"Today, there won't be any alleys for you to hide in."
Tetsuo said nothing. He flicked the ash from his cigarette and narrowed his eyes, scanning Sakuragi—
lingering on his noticeably broader shoulders and arms.
Yohei, Takamiya, Ohkusu, and Noma immediately sobered.
They moved in close, forming a half-circle around Sakuragi.
Their faces still held traces of laughter, but their eyes had gone cold.
"Hey, Hanamichi… who are these guys?"
Yohei asked quietly, eyes lingering a second longer on Tetsuo's massive frame.
"Old grudges," Sakuragi replied flatly, never taking his eyes off Tetsuo and Ryu
He could feel adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream—his palms warm.
Not fear.
Excitement.
This body's original owner must have been wired for fights—
his blood thrilled at the coming clash.
He counted quickly:
Tetsuo, Ryu, Mitsui, plus three unfamiliar underlings.
Six of them.
They had five.
Slightly outnumbered—but…
Sakuragi glanced at a narrow alley beside them, stacked with cardboard and trash cans.
It was the gap between two buildings, only wide enough for two or three people, dark and cluttered.
He raised his hand and pointed to it, voice calm—far too calm for someone picking a fight.
"If we're settling this—over there."
Tetsuo glanced at the alley and snorted.
"Well, well. How thoughtful. Let's hope you don't run this time."
He walked in first. Ryu and the others followed.
After a brief hesitation, Mitsui stepped in as well.
Sakuragi turned to Yohei and the others, issuing quick orders:
"Red tank top—Tetsuo—and the striped shirt—Ryu—are mine.
The other four: one each. Finish fast."
Yohei raised an eyebrow at Tetsuo's massive back.
"You sure? That guy looks nasty."
Sakuragi grinned, confidence flashing strangely in his eyes.
"Relax. You don't know my strength?"
In my last life, I trained in Mad Dog Fist. I also studied free fighting. Street brawls are nothing.
And this body is terrifyingly strong.
"Let's go."
He led them into the alley.
The others exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed.
They knew him too well.
Sakuragi might be reckless—but when it came to fighting, he almost never lost.
And lately, with daily basketball training, his body felt even more explosive.
The alley was dim, reeking of fermented trash and damp mold.
Cracked walls. Broken bricks. Empty cans.
Six against five—two groups nearly filled the narrow space.
No words.
The moment the last person stepped inside, the fight exploded.
Sakuragi's first target was Ryu.
The loudest mouth.
The one he'd kicked flying last time.
Just as Ryu raised his guard, still cursing "red-haired monkey"—
Sakuragi moved.
Not a boxing straight.
Not a street thug's wild swing.
He lowered his stance, center of gravity dropping.
Left foot stepped in—right leg whipped out low, skimming the ground like a blade.
A low sweep kick.
Not the knee.
Not the shin.
But the outer side of the calf—
just below the fibular head, where the common peroneal nerve runs.
"BAM!"
A dull impact, followed by that sickening numb shock—
the kind that makes the whole body seize.
"AAAGH! My leg!!"
Ryu's scream ripped through the alley.
His entire right leg lost power instantly, like a switch had been cut.
He collapsed, clutching his calf, face twisted, tears and snot streaming, wheezing helplessly.
One strike—one combatant disabled.
Tetsuo's pupils shrank.
He was a veteran brawler.
He knew instantly—
that kick was no accident.
Angle. Power. Target.
Perfect.
This red-haired kid was not some ordinary punk.
And in that split second of shock—
Sakuragi lunged like a hunting panther.
Tetsuo reacted fast, hurling a heavy punch at his face.
Sakuragi didn't block.
He slipped.
His head and neck swayed back and sideways with inhuman fluidity—
a tiny, efficient dodge.
The fist grazed past his cheekbone.
At the same time, Sakuragi's arms clamped around Tetsuo's waist.
His right leg shot between Tetsuo's legs—
His hips twisted.
BOOM!
A clean leg-sweep throw.
Tetsuo's eighty-kilo frame slammed into the wet concrete like a sack of sand, dust exploding.
"Ugh!"
His organs felt displaced.
The air left his lungs.
Black swam before his eyes.
Before he could recover—
Fists rained down.
Not wild.
Targeted—ribs, abdomen—painful, vulnerable spots, avoiding the face.
Don't hit the face. I'm too kind… truly a saint,
Sakuragi thought while punching.
Each blow was heavy—fueled by his now terrifying strength.
"Thud! Thud! Thud!"
Tetsuo's resistance melted away.
His proud muscles and experience crumbled before this brutal, efficient style.
Nearby, the Sakuragi Squad tangled with the others.
The scene was… oddly comedic.
Yohei dodged a punch, tugged the attacker forward—and the thug smashed face-first into the wall.
Ohkusu and Noma worked together—one grabbed the waist, the other tripped the legs—dropping two underlings, then adding a few kicks.
But the most spectacular duel was—
Takamiya Nozomi vs. Mitsui Hisashi.
Mitsui threw a punch.
Takamiya's round belly sucked in, elastic as jelly—
the fist sank halfway, its force absorbed.
After a few exchanges, Takamiya lunged.
Over two hundred pounds crashed down like a meat mountain.
"Guh!"
Mitsui nearly threw up.
He struggled, but Takamiya pinned him, arms locked around his neck.
"Don't move! You'll crush me! No—wait—I'm crushing you!"
Mitsui's face turned purple.
He flailed uselessly, eyes full of humiliation—and existential doubt.
I was once the MVP of Takeshi Middle… Shohoku's hope…
How am I losing to a fat guy?
The fight had begun fast.
It ended even faster.
Less than two minutes later, the alley was filled with groans and ragged breathing.
Tetsuo lay broken.
Ryu clutched his leg.
Three underlings sprawled.
Mitsui lay crushed—emotionally and physically.
Sakuragi stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his hands.
"Alright, fatty. Get up. Don't actually kill him."
Takamiya reluctantly rolled away.
Mitsui gasped, coughing, eyes hollow.
Sakuragi crouched, level with him.
He tapped Mitsui's dirty cheek—pat, pat.
Humiliation burned in Mitsui's eyes.
"Hey, Mitsui Hisashi," Sakuragi said calmly.
"I heard you were MVP in middle school. Impressive."
Mitsui said nothing.
"But now?" Sakuragi tilted his head, mocking.
"As a delinquent—you're worse than my fat guy here. All talk, no skill."
"You!" Mitsui trembled, unable to argue.
Sakuragi stood.
Sunlight streamed into the alley, igniting his red hair like fire.
His shadow stretched over Mitsui.
"I'll give you a chance," he said seriously.
"This path doesn't suit you."
He pointed outside—then at Mitsui's dirty Shohoku uniform.
"The prefectural tournament is coming. If you want revenge…"
He smiled, sharp and bright.
"See me on the court.
Let me see how much of that MVP is left."
He turned away.
"Let's go. Soda time. It's hot."
The Sakuragi Squad left the wreckage behind—
and the long-haired boy lying there, his eyes shifting from humiliation to something far more complex.
Outside, the sun still blazed.
Sakuragi cracked open a cold soda—psshh—
drank deeply.
Now—
Who knew whether Mitsui would return to basketball…
or sink deeper into the streets.