"What?!"
Takenori Akagi's eyes widened as both hands reached out and caught nothing.
Ryota Miyagi landed, his face filled with disbelief.
"Watch closely."
Minori Kishimoto landed with the ball in one hand, wearing a mocking grin.
"Your eyes gave you away."
"You wanted to pass? Maybe in your next life."
The entire arena was stunned.
Two turnovers in a row.
Two passes read perfectly in a row.
Shohoku's proud fast-break offense seemed almost laughable in the face of Toyotama.
"Is this... what an A-rank team's defense looks like?"
On the bench, Kiminobu Kogure's face had gone pale.
"Their reaction speed and ability to read the play... they're on a completely different level."
A flash of reflected light glinted across Coach Anzai's glasses, his expression growing solemn.
An A-rank team... really isn't that simple.
On the court, Kishimoto tossed the ball to Itakura and wagged an index finger at Miyagi and Akagi.
"Too green."
"This is supposed to be the Kanagawa champion? Don't make me laugh."
"Ready to get slaughtered?"
"You country bumpkins."
Miyagi stood frozen in place, his chest heaving violently.
His eyes were locked on the glaring 0–2 on the scoreboard.
For the first time, an overwhelming sense of suffocation settled over him.
So this is the National Tournament.
So this is an A-rank powerhouse.
The moment you showed even the slightest weakness, they tore you apart.
The clipboard in Coach Anzai's hands tilted slightly.
Across the pages filled with statistics, Toyotama High's record from Osaka stood out in an almost painfully vivid red.
Aside from a narrow loss to Daiei High, a team renowned for its defense, every other game had ended in a blowout.
An average of more than 130 points per game.
A single-game high of 143 points.
This wasn't basketball.
It was slaughter.
This was a team that had carved the word offense into its very bones and carried the spirit of a rabid attack dog to the absolute extreme.
"It's not just their speed."
The cold arena lights reflected off Coach Anzai's reading glasses.
On the court.
The instant Miyagi turned the ball over and Kishimoto intercepted it, Toyotama's counterattack surged forward like a flood bursting through a broken dam.
There was no unnecessary dribbling.
Kishimoto caught the ball in one hand.
His posture resembled a javelin thrower.
Then, with a single sweeping motion, he launched a pass that traveled nearly the entire length of the court!
Whoosh!
The basketball tore through the air with a piercing whistle.
Upcourt, a dark-blue blur was already waiting.
Toyotama's captain.
No. 4.
Tsuyoshi Minami.
Kaede Rukawa was racing back at full speed, but Minami didn't try to force the play.
His wrist flicked lightly.
A return pass!
The basketball seemed to have a homing device installed inside it, curving strangely back into the hands of Minori Kishimoto, who had just cut through the three-point line.
Shohoku's defensive formation collapsed in an instant.
Akagi stayed planted beneath the basket.
Hanamichi Sakuragi had lost track of his assignment on the perimeter.
The enormous gap in the middle became Kishimoto's personal playground.
Catch.
Drive.
Layup.
Every movement flowed together seamlessly, an obnoxiously arrogant grin plastered across his face.
Swish!
The ball dropped cleanly through the net, the white mesh rippling like waves.
4–0.
"Beautiful!!"
"Kishimoto! Tear them apart!"
"Run! Run these country bumpkins into the ground!"
Toyotama's cheering section erupted.
A deafening roar mixed with shrill whistles, as if the noise alone were enough to rip the roof off the gymnasium.
This was Osaka basketball.
Loud.
Rough.
Aggressive.
Kishimoto landed and casually shook his flashy ponytail.
He didn't celebrate.
Instead, he turned and headed back on defense.
As he passed the center circle, Hanamichi Sakuragi was standing there.
His red, gleaming bald head was impossible to miss beneath the arena lights.
Kishimoto licked his lips, his eyes dark and vicious.
He subtly altered his running line.
It looked casual.
It wasn't.
He had been planning it all along.
His shoulders dropped.
His core tightened.
And in that instant, he turned himself into an out-of-control heavy truck and slammed his shoulder straight into Sakuragi.
"Get out of my way, redhead."
His voice was quiet, but dripping with malice.
BAM!
The dull sound of two bodies colliding made everyone's teeth ache.
The vicious grin on Kishimoto's face hadn't even fully formed before it froze.
Something's wrong.
The sensation wasn't right.
He hadn't crashed into ordinary flesh and bone.
It felt like he'd rammed straight into a cold, solid slab of granite.
The enormous recoil surged back through his shoulder, numbing half his body.
Sakuragi, meanwhile, hadn't moved an inch.
In fact, his shoulder instinctively pushed forward in response.
"Ugh!"
Caught completely off guard, Kishimoto stumbled backward several steps, nearly dropping onto his backside.
"PEEP!!"
The referee's whistle shrieked through the arena.
The official rushed over and pointed decisively at Hanamichi Sakuragi.
"Shohoku No. 10! Blocking foul!"
Sakuragi's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
He pointed at himself.
"Huh?!"
"HE'S the one who crashed into the genius first! Are you going blind, ref?!"
"Enough!"
The referee glared at him.
"That was excessive!"
Sakuragi immediately started shouting in outrage.
He was just about to charge over and teach the referee a lesson when someone suddenly grabbed him by the back of his jersey.
"Stop embarrassing yourself."
Kaede Rukawa dragged him back without changing his expression.
"Let go of me, you damn fox!"
"That bastard blindsided me! How are we supposed to play with a ref like this?!"
On the Shohoku bench.
Makino Juro sat with one leg crossed over the other, watching the spectacle on the court.
He shook his head helplessly.
Chewing gum, he blew a bubble and spoke in his usual lazy tone.
"Sakuragi's still too green."
"If you're going to throw a shoulder, at least make it subtle. Learn from the professionals."
"If you go charging in like that, who else is the referee supposed to call?"
"It's the art of the 'legal collision.' Ever heard of it?"
Beside him...
A vein began throbbing violently at the corner of Takenori Akagi's forehead.
He raised a fist the size of a cooking pot.
BAM!
A loving iron fist slammed directly into Sakuragi's shiny bald head.
"IDIOT!!"
Akagi's roar drowned out the jeers from the stands, booming like thunder.
"Focus! Don't let their dirty little tricks mess with your head!"
Sakuragi clutched his head, tears welling in his eyes.
A large bump was visibly rising from his scalp, steam practically coming off it.
"Damn gorilla..."
"He was the one who started it..."
Sakuragi muttered bitterly before turning toward Kishimoto and glaring at him with murderous intent.
A short distance away...
Kishimoto rubbed his numb shoulder, his face dark enough to drip water.
That monster...
He stared at the red-haired monkey, secretly shaken.
That collision just now...
He had deliberately put some force behind it.
Yet that red-haired freak hadn't moved.
Instead, the recoil had sent him stumbling backward.
What the hell is this guy made of?
Steel and concrete?
"He's pretty damn strong."
Kishimoto spat onto the floor.
"But he's still just a big idiot who knows nothing but brute force."
...
The game resumed.
Shohoku possession.
Ryota Miyagi dribbled across half court, his expression looking as though he'd swallowed a fly.
Less than two minutes into the game.
Two turnovers.
Down by four.
For a point guard, it was humiliating.
It was like walking up to someone and offering your face to be slapped.
"Calm down..."
Huff...
"Calm down..."
Miyagi drew a deep breath, trying to suppress his pounding heart.
He lowered his center of gravity and surveyed the court.
Toyotama had no intention of falling back.
Full-court pressure!
Daijiro Itakura came charging up like a piece of chewing gum that simply wouldn't come loose.
His irritating face was practically plastered with provocation as he continued spouting trash talk.
"What is it?"
"Who are you passing to this time?"
"Or are you planning to give us another one?"
END OF CHAPTER
The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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