However.
The instant the ball left his hands, a long, slender palm suddenly appeared above his field of vision like a ghost, blotting out the lights overhead.
Rukawa Kaede.
The first-year rookie whom he had regarded as nothing more than a "soft target."
His eyes were now as cold as ice that had frozen for ten thousand years.
And he hadn't forgotten the grudge from having that three-pointer drilled right in his face earlier.
"Not a chance."
Rukawa growled.
His fingertips violently grazed the underside of the basketball.
He hadn't blocked it outright, but he had seriously disrupted the shot!
BANG!
The basketball slammed hard into the front of the rim and bounced high into the air with a dull thud.
"Rebound!!"
Minami Retsu shouted, his voice breaking.
Under the basket.
Kishimoto Minori had just begun to establish position when a mountain of black muscle suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking out the lights above.
Akagi Takenori.
The Gorilla was now a mass of bulging muscles, looking like an enraged guardian deity carved from stone.
All the frustration he'd accumulated from Toyotama's constant dirty little tricks erupted at once.
"ROAAAAAR!!"
Akagi's roar shook Kishimoto's eardrums.
He bulldozed Kishimoto aside in midair and seized the rebound with both hands, his fingers clamping around the ball like iron pincers.
He landed.
The floor itself seemed to tremble.
"YES!!"
The Shohoku bench erupted.
"Beautiful rebound, Captain!"
"That's our Gorilla! Crush those bastards!"
Akagi didn't hesitate after landing.
The results of the team's recent training were on full display.
Turn.
Protect the ball.
Find the guard.
Everything flowed together in one smooth motion.
"Ryota!"
The basketball flew toward Miyagi like a cannonball.
Miyagi Ryota caught it.
And took off like a bolt of lightning.
With his full speed unleashed, he was like a compact sports car fitted with a V12 engine, tearing straight through Toyotama's first line of defense.
"You're not getting past me!"
A figure suddenly shot across his path.
Toyotama's foul-mouthed No. 6, Itakura Daijiro.
Despite his solid build and height, his speed was surprisingly good.
He cut off Miyagi's driving lane and planted himself in front of him like a wall.
Looking down at Miyagi, who was a full head shorter, Itakura curled his lips into his trademark mocking grin.
His eyes were filled with contempt.
"Well, well, little shrimp."
"Gonna show off that third-rate dribbling again?"
"All you know how to do is put your head down and charge. No wonder you're a C-class team."
"Loser."
That final word stabbed straight into Miyagi's ears like a needle.
Miyagi Ryota's pupils contracted sharply.
The vein at his temple throbbed violently, as though it might burst at any moment.
Third-rate?
Loser?
"You bastard…"
Miyagi ground his teeth together.
The last shred of rationality in his eyes was instantly swallowed by rage, and his breathing grew heavy.
"What did you say?!"
He suddenly lowered his center of gravity, preparing to force his way through.
Even if it was a trap.
Even if his opponent had already set the defensive trap.
He was going to charge through anyway and tear that foul mouth to pieces!
Just as Miyagi was about to lose his temper completely and fall into the trap of trying to take on the entire defense by himself.
A voice.
Neither loud nor soft.
Yet it carried an unquestionable authority that pierced through the noisy arena and went straight into Miyagi's mind.
"Ryota."
Just two simple words.
Miyagi's entire body shook.
The impulse that had been about to explode was extinguished instantly, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head.
He slammed on the brakes.
His sneakers screeched against the hardwood.
"Stop."
Makino Juro leisurely crossed half court.
He didn't even glance at the trash-talking Itakura, as though the man were nothing more than a puff of air.
His calm gaze settled on Miyagi.
He extended one hand.
"Give me the ball."
No explanation.
No tactical gesture.
Just a simple command.
Miyagi Ryota looked at Makino Juro.
Those pale golden eyes contained no anger.
Only absolute calm, deep and unfathomable.
That composure instantly cooled Miyagi's overheated mind.
He was the point guard.
He was the brain of the team.
If even he lost his head, Shohoku was truly finished.
"Phew…"
Miyagi exhaled slowly.
He shot Itakura one final glare before flicking his wrist.
A pass.
The basketball landed securely in Makino Juro's hands.
Itakura froze.
The mocking expression on his face stiffened.
This shrimp…
Actually held himself back?
Wasn't this guy supposed to explode at the slightest provocation?
This wasn't how the script was supposed to go!
On the Shohoku bench.
Ayako watched the scene unfold, lightly tapping her folded fan against her palm in a cheerful rhythm.
In her other hand was her stat sheet.
The furrow between her brows finally relaxed.
"So that's how it is."
She looked down at the densely recorded statistics and murmured to herself, excitement flickering in her eyes.
"Toyotama's games are played at an extremely fast pace."
"134 points… 129 points… 116 points… 143 points…"
"They're all high-scoring victories."
"They're good at dragging their opponents into this kind of shootout, then using their extensive experience with fouls and their ability to thrive in chaotic battles to grind their opponents down like a meat grinder."
Ayako's finger stopped on one particular line.
She tapped it firmly.
The Osaka Prefecture Tournament Final.
Toyotama versus Daiei Gakuen.
Final score: 68–55.
Toyotama had lost.
"Only this game."
Ayako closed her notebook, a faint smile appearing on her lips.
"Daiei Gakuen kept the score extremely low."
"Tsuchiya Atsushi… the man known as the 'Magician of Osaka'… didn't engage Toyotama in a shootout."
"Instead, he used half-court basketball to slowly grind those mad dogs to death, giving them nowhere to unleash their energy."
On the court.
Makino Juro received the ball.
He didn't launch another lightning-fast drive like before.
Instead...
He moved slowly.
Painfully slowly.
He stood upright as he dribbled, the ball bouncing even higher than his waist.
He looked like an old man taking a leisurely stroll through the park.
Except instead of bouncing a basketball, it almost looked as though he were bouncing a watermelon.
Drip.
…
Drip.
…
Drip.
The sound of the basketball striking the hardwood.
Heavy.
Slow.
With an almost absurdly long pause between each bounce.
Every single one sounded like a knock against the impatient hearts of Toyotama's players, making them so uncomfortable they could practically taste blood.
This rhythm left the normally lightning-fast Toyotama players feeling unbearably frustrated.
It was like a race car driver who was used to flying down the highway...
only to suddenly get trapped in downtown traffic during rush hour, unable to step on the gas and forced to crawl forward inch by inch.
"Everyone, calm down."
Makino Juro raised his left index finger and pointed toward the ceiling.
His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried an unmistakable dominance that spread clearly across the entire half court.
"Get one more."
No shouting.
No fiery battle cry.
Only an effortless composure that suggested everything was already under his control, as though the outcome of the game depended on nothing more than a single thought from him.
On the bench, Sakuragi Hanamichi stared with his mouth hanging open, completely bewildered.
"Huh?"
"Master isn't attacking?"
"That move where he dropped the ponytail guy was so damn cool! Why isn't he doing it again?"
"Drop two more!"
Coach Anzai sat calmly in his chair.
His eyes narrowed into slits behind his glasses, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
A flash of light reflected off his lenses.
"Do you see it, Sakuragi?"
The old man's voice was gentle and profound, like a master passing down some legendary martial art.
"A true ace doesn't blindly follow the opponent's rhythm."
"If they want to play fast, we slow it down."
"If they want chaos, we remain steady."
"That is… control."
Beside him, Kogure Kiminobu clenched his fist excitedly and picked up the explanation.
"Exactly!"
"If they're good at running, then we'll use a mountain to trip them up and keep them from running at all!"
"Shohoku isn't just about fast breaks."
"We can also play the most disciplined half-court basketball."
"Because…"
Kogure looked toward the figure on the court directing his teammates into position.
His eyes were filled with absolute trust.
"We have Makino Juro."
END OF CHAPTER
The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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