Inside the locker room, the stench of sweat hit like a physical blow.
It was the raw, explosive scent of male hormones—thick, suffocating.
Ryonan's side.
Coach Taoka Moichi stood with his arms crossed, his gaze sweeping across the room before locking onto a figure in the corner.
Fukuda Kicchou.
In those final minutes of the first half, this guy had been like a rusted, dull saw—yet he still managed to grind through Shohoku's defense, tearing it apart piece by piece.
Taoka almost laughed out loud.
It felt like a gambler pushing all his chips in on the last hand.
And when the cards were revealed—
A clean sweep.
"Nicely done, Fukuda."
A flicker of fanatic intensity passed through Taoka's eyes.
Here, basketball wasn't like in America, where you could find a hoop on any street and just play.
Here, for a high schooler—
Without the club, it was a death sentence.
No court. No teammates. Not even a ball to touch.
"And that's exactly why…"
Taoka watched Fukuda's shoulders heaving violently, fully aware of what lay beneath.
Those days of suspension—
For Fukuda, they were exile.
That feeling of wanting to play but being unable to even touch a ball.
It was like crawling through the desert for three days and suddenly seeing a bottle of ice-cold cola.
That thirst, that hunger—
The moment the ban was lifted, it transformed into pure, primal instinct.
No finesse.
No elegance.
No care for form.
As long as he could force that damn ball into the hoop.
As long as he could hear that crisp swish—
He would sell his soul for it.
That was Fukuda Kicchou.
Clingy. Suffocating. Like gum you couldn't shake off.
More than that.
Like a starving beast that had just caught the scent of blood.
"That kind of ferocity… Sendoh doesn't have it."
Taoka glanced at Sendoh Akira, who was resting calmly with his eyes closed.
Sendoh was a genius. The court was his canvas; basketball was his enjoyment.
Just like Makino Juro on Shohoku's side.
They were too composed.
And because of that, they lacked that savage edge—the kind you get from clawing your way out of the mud, covered in filth, still willing to bite someone's throat out.
"And that's exactly what Ryonan has been missing."
Taoka clenched his fists, joints cracking audibly.
In the corner.
Fukuda Kicchou's world was nothing but a dim, suffocating white.
The color of the towel over his head.
"Haa… haa…"
His lungs burned like he'd swallowed embers.
Sweat dripped from his chin, splattering onto the floor—
But he felt good. So good his scalp tingled.
His thoughts drifted.
Back to those days…
Crouching outside the wire fence like a beggar, watching others play.
The squeak of sneakers on hardwood.
The thud of the ball hitting the rim.
Every sound carving into his nerves like torture.
He could only watch.
Never touch.
An outsider.
But now—
Swish!
Fukuda suddenly ripped the towel off.
The harsh lights stabbed into his eyes.
There was no wind in his ears anymore—
Only a tidal wave.
"FUKUDA! FUKUDA! FUKUDA!!!"
The roar of the Ryonan cheer squad—
Damn, it sounded good.
Better than any symphony in the world.
The muscles on his expressionless face twitched unnaturally, twisting into a distorted, almost ecstatic grin.
"More…"
His fingernails dug deep into the towel's fibers.
"I need more!"
Whether it meant using Uozumi as a human shield.
Or sneaking in easy buckets—
As long as I can score…
As long as the cheers don't stop…
High in the stands.
In the section belonging to Kainan High, the atmosphere was… subtle.
Coach Takato Riki tapped his folding fan lightly against his palm, eyes narrowed like a cunning fox.
"Interesting."
He turned toward Maki Shinichi.
"Looks like Taoka-senpai is going all in this time."
"Using a star like Sendoh as a delivery man… turning a monster like Uozumi into a pure meat shield…"
"All to feed Fukuda."
Maki nodded, expression steady.
"It's ruthless."
"Most coaches wouldn't have the guts to do that. It's basically cutting off your own arms."
"But the results are real. Shohoku's been thrown off."
Snap!
Takato flicked open his fan, covering half his face, leaving only his sharp eyes visible.
"Using a pure offense 'mad dog' like Fukuda…"
"To bite down on Sakuragi Hanamichi—the raw, physical amateur."
"On defense, Sakuragi's full of holes. On offense, Fukuda runs wild—Sakuragi can't even catch his shadow."
"A classic horse race, huh… Taoka-senpai."
Shohoku locker room.
The atmosphere was like a powder keg—ready to explode.
"DAMN IT! That bastard Fukuda!"
BANG!
Sakuragi Hanamichi kicked a locker so hard the metal dented inward.
"How dare he look down on this genius?!"
"Second half—I'm going to kill him!"
"I'll defend him into a mummy!"
Sakuragi bounced around like a cat with its tail stepped on, his voice loud enough to blow the roof off.
Coach Anzai sat calmly in the center, holding his teacup, glasses gleaming.
Unshakable as a mountain.
"Sakuragi-kun."
His voice wasn't loud—but it carried weight.
Sakuragi instantly slammed on the brakes and leaned in eagerly.
"Old man! Got a secret move for me?"
"Like Ways to Beat Up Fukuda'?!"
Coach Anzai chuckled, his chin wobbling slightly.
"In the second half, you'll sit."
Silence.
The locker room fell dead quiet.
Sakuragi's face froze, like he'd just swallowed a fly.
Three seconds later—
"NANI?!!!"
His eyes nearly popped out as he clutched his head, screaming like a pig being slaughtered.
"Sit?! Why do I have to sit?!"
"Old man, have you gone senile?!"
"This is my moment to save the world!"
"That bastard Fukuda is provoking me! How can I sit?!"
"I refuse! I'm playing!"
"I'll smash that poker face into a pig's face!"
Anzai remained as serene as ever, like a smiling Buddha, and simply turned his head toward the corner.
There—
Makino Juro leaned against the lockers, silent.
"Juro-kun, you're in for the second half."
Makino Juro didn't even lift his eyelids. He lazily raised a hand and yawned.
"Got it, Coach."
"What?!!"
Sakuragi completely exploded, pointing at Makino Juro as he jumped around.
"Old man, this is suicide! Without me—the rebounding king—Shohoku is finished!"
"Idiot."
A cold snort cut through the air like ice shards.
Rukawa Kaede, wiping his sweat, glanced at Sakuragi.
"Still haven't figured it out?"
"That strategy from Ryonan… was made just for you."
Sakuragi froze.
"What do you mean? Say it properly, you damn fox!"
Miyagi Ryota tied his shoelaces, stood up, and patted Sakuragi's shoulder with a hint of provocation in his tone.
"Hanamichi, what Rukawa means is…"
"You're the 'big hole' in Shohoku's defense."
"A hole?" Sakuragi blinked.
"That's right."
"That Fukuda guy is targeting your blind spots."
"The opposing coach's real message is…"
"You, Sakuragi Hanamichi, are an ATM."
"Anyone can come and withdraw a little."
"An… ATM?!"
Sakuragi's face instantly turned the color of liver, veins bulging on his forehead.
That one—
Hit hard.
"They… they actually think of me as an ATM?!"
END OF CHAPTER
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