Maki Shinichi raised a finger and tapped his temple.
In a deep voice, he said, "A true expert defends with—reading, and anticipation."
"Anticipation?" Kiyota looked completely lost.
"That's right."
Maki's gaze stayed locked on the court, his tone steady and powerful:
"When the ball is in your opponent's hands, your brain must be running at full speed."
"Will he pass or shoot?"
"Is his weight on the left or the right?"
"Is he looking at the basket—or searching for a teammate?"
"Is that shoulder movement a fake—or the start of a drive?"
Kiyota listened, stunned, mouth slightly open.
"Based on countless matchups, combined with reading body language, you predict the optimal response in advance."
"That—is defense."
Maki's voice turned colder.
"If you rely on pure instinct and just lunge for the ball like you do, a real expert will break your ankles."
Kiyota scratched his head. Though unconvinced, seeing Maki's serious expression, he could only mutter under his breath:
"Tch… you make it sound so complicated. As long as it works, it works…"
On the court, the game resumed.
Ryonan inbounded.
Sendoh Akira brought the ball up.
Rukawa Kaede stuck to him like glue, the tension between them thick enough to choke on.
Sendoh didn't force it. His peripheral vision swept the court.
Suddenly—his wrist flicked!
The ball shot out like a precision-guided missile, slicing through the defense toward the right baseline.
There, Fukuda Kicchou had curled out using Uozumi Jun's screen.
"The pass is here!"
Fukuda's eyes lit up.
As long as I get the ball!
As long as I get moving!
No one can stop me!
Smack!
The ball settled into his hands, the rough texture grounding him.
But just as he turned to attack—ready to tear through Shohoku's defense like in the first half—
A shadow appeared in front of him.
No footsteps.
No warning.
Like an NPC spawning out of thin air.
Makino Juro.
He wasn't in a textbook defensive stance.
No low center of gravity. No wide arms.
Instead, he stood loose.
Knees slightly bent. Arms hanging naturally at his sides.
He looked completely open—
Even careless.
But those eyes…
Those faintly blue-glinting eyes were locked onto the ball in Fukuda's hands.
An overwhelming sense of danger.
Fukuda's scalp tingled. His initial move froze mid-start.
This pressure…
Was even more terrifying than Akagi Takenori's.
Akagi was a wall—solid, heavy. You could at least think of ways around him.
But Makino Juro…
He was a cloud of darkness filled with hidden blades.
You had no idea where the next strike would come from.
On the sidelines, Coach Taoka Moichi was nearly jumping out of his skin, shouting at the top of his lungs:
"What are you waiting for?! Go, Fukuda!!"
"Don't be scared of him! He's bluffing!"
"That stance is full of openings!!"
"Use your speed! Blow past him in one step!!"
Taoka's voice snapped Fukuda back.
That's right—openings everywhere!
Fukuda clenched his teeth, eyes bloodshot.
Standing that tall, hands that low—
If my first step is fast enough, I can definitely beat him!
I'm the demon of offense!
No one can stop me!
In the stands.
Maki Shinichi frowned deeper and deeper as he watched Makino Juro's unconventional stance.
Kiyota couldn't hold back:
"See, Maki-senpai!"
"I told you he's just showing off!"
"He's basically daydreaming! Fukuda will definitely get past him!"
Maki ignored him, pupils tightening as he stared at Makino Juro's relaxed shoulders.
By textbook standards, this was terrible defense.
High center—easy to fake.
Hands down—no disruption.
But… why?
Why couldn't he visualize a single viable driving path?
Maki inhaled slowly, his voice dry:
"No… Kiyota, look carefully."
"By my earlier theory, defense is built on experience and anticipation. But this Makino Juro…"
"What about him?"
"…he doesn't need experience."
Maki's tone turned grave.
"His muscles are relaxed—that's for explosive release."
"He doesn't take a stance because…"
"…his reaction speed has already surpassed technique."
On the court, Fukuda moved!
"Haaah!!"
With a shout, he planted his left foot and leaned hard to the right.
A fake!
Wide, exaggerated—highly deceptive!
If it were Sakuragi Hanamichi, he would've been completely shaken off.
But Makino Juro didn't budge.
Didn't even blink.
Like he was watching a clown perform.
Fukuda's heart skipped—
But the arrow was already on the string!
If I can't fake him out—then I'll power through!
He exploded off his right foot, instantly changing direction, forcing his way past Makino Juro's left side!
This was Fukuda's pride—his explosive first step!
"He's past him!!" Taoka clenched his fist.
But...
Just as Fukuda thought he had gained half a step—
A hand.
A pale, slender hand—
So fast it blurred.
It sliced into his dribble path without warning.
PA!
A crisp, piercing steal.
Fukuda felt his hand go empty.
The ball—
Gone.
"What?!"
His pupils shook violently as his body kept moving forward from inertia—
But his hands held nothing.
Impossible!
He was still beside me—when did he reach in?!
"Too slow."
A lazy voice drifted into his ears, dripping with undisguised mockery.
Fukuda snapped his head back.
Makino Juro stood there, holding the ball in one hand, body relaxed and extended.
In that instant.
He hadn't even moved his feet.
He simply used core strength and reach.
Striking after Fukuda moved, yet arriving first—
Plucking the ball clean away.
No prediction.
Just pure, overwhelming neural reaction speed.
"This…!"
Kiyota's jaw nearly hit the floor. "That's impossible—he didn't even lower his stance!"
Maki's eyes darkened.
"Because that is… the true nature of a beast."
On the court.
Juro held the ball in one hand, looking at the stunned Fukuda, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
"This is your offense?"
"Not even enough for me to warm up."
He flipped his wrist—the ball spun obediently on his fingertip.
"So this 'demon of offense'… is only at this level?"
Before the words even finished—
Boom!
He moved.
Still as a maiden—swift as a rabbit.
Only now did everyone understand the weight of that phrase.
The lazy figure from a second ago—
Turned into a black lightning bolt, blasting past Fukuda.
Fast.
Too fast for the eye to follow.
Fukuda didn't even have time to turn—
All he could do was watch that figure vanish into the distance.
"Get back on defense!!"
Sendoh shouted, abandoning Rukawa and sprinting.
But Makino Juro was too fast.
That was Aomine Daiki's ultra-speed dribble.
The ball seemed fused to his hand, every bounce exploding with power.
Half-court.
Three-point line.
Free-throw line!
One step!
Two steps!
He launched into the air just inside the free-throw line.
His body stretched like a fully drawn bow—
Tomahawk raised high!
Sendoh gave everything....
But could only watch as that figure rose higher and higher, blotting out the lights.
"BOOM——!!!"
One-handed slam!
The rim let out a tortured groan.
The entire hoop shook violently, on the verge of collapse.
Makino Juro hung on the rim—
Looking down at the stunned crowd below.
Eyes filled with dominance.
Like a king surveying his domain.
END OF CHAPTER
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The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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