The entire arena fell into dead silence.
One second later—
"WOOOAAAH!!!"
The roar exploded, nearly lifting the roof off the stadium!
Juro released the rim and landed lightly.
Without even glancing at the basket, he turned and walked back.
As he passed by Fukuda—whose face had gone deathly pale—he didn't slow down.
He simply tossed out a sentence, calm and indifferent:
"Put that man-eating look away."
He pointed at himself, his tone arrogantly absolute:
"You want to score?"
"Ask me first if I allow it."
Shohoku's bench.
Sakuragi Hanamichi stood there with his mouth wide open, the towel slipping from his hand without him even noticing.
"Th-This is…"
Coach Anzai adjusted his glasses. A sharp glint flashed across the lenses.
"Do you see it now, Sakuragi?"
"This… is the gap in talent."
He turned toward Sakuragi, a faint smile on his lips.
"You may not be able to play as freely as he does."
"But that aura… the way he treats his opponent like prey…"
"That's what you need to learn."
Sakuragi snapped back to his senses, picked up the towel, and wiped his face hard.
The fire in his eyes reignited, blazing fiercely.
"That damn master… always stealing the spotlight!"
"This genius will never lose to you!!"
On the electronic scoreboard, the red numbers ticked mercilessly.
53:46.
The gap had widened to 7 points.
That dunk had been like pouring a bucket of cold water over the small flame Ryonan had just reignited.
Shoyo's spectator section.
Fujima Kenji finally lost his composure.
The bottle in his hand creaked under the pressure of his grip.
"Hanagata."
His voice was low.
"That first step just now… could you even calculate it?"
Hanagata Tōru pushed up his glasses, his expression like someone staring at an exam question far beyond the syllabus.
"I can't. It's absurd."
"That wasn't linear acceleration—it was like frame skipping."
"From absolute stillness to full motion—there was no wind-up. It's like a few frames in a video were just cut out."
Hanagata took a deep breath, his gaze locked onto that seemingly lazy figure on the court.
"That kind of explosiveness… defies logic."
"It's like a black panther wearing human skin, treating the court as its hunting ground."
Courtside.
Coach Taoka Moichi stared at Makino Juro, veins bulging at his temples like they were about to burst.
He refused to believe it.
How could a perennial underdog team like Shohoku keep pulling out these SSR-level monsters one after another?
"It's luck… it has to be luck!"
Taoka desperately tried to cool down his overheated mind.
That last play—Fukuda must've just been careless!
That old fox Anzai swapped out the brute-force redhead—
And brought in this swingman whose talent rivaled Sendoh's.
"Coach Anzai… is this your strategy?"
Taoka turned to look at the calm, immovable figure on Shohoku's bench, his gaze dark as storm clouds.
"In the first half, we scored 46 points. Fukuda alone put up 26."
"Our entire strategy revolves around Fukuda's single-point breakthrough!"
"As long as there's a weakness, we tear it apart like sharks smelling blood!"
Taoka waved his arm violently and roared toward the court, spittle flying:
"FUKUDA! Don't doubt yourself!"
"Use your offense! Crush him! Show him what you're made of!"
"We've got you—and Sendoh!"
On the court.
Fukuda Kicchou stood beyond the three-point line, chest heaving like a bellows.
The shouting around him sounded distant, as if filtered through deep water.
His mind replayed that moment over and over.
The ball was gone.
That empty feeling in his hands made him nauseous.
"Fukuuu!!"
"It's just one play! You're the strongest!"
From the stands, a unified roar suddenly erupted.
It was Ryonan's students—
And Fukuda's old "crew."
Fukuda's head snapped up.
His gaze pierced through the blinding lights, landing on those waving figures.
Those guys… came too?
His thoughts snapped—
Dragged back to that scorching summer two years ago.
The cicadas screamed endlessly.
A remote temple courtyard.
Rusty wire fences. Cracked concrete.
That was Fukuda's only refuge after being cast aside by the official team.
He practiced alone.
Lonely. Obsessive. Like a wandering ghost.
Until that day—
Three boys showed up.
The one in front spun a basketball on his fingertip, his smile as bright and blinding as the midday sun.
"Hey, man. Doesn't solo play get boring?"
"Want us to take you somewhere better?"
"It's a bit far, but we go there sometimes."
They brought him to a new court.
The moment he saw the hoop again, he didn't say a word.
Turned.
Accelerated.
Jumped.
"BANG!"
A violent one-handed slam rattled the shaky rim until it wailed in protest.
He landed.
Turned around.
The three boys—who had been joking around—stood frozen.
From that day on, that rundown court gained three permanent NPCs.
Sweat.
Cheap soda.
And that worn-out basketball.
The fragments of memory shattered.
Back to the present.
The confusion in Fukuda's eyes vanished.
Replaced by an even more ferocious flame.
A beast's instinct—
Driven into a corner, craving blood.
"I am… Fukuda Kicchou."
"I'm the man who stands beside Sendoh."
"How can I fall here?!"
Ryonan ball.
Sendoh advanced slowly across half court.
His gaze scanned the court like radar, finally locking onto the right side.
There—
Fukuda was fighting hard for position, his desire for the ball practically overflowing.
And Makino Juro...
Still looked half-asleep, standing half a step in front of him.
He even yawned. Right there. In plain sight.
"That bastard…"
The Ryonan crowd was stunned.
"What is Shohoku's No. 7 doing? Is he dozing off during the game?!"
"That's way too arrogant! Who does he think he is?!"
"Fuku! Destroy that show-off!"
Even Coach Taoka's blood pressure spiked, his fists clenched tight.
"Fukuda…"
On the court.
Fukuda stared at Juro's back.
Humiliation.
Unprecedented humiliation.
The feeling of being completely seen through—played with like an insect—
Was far worse than any scolding from Coach Taoka.
"Unforgivable…"
Fukuda lowered his head, his voice hoarse like a ghost's whisper.
"The ball…"
He suddenly looked up at Uozumi, who was about to inbound, his eyes bloodshot with madness.
"Give me the ball!!!"
"I'm going to… beat him!!"
END OF CHAPTER
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The King Of Slacking Off - MrBehringer's Secret
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