The court buzzed with tension under dim gym lights, flickering above like stars on the verge of burnout. The sunset bled through cracked windows, washing the hardwood floor in fading amber.
There were no coaches. No referees. Just sweat, sneakers, and pride.
5-on-5.
First to 21 wins.
Rikuya Asano stood at center court, adjusting his sweatband with quiet precision. Dirga faced him across the line, heart steady, gaze focused. Taiga cracked his knuckles behind him, bouncing slightly on his heels like a brawler waiting for the bell.
The ball went up.
Rikuya's squad won the tip. Within seconds, the game found its rhythm—his team ran clean sets, subtle motion, crisp spacing. No showboating.
Just basketball.
Rikuya didn't waste time. He posted up a bulky Defender, backed him down, and spun off the left shoulder. His fadeaway kissed glass.
2–0.
Dirga caught the inbound, sweat already forming on his brow. He glanced at Rikuya. Calm. Clinical. Efficient.
"I can't win this with my current stats…"
He tapped into the one advantage he had.
[Echo, use Growth Seal.]
A soft hum pulsed in his chest. His limbs felt just a bit lighter. Stronger.
[Random attribute chosen: Physical]
PhysicalAgility: 60/100
Strength: 40/100
Jumping: 40/100
Intelligence: 60/100
Endurance: 60/100
It wasn't much. But it was enough.
A sign.
[Echo, use Super Booster. Choose: Playmaking.]
Suddenly the world sharpened. The court stretched like a 3D blueprint in his head—passing angles blooming before they even opened.
Playmaking
Pass Accuracy: 104/100
Vision: 116/100
Ball Handling: 68/100
It's not about scoring. It's about creating.
He called for the screen. "Taiga! Left!"
Taiga barrelled into the defender, causing a small quake. Dirga danced around it, pulled the help, then flipped a one-handed bounce pass behind his back.
Shima caught it in stride.
Swish. 2–2.
The crowd murmured.
Next play. Dirga didn't touch the ball until the second action a quiet, sharp-eyed man received a high post feed received a high post feed, and Dirga slipped behind his defender. Backdoor.
Caught. No-look over-the-head dish to Taiga under the rim.
2–4.
He was conducting the court like a maestro. With every pass, he manipulated the defenders—stretching them, dragging their focus, collapsing their plans.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
2–6.
2–8.
Even Rikuya had paused to watch after one sequence—Dirga faking a full drive before zipping a bullet skip-pass across two defenders to an open wing.
4–10.
Rikuya's smile twitched. He wasn't annoyed.
He was impressed.
"He's not reacting…" he whispered to himself, tightening his sweatband. "He's controlling."
But genius doesn't go unchallenged.
Rikuya stepped in. Next play, he timed a backline cut and intercepted a pass meant for the sharp-eyed man. Fast break.
6–10.
[Time Remaining: 0:58]
[Super Booster: 0:42]
Dirga pushed, still surgical—but Rikuya had recalibrated. No more late rotations. No more delayed switches.
Spin. Stepback. Covered. Dump-off.
Bad angle. Turnover.
8–10.
Another. Dirga turned the corner on a high screen, but the passing lane wasn't open. He hesitated.
That was enough.
Blocked.
Fast break. Kick-out. Rikuya three.
10–11.
[Super Booster Deactivated.]
And just like that, the vision vanished. The court snapped back to reality—fast, chaotic, heavy.
Dirga's breath came harder now. His body lagged behind his brain.
He still played smart. But the game had shifted.
Every movement burned. Every pass had to be perfect.
Still, he fought.
12–12.
14–14.
17–16.
Then, a broken possession. Dirga called for a screen, but Taiga slipped too early. No spacing.
Rikuya pounced—picked the pocket clean.
He didn't pass. He took it coast to coast and finished with a soft scoop over the sharp-eyed man.
18–17.
Taiga yelled for the ball on the next play. Dirga gave it to him.
Miss.
Rikuya rebounded. Hit a trailing teammate.
20–17.
Game point.
Dirga tightened his shoelaces with trembling fingers. He scanned the court—no tricks left. No boosts. No magic.
Just vision. Heart. And memory.
They swung the ball. Shima hit a midrange. 20–19.
They needed one stop.
Rikuya brought it up.
"Switch everything," Dirga called.
But Rikuya didn't go flashy. He used a screen, pulled Dirga onto an island, and then—spun into a fadeaway.
Dirga leapt with him. Stretched.
But the shot was already gone.
Swish.
21–19.
Game.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Dirga collapsed to one knee, sweat dripping from his forehead, lungs burning, heart racing. His shirt clung to his frame, soaked. His body ached all over.
They'd lost.
The scoreboard—kept only in shouts and memory—read 21 to 19.
For a moment, silence reigned in the gym. Just the sound of breathing. Sneakers scraping. A distant hum of the lights above.
Rikuya stood across from him, hand still raised from the final shot—a smooth turnaround jumper that had iced the game. He let his arm drop, expression unreadable.
The others who had joined in—some regular club kids, others just curious students dropping by—clapped and exchanged fist bumps. But even they kept glancing toward the center of the court, where the real battle had just unfolded. The game had started casual, but by the end, everyone knew they'd witnessed something different.
Because that kid, Dirga Renji—had just nearly beaten Rikuya Asano.
Not by size.
Not by speed.
But with vision. With intelligence. With passing that defied logic. And a calmness far beyond his age.
Rikuya approached, pulling his sweatband loose. His breath came slowly. Controlled. But there was a glint in his eyes—part disbelief, part... exhilaration.
"You saw everything," he said, voice low. "Where I'd go. When I'd turn. Even your weak-side rotations were perfect. Who taught you that?"
Dirga didn't answer right away. He simply stood, eyes steady. Tired, but composed.
"No one," he said. "I just love the game."
Rikuya let out a quiet laugh. It wasn't mocking—it was genuine.
"You didn't win," he said.
Dirga smiled. "I know."
"But you made me think," Rikuya continued, gaze narrowing. "Made me try. It's been a long time since someone did that."
Taiga walked up beside Dirga, panting. "Yo… what was that pass, man? I couldn't even see it coming and it was to me!"
Dirga chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. "That's the point."
Rikuya looked at the two of them—Dirga calm and sharp, Taiga wild and burning with potential. Then he turned, slowly walking toward the exit.
Just before reaching the doors, he paused.
"You said you're building a team, right?" he asked without turning.
Dirga straightened up. "Yeah."
"…Count me in."
Taiga's mouth dropped. "Wait, for real?!"
Rikuya glanced back, one brow raised. "Don't make me say it twice."
And then he was gone, the gym doors swinging closed behind him.
Dirga stood still for a moment, heart still pounding—but not from the match. From the weight of what had just happened.
The first piece had fallen into place.