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[KNB] Chapter : 19
🕑 Added 2025-06-24 20:18:11 +0000 UTCSame player. Same one-on-one.
Completely different result.
Han didn’t disappoint.
In a single possession, he humiliated the so-called scoring ace of Kawasaki.
"Ordinary junior high players can’t stop him at all. His offensive skillset is in another league!"
The assistant coach of Teikō was nearly jumping with excitement.
It was as if they’d stumbled upon a national-level small forward by sheer luck.
Even Shirogane couldn’t help but applaud.
"Maybe next time we should try scouting the kendo club for basketball geniuses."
He chuckled, half-joking—but only half.
Because basketball history is full of surprises.
Tim Duncan, the greatest power forward the NBA has ever seen, was discovered not on the court… but in a swimming pool at Wake Forest.
Genius always seems to bloom in the strangest of places.
And right now, Han’s instincts—his defense, his transitions—were exactly what Teikō needed.
This era wasn’t obsessed with the three-point line yet.
Curry’s revolution hadn’t happened.
The long-range shot was more a threat than a weapon—meant to pull defenders out of the paint, not stack up points.
The real game was played close to the rim.
Especially in middle school ball, where players lacked pro-level shooting accuracy, grinding out positions and attacking the paint was still king.
Which is why Han’s ability to steal and counterattack with such ruthless efficiency was a goldmine.
In practice, his fast-break conversion rate was over 90%.
Ninety percent.
Now, no one dared to dribble casually around him. Not even his own teammates.
Shirogane was already considering it:
“Forget structured plays. This year, Teikō’s fast break might become our signature move.”
The scoreboard read 5–0, and Kawasaki wasn’t panicking—yet.
But their expressions had grown grim.
This year was everything to them.
They were aiming for the national championship.
And Teiko? Teiko was a mountain they had to climb.
Across Japan, several teams stood shoulder to shoulder with Teiko.
If Kawasaki couldn’t even bring this one down, what chance did they have at the summit?
Once again, Ayumi Yoshizawa took the lead.
He caught the ball, squared up, and launched into his signature move: a mid-range pull-up jumper after a swift dribble.
He wasn’t a powerhouse, so going head-to-head in the paint against big men wasn’t his style.
But his agility and quick release had always served him well.
And then—
"Denied."
The whisper hit like a chill in the wind.
Ayumi’s eyes widened.
Before he could rise for the shot, that familiar pale hand sliced through the air again.
It was like déjà vu—a repeat of the last play, but even cleaner.
The ball was gone.
Again.
Ayumi froze. His confidence cracked.
"Who is this monster?"
Even Kawasaki’s coach was stunned.
Where did Teikō find this kid?!
He wasn’t alone in his disbelief.
Every coach, every player in Kanagawa knew this was Kawasaki’s golden generation.
With other powerhouse schools losing their senior players, Kawasaki’s all-second-year roster had remained intact—and had only grown stronger.
Last year, they came within inches of reaching the national finals.
This year, they were stronger than ever.
And yet… this rookie just snatched their pride right out of their hands.
Teikō struck again.
The moment Han’s hand intercepted the ball, he exploded down the court like a lightning bolt.
Nijimura was already moving too—reading the rhythm instinctively.
He received the pass just past half court, but Kawasaki’s defenders were fast—already closing in.
"Let them come!"
Nijimura grinned, calm.
As the defense rushed to block him, he spun around and hurled the ball behind his back—a no-look pass.
A hand reached up.
Han.
He caught it mid-air, soaring toward the rim in perfect sync.
For a heartbeat, the gym held its breath.
He twisted his body for a thunderous slam—
—but the distance was too much.
“Damn it. Can’t make that jump yet.”
Quickly adjusting mid-air, he twisted his wrist, converting the dunk into a soft lay-in.
The ball dropped cleanly through the net.
7–0.
And the silence in Kawasaki’s camp was deafening.
Kawasaki Dai-fuzoku was forced to call a timeout early.
Their head coach had quickly realized—this year’s Teikō was nothing like the teams of years past.
The difference?
The pace. The pressure. The precision.
Teikō’s game tempo was relentless. Blisteringly fast.
Sure, Kawasaki had faced high-tempo teams before—but nothing like this.
In their very first possession, Teikō opened with a familiar play: Nijimura broke through the defense in a textbook positional attack, setting the rhythm.
But what followed blindsided them.
Two back-to-back lightning-fast counterattacks.
Before Kawasaki could adjust, they were already staring down a 7–0 deficit.
"What just hit us?"
It wasn’t just the speed—it was the evolution.
This wasn’t middle school basketball anymore.
This… felt like a glimpse into the future of the game.
And right at the center of it all stood that damned No. 14.
Han.
A ghost on defense—stealing at will, intercepting passes like he’d read the playbook in advance.
“You hesitate for a second—he’s already taken the ball.”
“You dribble without thinking—he’s gone the other way.”
Who the hell wants to play against that?!
Adjustments were necessary—immediately.
Or this wouldn’t just be a loss.
It would be an embarrassment.
But when the game resumed…
Things got worse.
Kawasaki’s offense couldn’t get into rhythm.
Their top scorer, Ayumi Yoshizawa, was a ghost—completely locked down by Han.
He couldn’t shake him, couldn’t get clean space, couldn’t breathe.
That No. 14 wasn’t just fast—he was unyielding, like an iron gate that refused to budge.
The coach, frustrated, switched tactics:
“Force it inside. Use the center. Pound the paint!”
But inside wasn’t any better.
Their second scoring option—one of Kanagawa’s Four Great Centers—found himself helpless before Murasakibara.
Despite his lanky frame and sleepy demeanor, Atsushi’s strength was monstrous.
No matter how their center pushed, he couldn’t gain a single inch.
Every layup was contested. Every shot—smothered.
One clumsy attempt ended with a brutal block that echoed through the gym.
Their inside and outside cores were completely neutralized.
And the rest of the team?
Forced to chuck up contested mid-range jumpers just to stay afloat.
By the end of the first quarter, the damage was clear:
Teikō: 28 | Kawasaki: 10
The ambitious Kawasaki squad—once considered a serious contender for the national championship—was crushed in just ten minutes of play.
And standing tallest amidst the wreckage was none other than Han:
11 points. 5 steals. 1 rebound.
All in a single quarter.
The scoreboard didn’t just show a lead.
It showcased the arrival of a monster.
The most radiant star on the court.
And the game had only just begun.
