On the bench, Lu Shen grabbed his stomach, choking on laughter that held both hysteria and relief.
"Hahaha! See that?! See that, you mutt?! One hit and you're already in deep shit!" he screamed, jabbing his finger at Jen Ryu. "Four to zero! It only gets worse from here!"
Jung Ho wasn't laughing. He clenched his fists, and his warm eyes burned with a cold, alien fire.
"More," he thought, feeling the itch in his body subside, replaced by sweet anticipation. "More. Crush them. So we have something... to celebrate."
Haru Lin exhaled a thin stream of smoke from a non-existent cigarette. The corner of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile.
"Predictable," he said quietly, but loud enough for everyone on the bench to hear. "But effective. Jen Ryu isn't playing anymore—he's burning. And a burning opponent is the most convenient one."
Ming You, sitting a little apart, didn't change his expression. He merely tilted his head back slightly, his gaze sliding over Hong Ren, expressing silent, icy approval. He shifted his gaze to Jen Ryu, who was still shouting and gesticulating, and to Mei Yu, who was silently trying to calm him down.
A flash of that same cold, scientific interest crossed Ming You's eyes:
"I wonder how many rounds their spirit will last?"
Referee Sung Wo, ignoring the hysteria, announced dryly as he retrieved the ball:
"Score 0:4. Ball to the five players. Prepare for the next possession."
Sung Wo's whistle sounded again. The ball was inbounded by Mei Yu from the sideline. His pass wasn't fast and sharp, but precise, calculated, like a surgeon's scalpel—a low bounce pass straight into the hands of Jen Ryu, who stood on the perimeter, still crimson with rage.
Jen Ryu caught the ball. He didn't just take it—he clawed at the leather as if grabbing an invisible enemy's throat. His breathing became short, ragged. His entire world narrowed to the orange sphere, the hoop, and the dark, calm figure of Hong Ren, crouched in a low, ready defensive stance at the edge of the three-point arc.
"Come on, Jen, calm down," Mei Yu's voice sounded quiet but clear, like a command. "Methodically. Don't charge head-on."
But Jen Ryu wasn't listening anymore. The words drowned in the roar of his own blood in his temples. That humiliating nutmeg, those four points on the board, Lu Shen's smirk—it all merged into one continuous white noise of fury. He needed not just to even the score. He needed to bulldoze everything in his path:
"Bulldoze Hong Ren! Bulldoze these fucking rules! Bulldoze the very fact of his own powerlessness! Bulldoze MING YOU!!!"
He started dribbling. Not low and controlled, but hard, aggressive, each bounce of the ball on the asphalt sounding like a gunshot. Bam. Bam. Bam. He moved forward, not trying to deceive, just forcing his way through space with his mass and anger. Hong Ren retreated, maintaining distance, his eyes watching not the ball, but his opponent's center of gravity.
"Oh, lookie here, the bull's angry now!" one of the girls with bright makeup hollered from the stands, and her giggle sounded fake against the general tension.
"He's just gonna ram right through him!" added one of the guys in leather jackets, relishing the impending collision.
Jen Ryu reached the three-point line. Mei Yu, trying to create an option, made a dash towards the hoop, but Hong Ren only noted his movement with peripheral vision, not shifting his attention from the main threat. Xiao Li unsuccessfully tried to set a screen.
And then Jen Ryu exploded. He didn't fake, didn't change rhythm. He simply pushed off hard with his right foot and charged straight ahead, right at Hong Ren, driving the ball powerfully with his left hand. It was a pure power drive—an attack based on physical superiority.
Hong Ren met him, bracing against his chest. The collision was hard, a dull thud of bodies. Jen Ryu, using his momentum, spun on his pivot foot, trying to seal off the defender with his back. Hong Ren, not retreating, slid with him, his hands working cleanly, trying to reach for the ball. He was like a shadow—persistent, tenacious, unflappable.
"Push him! Pu-u-ush him!" Lu Shen yelled, jumping up from the bench. His own nervousness was spilling out through the thrill of someone else's aggression. "Don't let that bruiser stop you!"
"Concentration, Hong," Jung Ho said quietly, but with tension in his voice. He saw that physically, Jen Ryu was stronger. "One wrong move—and a foul, and two free throws!"
Jen Ryu, unable to shake him off, rocked his shoulders, faking a shot. Hong Ren bit for a fraction of a second, rising on his toes. That was enough. Jen Ryu, growling, took another powerful step, extending the ball forward, and pushed off for a shot right from under the basket. He stretched out, straining every muscle to the limit, striving not just to score, but to slam the ball through the iron rim. His face was twisted in a snarl of pure, unadulterated aggression.
"SUC-KER-R-RS!" he roared across the court, releasing the ball.
The shot was ugly, hard, almost cannon-like. The ball flew on a straight, short trajectory, hit the inside of the back rim with a dull clang, bounced to the opposite side, spun on the edge... and with awkward indecision, dropped in.
Swoosh.
Whistle!
Sparse applause sounded from the part of the spectators who had bet on the five.
On the scoreboard, the numbers jerked. The newcomers' team: 0.5. Hong Ren: 4. The close-range shot had earned them half a point.
Jen Ryu, landing, raised a fist. Not a victorious gesture, but a challenge. He turned to the Yoshida bench, his gaze, full of triumphant hatred, swept over Lu Shen, Jung Ho, lingered for a second on Ming You's icy face, and stabbed into Hong Ren.
"See that?!" he shouted, gulping air. "Your tricks are over! We'll score like this! One by one! Half by half! And we'll stretch you out like chewing gum!"
The emotions on their side were indeed off the charts. Xiao Li exhaled in relief. The other two players exchanged glances with a glimmer of hope. Mei Yu, retrieving the ball from under the hoop, nodded to himself:
"Hmm, overpowering—it's the only logical answer against a technical but not so powerful defender. Five bodies against one. Need to use that, but their psychological breaking point after those other games..."
On the bench, Lu Shen snorted, plopping back down.
"Half a point... Half a point, for god's sake!" he rolled his eyes with exaggerated drama. "They're celebrating like they won the world championship! Jen Ryu, darling, you need twenty of those shots just to catch up to us! TWENTY!"
Jung Ho frowned, watching Hong Ren silently go for the ball.
"They've found a tactic," he muttered. "They'll use brute force. Hong physically won't be able to parry every attack like that."
It was then that Haru Lin's voice sounded. He didn't yell, didn't mock. He said it calmly, with a light, icy smirk in his voice, addressing not so much Hong Ren, but the entire court, flaunting his superiority:
"You're unlucky."
All eyes switched to him for a second.
"He meant," Haru Lin continued, slowly taking a sip from a water bottle, "that Jen Ryu chose the only possible, but the dumbest path. He'll spend tons of energy to earn half a point at a time. And you," his gray eyes met Hong Ren's gaze, "you just keep counting. Right?"
Hong Ren, taking the ball from the referee, only raised his eyebrows. A microscopic movement. But it was an answer. Yes, he was counting. He had already recalculated:
"Four against one? Well, in terms of numbers, perhaps. But in reality—ten of them wouldn't manage. I'm conserving every movement, every breath. And Jen Ryu is already at his limit, burning like a match. Let him waste himself. And I... I haven't even broken a proper sweat yet. Everything is going according to plan."
The chemical hunger inside him demanded not just an answer, but a demonstration. He already saw the next combination.
He took his position for the inbound, his dark eyes becoming empty lakes again, absorbing the light and the opponent's fury. The newcomers' first attack was repelled, but the game had taken a new, coarser turn. The ball was in his hands once more.