The numbers on the makeshift scoreboard were frozen: 16 : 3; Three whole points, earned drop by drop with sweat, blood, and desperation, against sixteen, scored with cold, machine-like efficiency. The difference wasn't just in points. It was in dimensions.
Jen Ryu lowered his head, his powerful shoulders trembling not from fatigue, but from powerless rage. He gulped the sticky night air, trying to chase away the taste of defeat already crawling down his throat.
On the opposite side of the court, a different atmosphere reigned. Ming You gestured, gathering his players near the bench. There was no jubilation on their faces. There was expectation. And that familiar shadow of chemical impatience deep in their eyes. The anticipation of the reward was close, but Ming You always knew how to dangle the carrot just a little further.
"Hong Ren," Ming You began in an even tone. "Despite your obvious advantage, I'm not satisfied."
Hong Ren looked up at him. There was no question in his dark eyes, only readiness for a new instruction.
"Your task for the second half," Ming You continued, "is to score eight times more points than they do. Not just win. Exceed by eight times. This is your chance to finally prove your worth. Worth not as a player, but as a victor."
"Eight times?" Hong Ren's voice was just as even, but there was a barely perceptible echo in it... not of doubt, but of recalculating variables. "Are you serious?"
"Yes, serious," Ming You parried, his gaze sliding to the scoreboard. "Sixteen to three. A ratio of about five point three to one. I need eight to one. Minimum."
"Easy to say," Hong Ren muttered, automatically rubbing the back of his neck where tension had gathered. "I can't just take and score eight times more, but I'll try to optimize the process."
Jung Ho, who had been silently observing until now, couldn't hold back:
"If you keep thinking like that—'try', 'optimize'—you definitely won't make it!" his voice sounded harsher than usual. A strange fire burned in his warm eyes—part support, part desperate need for this victory. "Stop counting! Just play your game! Be relentless! Be that damn ghost they can't catch!"
"Yeah, look at the ball like you're watching porn for the first time!" Lu Shen chimed in, spreading into his nervous, hungry grin. "Don't let that slippery bastard get away! Hold it tight, kiss it if you have to! Ha-ha!"
His joke, born on the edge of hysteria and withdrawal, unexpectedly worked. Even Haru Lin smirked, covering his eyes with a hand. Jung Ho laughed hoarsely along with him. The tension eased for a moment, replaced by crude, brotherly encouragement.
Ming You observed this scene with the same analytical interest. He saw how his manipulation—a mix of an impossible task and peer pressure—was having the desired effect. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if condescendingly noting their primitive but effective motivational methods.
"Alright, enough talking," his voice, cold and clear, cut them off again. The mirth died instantly, replaced by focus. "Hong Ren, get back on the court and annihilate these losers. Don't leave them a hint, not a half-point of hope. I want to see zero in their heads by the end of the game."
Hong Ren nodded. Once, briefly. Something clicked in his eyes: 'Eight to one.' He didn't encourage himself with words, but by restructuring internal processes. He slowly rose from the bench, his muscles ready, his mind rebooted. He didn't look at the opponents. He looked at the empty court, which in a moment would again turn into a chessboard with one piece against five. But now the piece had a new, more complex mission.
On that side, with the five newcomers, a tomb-like silence reigned. They drank water, not looking at each other. No fiery speeches. Only Jen Ryu's heavy breathing and Mei Yu's cold, calculating gaze wandering over the numbers on the scoreboard, as if trying to find a saving loophole in them. Xiao Li just sat staring at his sneakers.
Referee Sung Wo approached the center of the court, ball in hand.
Whistle!
His whistle, starting the second half, sounded like the shot of a starting pistol in a quiet alley.
The five players, seeing Hong Ren with the ball, didn't set up a long defense. The order given by Mei Yu was clear to them—to go at Hong Ren en masse, pressure with numbers and aggression, not letting him even breathe. And Jen Ryu, as the main weapon of this tactic, exploded immediately.
He charged at Hong Ren not like a basketball player, but like a boxer going for a knockout. His pressure was wild, unstructured, but incredibly powerful. Jen Ryu closed in, breathing in his face, his broad body blocking the entire view, his long arms flailing, cutting off all possible dribbling and passing lanes.
Hong Ren felt this pressure physically. The air around him thickened. He took a sharp step to the left, trying to create some distance, then, without slowing the pace, transferred the ball from his right to left hand through his legs—a crossover that had worked flawlessly before.
"—Won't work this time!!!" Jen Ryu was no longer the crude strongman who could be outmaneuvered with finesse.
He was a concentration of pure, directed hatred. Jen Ryu didn't bite on the fake. His feet, as if hammered into the asphalt, didn't even twitch. Instead, calculating the moment when the ball was momentarily unprotected at the transition point, his palm, fast and hard as a hammer, struck from above.
Slap!
The ball was knocked away and bounced towards Mei Yu standing nearby.
"You just can't handle us, can you?!" Jen Ryu growled, his face twisting into a triumphant grimace. "A bastard's puppet bastard!" He accompanied his words with a refined gesture—the middle finger, directed not so much at Hong Ren as towards his bench, at Ming You's icy figure.
An approving murmur swept through the stands. This was their show, and finally—a spectacular steal.
Hong Ren didn't even blink. His eyes, narrowed to slits, only registered the flying ball for a millisecond. There was no annoyance, no anger at the provocation. There was cold acknowledgment of a fact:
"Focus! Need a quick strike..."
The ball was already flying in a chain. Mei Yu, catching it, instantly assessed the situation. Hong Ren was off-balance, their team had numbers. He saw Xiao Li, who, following the general tactic, had rolled back beyond the three-point line to spread the defense. A perfect target for a surprise shot that could lift spirits.
Mei Yu delivered a sharp pass. Xiao Li caught the ball on the arc. He had space. Without hesitation, he took the shot. His motion was correct, but it held not a drop of the predatory confidence burning in Jen Ryu. Only weary obligation. The ball flew on a high, nervous arc.
And missed. The iron rim bowed with a loud, mocking clang under the impact, sending the ball for a rebound.
And then something happened that, it seemed, no one expected. While all five were mentally preparing for defense after the miss, one shadow broke from its spot.
It was Hong Ren.
While Jen Ryu admired his steal and gesture, while Mei Yu analyzed the attack's development, Hong Ren, like a spring just pressed to the ground, shot towards the backboard. His starting speed was insane. He wasn't running—he was piercing space. He arrived under the hoop exactly at the moment the ball, rebounding, was falling down.
Agility? No. Calculation. He knew Xiao Li's shooting percentage. He saw the shot angle. He calculated the most likely rebound trajectory. And he was there.
The ball softly slapped into his outstretched hands. He didn't catch and cradle it. He took it on the fly, and in one continuous motion, taking just one powerful dribble away from the board, popped back out beyond the three-point line. Jen Ryu, coming to his senses, was already charging at him, but it was too late.
Hong Ren was already in his zone. He didn't even seek balance, didn't make fakes. He had a meter and a half of space and cold fury over the just-stolen ball. He jumped. His long-range shot wasn't as technical as usual. It was quick, sharp, almost whiplike. The ball flew on a low, swift trajectory, like a projectile.
Sweeeeee!
Swish!
The whistle and the clean sound of the basket merged into one.
On the scoreboard, the numbers jerked sharply: from 16 : 3 to 20 : 3.
"You knocked the ball away from me? Fine. I'll take your rebound and turn it into eight points. Your aggression? Just extra wasted energy I'll use against you." Hong Ren threw the words over his shoulder at the five players and walked to his half.
His face showed icy, absolute satisfaction from an efficiently executed action. He wasn't looking at Jen Ryu. He was already thinking about the next round.
Jen Ryu stood as if rooted to the spot. His triumph evaporated, leaving behind emptiness and the realization of the utter futility of his efforts. He stole the ball, insulted the opponent... and in the end only gave him a chance to earn even more. It was worse than any defeat.
Referee Sung Wo, expressing no emotion, stated:
"Score 20 to 3. Ball to the five."